Summer
by Lily Thomas
Texas Online Preparatory School
Lily Thomas is a junior at Texas Online Preparatory School who has been writing since she was 10 years old. After graduation, Lily plans to study Art and Animation in college. She is passionate about creativity and art of all kinds. She is an amateur writer, poet, artist, and photographer.
You never truly know when you fall asleep. One moment, you’re closing your eyes, and the next, it’s morning. Hell, it’s like that when waking up, too—you’re dreaming, drifting, and then all of a sudden, you have conscious thought again, and everything else becomes a distant, barely-there memory. It’s so hard to explain.
When I wake up, everything from before is a misty fog of nothingness. I haven’t opened my eyes, but I can feel my heart rate picking up as if I just ran a marathon. My hands are shaky, and my stomach is swooping. Like every morning, I try to desperately grasp some sort of clarity, but the incoherent déjà vu is already slipping away. I want to go back to sleep, to return to the foggy dreams that I can’t even remember.
But I can’t. When I roll over, there’s nothing but hard, jagged rock digging into my side. It occurs to me that I don’t even have a pillow beneath my head, and the reason why I’m shaking isn’t because of a startled awakening, but because I don’t even have any blankets to hide under from the cool breeze.
And so, I’m left with no choice but to finally open my eyes.
This isn't my home.
And, well, I can't even be sure what my home is, but I know this isn't it. Obviously. Because I am currently lying on the ground, surrounded by dirt, mud, and trees. Decidedly not a warm and cozy home.
The trees are enormous, reaching up so high that they block out the sunlight completely. Thank God, because I would not be able to deal with a light-induced migraine right now. As for where I’m sitting, it’s a shadowy avenue with a dirty floor, littered with loose rocks and branches. The grass is dead after years of trampling on it. It smells like fresh rain, made more apparent by the drip, drip, drip of water falling from the leaves above. There is no sound, only the rustling of some faint, gentle wind. There aren’t even any bugs crawling around beneath me.
Speaking of which, I finally look down at myself. I am completely naked.
It’s as if I’m seeing myself for the first time, like I’m a child who just developed a sense of self. My hands, tiny and numb from the cold, run over my pale white thigh. I’m shocked at how light my skin is—the red and blueish veins are distinguishable from the porcelain color. In the dim light, I almost look grey. Ashy. Dead.
I am so very cold.
I lean forward to push myself up onto the palms of my hands. My arms are insanely fatigued, like weak sticks. It was almost like I was laughing so hard that I could barely stand up—like I was trying to run away, but my body refused to move. Was that my dream from earlier?
I try again, standing with all my strength. My legs have the stability of a newborn fawn, and I very nearly collapse when my head starts pounding. My vision almost goes completely dark for a few seconds, and I close my eyes as I will the dizziness away. And then finally, I’m back to normal.
So. Where am I?
It’s terribly hard to tell. My vision is, frankly, horrible. I can barely see five feet in front of me before everything turns into blurry blobs of color. The sunlight is now filtering through the leaves, casting golden light into the clearing. The brightness hurts my brain. I squint and put my hands up, trying to block out the glare.
And then I start walking.
I have no idea where I’m going. I have no idea why I’m here. I’m naked and cold and all alone.
I keep walking. I don’t know how long I’ve been here; maybe it’s been 10 minutes, maybe 10 hours. The trees are endless, and it feels like I’m going in circles when I’ve done nothing but walk straight. The sun is getting brighter, and I’m getting warmer, and all of this is making my head hurt even worse.
Until finally.
Finally, I hear something.
A trickle of water, not just from the earlier rain. I blink erratically, trying uselessly to focus my eyes in the direction the sound is coming from. I creep towards it, and I have to watch my feet so I don’t step into anything or slip down into the creek.
Creek. It’s a creek.
I crouch down, my legs screaming for a break after the trek. Surely I wasn’t walking that long? I’m probably just out of shape.
I reach my hand down into the crystal-clear water. It’s freezing, but it’s a sign. A sign of life. Somehow, somewhere, someway.
But I pause.
In the flow of water, I can just barely make out my reflection. It hurts to strain my eyes this much, but I do so anyway. I look at myself.
Everything about me is so pale. Of course, there’s my skin, but even my long hair is the lightest blonde I’ve ever seen. I can’t see my eye color from here, but I can still tell that they’re pretty fair. Maybe blue, or even grey. It’s all murky in the water.
My face itself looks to be young and round. Small and fragile.
I look back up, but nearly recoil from the brightness yet again.
I’m tired.
And hurt.
And still so damn cold.
Shuddering, I stand, and that’s when I notice the big blob of grey, obscured by tree trunks and shrubs.
Maybe it was there before, but I have no idea. I can still barely see. I wouldn’t even notice if it disappeared, honestly. My vision is a bright, painful haze.
