Isla
Isla forced her eyes open.
A bolt of nausea rushed through her body, her head thumping as she leant over the edge of the bed and heaved.
She flopped back onto the pillow – random, incoherent memories dancing about her mind, kicking against her skull, painful as they intruded. Julian in his car: ‘You were such a spunky young thing.’ Blood dripping – post-box red – from her hand onto her mum’s dining table. Sara crying, holding Isla close: ‘My dad died.’ Had that really happened?
She searched her wrist for her rubber band, desperate to put an end to the extreme anxiety and confusion. It wasn’t there.
Her sore, dry eyes latched on to a window draped with blue and white checked curtains. Outside, from a white sky, snow tumbled – each flake unique. She’d read that somewhere: no two are exactly the same. Yes, she’d read that somewhere.
Where am I?
Her fear increased as she attempted to swallow and almost gagged.
She hauled herself up, limbs heavy, and propped her body against the wall. She was wearing pink, silk pyjamas. She never wore pink pyjamas – she never wore pink.
She spotted her mobile on the bedside table and, with a burst of adrenaline, she reached for it and fumbled, attempting to turn it on. It was dead. I forgot my charger.
Her eyes flicked over the room. No personal touches, just wood-clad walls, a print of the Northern Lights, a pine wardrobe and dresser, her clothes neatly folded on a chair.
She rose from the bed and staggered towards the window. Outside, footprints in the snow led to and fro. There were tyre tracks some distance away, but no car. A shed, a pile of wood, an axe and, beyond that, snow stretched endlessly under a milky sky.
Where am I?
She grabbed a blanket from the foot of the bed and draped it around her shoulders, before easing open the bedroom door.
From a small landing, doors led to a bathroom and another bedroom. She could see a double bed covered by a floral duvet. A window, open and letting in the cold, was draped by another set of blue checked curtains that flapped noisily in a light breeze.
‘Hello,’ she attempted, tugging the blanket around her and cautiously making her way down the stairs, but her mouth was so dry, and her throat ached. She could barely make herself heard.
She padded into a kitchen. Pine cupboards dominated the small room, and two wine glasses were upturned on the drainer.
‘Let’s drown our sorrows.’
She moved towards a door that led outside and tried the handle. It opened onto deep snow. She looked down at her bare feet, her flimsy pyjamas, and closed the door once more, knowing she wouldn’t last five minutes in the freezing conditions.
She turned, a ball of screwed-up paper on the worktop catching her eye. She picked it up, and flattened out the creases. The words swam before her eyes, as she tried to focus.
My darling Isla,
I’ve been awake all night thinking – tormenting myself for coming. I thought this was the right thing to do, as I missed you – I really did miss you. But this morning, I found a text from my wife. She’s having our baby, and I realised I’d made a terrible mistake coming here. I can’t leave her. I thought I could, but I can’t. I’m so sorry.
I love you, Isla, but I’m returning to Canada. I’ll be changing my phone number, so you can’t contact me – not because I don’t want to hear your voice, but because it’s easier this way. I’m sorry for the pain I’ve caused you. The mess I’ve made of both our lives.
Forgive me, Andy
A woozy sensation had taken hold, as if she was drunk on a bobbing boat in the middle of a choppy ocean. Nauseous once more, she staggered towards the sink, falling against it and retching, but nothing came up.
The light in her head was fading, as though someone was blowing out candles. And, losing her battle with consciousness, she slipped down the worktop, landing in a heap on the quarry-tiled floor.
Everything went black once more.