I struggled to remember how far I was from home, but everything was a blur. The panic grew and pulsed against my skull until it throbbed. I tried to move my arms, but they were unresponsive, crushed beneath his weight as he walked his other hand up toward the hemline of my dress.
My eyes fluttered back in my head as he pushed his salty lips against my mouth. Fleetingly I thought of Nic: how he had tentatively pressed his lips to my mine like he was trying to savor every part of the moment; how excited butterflies had exploded inside me as his hands gently curled around my waist. But these were not his hands, or his lips. Coarse and dry, they mashed against my mouth, pulling it open beneath the force of a snake-like tongue until I collapsed into Robbie, falling farther into the maw that probed mine so relentlessly it began to hurt.
And then the sound of an engine punctured the horrifying silence, and tires screeched to a halt somewhere nearby. Robbie froze with his lips still on mine, and moved his hands back onto my waist. In my dazed state, I imagined we looked like two wooden puppets, propped against each other in the night.
I don’t know how long I leaned against the statue of Robbie Stenson, but I rejoiced in the welcome rush of cool air when his body was ripped away from mine. He let out a strangled yelp as he sailed backward, taking the pressure with him so that my chest expanded again.
Someone was shouting. My body slumped against the wall and slid to the ground beneath legs I could no longer feel. Faraway gravel shifted, and a deep cry rang out. There was a resounding crack and an earsplitting wail that sounded like a dying cat. Shoes scraped against the ground. High-pitched sobs descended into desperate pleas. I tried to understand, but the words became garbled and indistinct as my body slid toward the ground and my head connected with the concrete.
“Get out of here before I rip your heart out.”
Is he talking to me?
More shuffling.
Why is it so dark?
The sound of footsteps — farther and farther away.
Am I still alive?
Another set of footsteps, steadier and quieter than the last, moving toward me.
“Sophie? Can you hear me?”
Something gripped my shoulders. My whole body shook gently, but there was no strength left to open my eyes. I was dead to the whole world. Dead to everything, except his voice.
“Sophie? Come on.” More gentle shaking. A finger pressed up against my neck. I could feel my pulse throb against it. There was a sigh — long and relieved. “Come on, Sophie. Wake up.”
I struggled for the energy, but I was spent, like a deflated balloon. Silence followed, and I found myself trying to remember where I was and what was going on. Had I left the party? Did I fall down?
“Can you try opening your eyes?”
Why couldn’t I place that voice? It was so familiar yet so far away. An arm slid around my shoulders and another underneath my knees, lifting me away from the cold ground. My head drooped onto something hard, and I could hear a steady heartbeat drumming against my ear.
I sailed through the air, and into a warm place. The muffled sound of a car door gave way to the comforting hum of an engine, and soon I was rocking back and forth against something soft. The minutes bled into one long stretch of darkness until I was soaring again, through a realm of a hundred distant voices, flashing lights, and groaning beeps.
A lone finger trailed along the side of my cheek.
A faraway voice invaded the moment just as I was piecing together where I was, and the thought fluttered away from me before I could pin it down.
“I located her mother. Don’t you want to stay until she gets here?”
“I can’t.”
Footsteps clicked against the floor, getting softer, until I could hear nothing but the sound of my own breathing as it rattled through my chest. Feeling safe in the complete absence of everything, I fell into nothingness, where half-forgotten memories mingled with harrowing nightmares until I forgot what was real and what was imagined.
* * *
I woke to a ceiling entirely different from the one I was used to. It was big and tiled, with fluorescent lights that stung my eyes. The smell of disinfectant hung in the air, and the open curtains of a faraway window were a dull, unfamiliar green. I tried to wriggle my body, but it was constricted under the weight of overly tucked-in sheets. And yet, despite the warmth that clung to me, I felt a cold stiffness rippling through my left hand.
The bed was edged with bars and the walls beyond were a blinding shade of white. I flexed my fingers against the thick bandage just above them and noticed, with a pinch of horror, that there was an IV drip invading my hand.
“Mrs. Gracewell, she’s awake.”
My bed shook from the other side. I rolled my head and flinched against a sudden onslaught of pain in the base of my skull. The un-made-up face of my mother was the first thing I saw. Beside her was an exhausted-looking Millie, wearing an oversized hoodie and last night’s lipstick, which was just a red stain now. She scooted her chair forward. “How do you feel?”