I walked in the front door
My cat nuzzled my leg
I walked up the stairs to my room
As I took off my clothes I could smell the stench of cigarettes
Changing into my pajamas I realized I haven't looked at my phone all night
Grabbing my cold leather purse I reached ­inside, on the way to my phone I scratched my hand on something sharp inside my purse.
Foreshadowing
Opening my phone I had three unheard ­voicemails
Meagan.
Casey.
Mom. My phone fell out of my hands and my knees buckled
I crumbled to the floor, hands shaking, I reached for my keys.
Standing up like a newborn fawn getting used to their legs, I got to my car.
The glass on the lightpost outside my house had shattered
It was July, and it was cold that night
Foreshadowing
Starting the car I jumped back to life
I went 60 all the way to the hospital and
ran two red lights
How long had it been?
Running into the hospital the world slowed
Someone was trying to get my attention
I was bleeding?
Mom
Where was he?
Machines, IVs, medicine
Car accident
He didn't look like my brother
His eyes fluttered open
I felt the tears streaming down my face
I grabbed his hand
I'd never let go.
You're bleeding.
Whose words were those
And just then tasted iron on my tongue
I had been biting on my lip
For how long?