Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
IT WAS A WEIRD FEELING WALKING THROUGH HER HOUSE FOR THE FIRST TIME AFTER THE ACCIDENT. Her surroundings depicted a life she should have lived but were now foreign to her. The walls were covered in pictures, some of people she should have known and some of herself, of times she does not remember. The Christmas tree, decorated with unfamiliar ornaments and childish crafts, stood tall in the living room, even though they had already finished the second week of January. Three glittery stockings hung from the fireplace, nameless with cartoon pictures, and Celeste didn't know which one was hers.
It was all too much. An uneasy feeling gnawed away at her stomach and her heart thumped loudly, echoing in her ears and disrupting any clear thinking. Perhaps, the pain meds made her brain feel so fuzzy — making her unable to think. She broke her arm and dislocated her shoulder in the accident, and even though the heavy meds helped, she could still feel the aches travel throughout her body. Most of her injuries healed whilst she was in her month-long coma. Deep scratches healed into pink scares and the dark bruises, she was told, faded to nothing. There was one cut on her side, deeper than the others, that had yet to fully heal.
Celeste continued into the kitchen, her father following behind her with her hospital bag. The entire ride home from the hospital, he did not stop talking once. He went on about the things she liked, things her mother had already told her after she woke up, and how her friends were eager to see her once again. Apparently, Angela — her best friend, her mother had said — had visited the hospital every day during winter break. Eddie, her cousin, had come a few times as well. But, once they set foot in the house and Celeste looked around, almost seeming lost, her father had fallen silent.
The kitchen smelled good, a mix of salty, sweet, and a kick of spice. It was a scent that warmed her heart and, although she wasn't hungry before, she found her stomach growling for whatever it was her mother was making. Her mother stood at the stove, mixing the contents of the frying pan with a spatula.
The dark-haired woman turned around to see Celeste staring. She smiled softly, although it failed to reach her eyes. "I'm making chicken pad thai. It's your favourite."
Celeste nodded, registering her mother's words in her brain: favourite food is chicken pad thai.
Her dad rested a hand on her shoulder, the one that wasn't currently being supported by a sling, and kissed the top of her head. "Honey, I'm just going to put your things in your room."
Celeste was drawn to a small picture stuck to the fridge, of her (or so she thought) when she was young, maybe eight? She wore a team uniform and held a volleyball against her propped waist, a medal dangling from her neck. She stood next to an older woman with greying hair and warm kind eyes. Was that her grandma? Celeste removed the 'Las Vegas' magnet from the picture and held it gently in her grasp, willing herself to remember. She looked so happy in the scene, so carefree — if she was so happy if the day was that memorable, why couldn't she remember anything about it?
