First, there was just light.
A sharp pinprick, burning through my eyelids.
Then nothing.
Next there were voices. Some I didn’t recognize, others, like Donna’s, that made me panic before they slipped away again.
Then there were people shuffling around me, gripping my wrists, writing on clipboards, stroking my head.
How long this went on for I had no idea. All I knew was that the noises and visions came and went as I drifted in and out. Whether they were real or part of my blissful sleep, I couldn’t begin to know.
It wasn’t until I woke to find Mr Hobson sat in the chair by my bed that I knew the dreaming was over.
I screamed, my voice rippling the curtains that stood sentry around my bed. I pulled my hands up to my eyes, rolling away from him.
He was on his feet instantly, shushing me urgently, before giving up and hammering on a red button by my bed.
After that there was a flurry of bodies, a glint of a needle, a struggle and a puncture before I slipped away inside myself again, happy at being rescued from him.
When it was time to open my eyes again, I did it slowly, fearful of his presence in the chair.
But it was empty and the room dark.
What became evident very quickly, however, was where I was.
Hospital.
The smell was unmistakable: a cloying antiseptic that seemed anything but clean.
It smelt of death.
My mind whirred.
Death meant Mum, which meant guilt, and secrets, which led to panic attacks.
Attacks led to scissors and more guilt. Which meant lying and further secrets.
And secrets? Well, I’d hoarded them for too long, and they merely led to death.
Dad’s death.
The crash. The smoke. And the knowledge that I’d done it again.
The scream escaped without me realizing. Forced its way down the halls and roused a sleepy, irritable nurse.
‘What sort of noise is that?’ She grimaced, checking a drip that was invading my right wrist. ‘Are you wanting to wake the entire ward?’
She talked to me like we knew each other, like it wasn’t the first time I’d disrupted whatever it was she’d been up to.
I stared at her, daring to ask the question I already knew the answer to: where was my dad? But all that came out was a noise I didn’t know I was capable of.
She warned me. Warned me what would happen if I kept making such a din.
But that was all I wanted to hear. As long as I knew the needle was on the way, then I was happy. It was all I needed to stop remembering what I’d done.
And if I had the needle often enough and quick enough, then maybe, eventually, hopefully, I wouldn’t bother waking up.