I put my arms out horizontally, steadying my balance. Then I take a tentative step forward, my foot landing on a hard rock. It digs into my skin, and I cringe, but don’t hesitate any longer. Using the leverage of the rock, I push myself off onto another one, landing with my opposite foot. The water sprays against my ankles, a cold mist that helps soothe the rough scratches from the terrain. It sends a shiver up my spine.
I’m on the last rock when I finally slip. My ankle rolls, my toes stub against the ground, and my legs are soaked. I land face first into a pillow of soft, bright green grass.
Okay. This is fine. I’m just gonna lie here for a little while.
I sigh and roll onto my back, pulling my feet from the water. I squeeze my eyes shut, unable to take it as I face the bright blue sky. If it weren’t for my confusion and pain, I’m sure this place would be quite lovely. I haven’t had a chance to actually take in my surroundings, other than the bare minimum. But truthfully, I could not care less about where or when I am. I just want to pass out at this point.
There’s a breeze, and, oh my God, I am still completely nude. How I forgot about that is beyond me. Goosebumps rise as I think about all the dirt that has surely covered my body by now.
That’s enough of that. I sit back up, wait for the lightheadedness to pass, and quickly splash myself down with some water. It shocks me to my core (it’s a miracle I don’t have a heart attack), but I nonetheless carry on.
The grey blob—which I now realize is a building—is a lot closer than I initially thought, and it towers over me. Slowly, I step closer and closer, the full thing coming into view. Hidden away behind the overgrowth, vines, flowers, and the like, is a light grey stone fit for a castle. I duck under a large arch made of roots and moss, and I swerve around dried fountains and crooked shrubs as I gaze upon the structure. It really is beautiful, even if I can’t see all the careful details.
I seem to be in some sort of courtyard, or what used to be a well-loved garden, but has since been completely abandoned. Two of the walls are bushy fences, while the other two are patios connected to the building. The floor is made of old terracotta tiles, chipped and dirtied from years of weathering. In each corner is a small bird bath surrounded by rose bushes. And in the very middle of the garden, encircled by intricate tiling, is the biggest fountain of them all. There’s no water, only dead leaves and a few sparse coins at the dried-up bottom.
It’s all very sophisticated, and I can’t help but wonder what happened to its owners. I feel out of place here, just a bare body in a forest of natural beauty and delicate architecture. The cherished garden, suddenly neglected and forgotten about, versus me, someone I can’t even remember.
I can’t remember myself.
I’m foreign to my own mind.
I don’t know what to make of that, really. It’s a terrifying thought. I don’t want to dwell on it too long, because I’ll drive myself crazy trying so desperately to remember something or someone that’s just out of my grasp. If I don’t know myself, am I even anything at all? What does that make me?
It’s torturous. I feel like a human being, a person, but I can’t…I just can’t…
I don’t know.
I step onto the patio, which has a tall balcony overhead. Pillars frame huge arched windows, with flowerboxes, chairs, and chess tables in front of each one. The curtains are all drawn.
Tucked away in the very corner, with bright green vines and light purple flowers creeping up the walls, is a small, rickety, curved door. The shadows almost make it blend in with the environment. The wood is dark green, and the iron handle is dark and rusted. Taking one last look at the courtyard, I take a breath and push open the door.
There’s absolutely no light inside, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Though that begs the question: what could be lurking in the darkness?
I take a step forward and immediately trip from an unexpected step down. I lean my weight back onto the door, but it just creaks and sways back and forth. Clumsiness is not the best trait to have when trying to explore a scary new place.
I brace myself, then calmly take another step. The cool floor is exponentially dusty, and it smells damp. As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I can just about see the layout of this place. To the left is a hallway, and to the right is a lounge, sectioned off with partitions. In the back corner of the room is the silhouette of a grand piano.
Fancy.
Just in front of me are some chairs and counters, possibly a dining room. There’s no extravagant chandelier, unfortunately.
I tip-toe around, scared of touching something the wrong way and completely ruining the entire scene. Everything was meticulously left by the previous owners; I could never ruin that—could never ruin the accidental history behind every footstep, every song, and every inch of space.
Right behind the partition is a long, dramatic, fainting couch. There’s a canopy above, adorned with sparkly, silky fabrics that elegantly fall to the floor. There’s a basket of sheets, blankets, and pillows, and to the side is a floor-to-ceiling bookcase filled with old, dusty books. The faintest bit of light streams in through the tattered curtains, catching on particles and reflecting off a single crystal from the canopy, sending the faintest rainbow across the off-white sofa.
“Wow,” I mutter, and I realize it’s the first thing I’ve said all day. It’s the first time I’ve heard my own voice. It’s raspy from rest, heavy with my own awe.
I let out a long, slow breath, releasing all the strange feelings from the day. This scene certainly doesn’t answer a single one of my questions, but at the very least, I feel calm and content for once.
There’s a smile on my lips as I sit on the couch. It’s just as soft as I hoped.
(I don’t remember when I fall asleep.)
