Page 41 of The Final Storm
Chapter 16
Awake
Thesunisbrightwhen I open my eyes. It burns my retinas, and I blink to adjust to the light. I open my mouth to take in a breath, and the deep inhale doesn’t burn or hurt. The feel of my chest expanding sends a wave of alertness to my limbs, and I exhale, hearing the long push of my breath leaving my lips.
My fingers clutch at the grass that I lie in, and I sit up. There’s a steady wind that billows my shirt and whips my hair around my face. Moving in a million directions, it makes the branches of the trees above me twist and turn. There’s not a cloud in the sky, and I look down at my hand where blades of broken grass stain my fingers.
Fuck, I better not be dead.
There’s a rail fence within reach, and I use the bottom rung to help myself stand up. I look down at my bare feet and clothes. Things I don’t remember wearing, but I vaguely recall owning once. I wipe my hands on my jeans, wet from the dew on the grass.
I wrap my arms around my middle, pushing in my ribs, and close my eyes, trying to concentrate, maybe meditate. But my mind feels too busy, confused about what’s happening and where I am. The same thought circles round and round, a terrifying reality that I can’t believe might be true.
I open my eyes, angry at the thought.
I don’t have time to be dead.
Our farmhouse stands in the distance with blue plastic tarps draped across the roof. Other than that, everything about the house is in place. Every fencepost surrounds it perfectly, potted plants line the steps, and freshly painted shutters surround the windows. It’s untouched by the storms.
I’m standing in the clearing, the elevated piece of land before the trails. This is where the boys and I changed and ate after the third storm. Everything below flooded or blew away, and we took the bags of our things up here and then left the wreckage. I turn around and see the path to Dean’s house. The trees are flowering along the way, a sign of spring.
I feel a pull from my old house and turn back around, my bare feet stepping through the wet grass toward the sound of banging hammers and voices. One of our horses gallops by with someone in the saddle, and I jump, startled by the ground thudding as it blows past me.
It’s a woman riding toward the house.
My sister.
“Morgan!” I cry out to her. She doesn’t hear me and continues on the trot, with me sprinting behind her. She looks different… younger. She pulls on the reins and stops to talk to someone on the roof. I make it to her, out of breath from my sprint. I lower my hands to my knees and scream again. “Morgan!” but she doesn’t respond.
I catch my breath and move closer to her, staring at her as she shakes her head and smiles. She’s wearing a tank top and her shoulders are pink from the sun. A trickle of sweat runs down her back and she wipes her neck with her palm.
Her arms are… bare. There’s no symbol of the AOE burned into her skin.
“This isn’t real,” I say to myself. “Oh, fuck. I’m dead.”
I wave my hands in front of her and call her name again. “Morgan!”
She responds with my name, sending an ache into my heart. I haven’t heard her call to me in so long, and her voice is the same sing-song tone I remember. “Bye, Rowan. You’re ridiculous.” She doesn’t look at me, though. Her gaze stares up at the roof when she says the words.
“I’m down here,” I tell her, waving my arms.
I’m not dead. That’s not possible.
I reach for her, feeling the coarse hair of her animal, but she rides away, disappearing on her mare. The dust mists out behind her, and she’s gone - faded away before she makes it too far.
I stand in front of our house looking out where she just was and rub my head. It doesn’t hurt, but I search for the wound. There’s something sticky, and I pull my hand away to see bright red blood covering my fingertips. My hands dive into my hair, searching for the source, and I find the gash. I pull my hand away, heart pounding in my chest, hands covered in blood.
“This isn’t real,” I say. I close my eyes and try to focus, to meditate on what’s happening. It feels like when I sat with the boys drinking sprite on their birthday. I can touch my surroundings and feel the moment, but I’ll wake up. I have to wake up. Is this what dreaming about memories is like?
You aren’t dead. Your mind is playing tricks on you. This is… a dream. A very intense dream.
A shingle falls from the roof and hits the ground by my feet. I jump, shaken from my thoughts. I reach down and touch it with my fingertips, smearing the blood over the broken piece that’s faded from the sun.
I turn my head to the roof and look up to see… myself.
The me standing on the roof chucks another shingle to the ground, and I move out of the way. Once this one falls, I reach down to pick it up, but I can’t. I can feel it, but it’s cemented in its place. More shingles fly around me, and I see myself throwing the damaged pieces of the roof and pulling back the tarps. I’m wiping my brow from the heat but diving right back into the work.
“Rowan?” I yell. It’s ridiculous calling out to myself, but I can’t think of what else to do. There’s no response. She… I… continue working, moving back the tarps and tossing the ruined pieces of the roof to the ground below.
