Lorelie vs the Life of Summer Rose

Chapter 2

 Wind sweeps over my face. It blows gently against my ears, quieter than the rattle of the wheat around me as it sways and bends, itchy against my arms and the back of my legs, pillowing the ground beneath my spine. I'm in a field. A dream. The sky, saturated by the noon sunshine, feels open, like a large, blue vortex sucking me in. Calling me in. While gravity may bind me to the earth, it still feels like I'm falling. My head is spinning. My heart thumps faster and faster as the sound of my breath magnifies in my ears.

You're dreaming, I remind myself, trying to settle. You're lucid dreaming.

I can't remember the last time I had a dream. The last few months had been so exhausting that I'd programmed myself into functioning by basic necessity, which meant that sleep served one purpose and one purpose only: to recharge. But I guess that period of time is over now. My dreams are back, and they used to be vivid. I guess I'm just overwhelmed because it's been a while, and so the imagery, the feeling, the distorted reality— it's like being snatched into the tornado of a freshly unplugged drain, and the water is tunnelling me into the bottom, nothing to grab on to.

I wiggle my fingers. My toes. I pat down my body and then pinch myself in the ribs, and the sting feels more like a stab in the side— "ouch!" I hiss aloud. And then I pause. That shouldn't have hurt. None of this should have hurt.

I pat myself down again. The fabric rustles beneath my frantic touching, encrusted with old dirt and fraying threads, as though I'd run through trees and tripped and fell, or maybe been dropped sideways through a forest. I know this dress, this black dress. It's my funeral dress. My very expensive, hold-it-together, one-time wear funeral dress. I'm still wearing my funeral dress.

Was I kidnapped?

I file through my memories for an answer. On my bed, staring at the ceiling. Talking to mum. Leave in half an hour. Staring at the ceiling again, falling asleep. I don't remember the funeral— I don't even think I went. I only remember falling asleep— why can't I remember anything else? How did I end up here?

"Calm down," I command myself, but it comes out shaky and quiet. "Calm down. You're in a field. A farmer's field, most likely. That means there are people nearby. That means there are policemen we can talk to. Calm. Down."

What about mum?

The panic starts to spread rapidly at the thought of her, alone, wondering where I am. Drifting through the streets until her heels start to cut into her feet, calling my name, screaming it, wondering if I'm dead. What if she's dead?

I stumble to my feet. I'm not breathing properly— the air is being sifted in and out of my throat, and it's like there are rocks jumping around in my lungs, scratching me up from the inside— Mum, where are you? Where am I— there's only a road in the distance, and no farmhouse. Or maybe there is a farmhouse. There's a dot crowning a hill but I'm blinded by the sun to make out what it is, and—

"Are you okay?"

A voice. I whip around, staggering to the left. I throw both arms over my head. "Don't come any closer."

"Okay then, I won't."

The wheat crunches in response.

"Stop!"

"Okay! Okay."

It's a girl's voice, youthful, probably my age. I comfort myself with this new information. I remind myself that I need to get it together and find a police station, and that acting like a volatile, rabid animal who'd escaped its enclosure won't win her over into helping me. And I need her help. Breathe. I drag a hand down my face and groan, dropping into a squat. Breathe. I'm not lost, just disoriented— I know where I am, technically. I'm in a field in a rural area, but not a barren one. I don't remember much but that doesn't mean something bad has happened to me. I just don't remember. Maybe I came here willingly and maybe mum knows, and I'm the only one who forgot.

"I have water," the girl offers. Her accent startles me: it's English, but not biscuits and tea English. More so roughened up, loiters in alleys at night, yells in your face over spilt milk English— I think it might be called a Yorkshire accent? Am I in Yorkshire?

"No thanks," I cough. "I don't know you."

"It's not poison."

"Don't know you," I repeat. But the weird thing is that I do feel like I know her, short black hair tucked behind her ears and sharp, almond eyes casting a bold glare onto my face, feeling like lasers with the sun setting them alight. There is a mole in the corner of her lips that feels like a symbol of her face that I've seen somewhere before, or at least heard about. I squint at her. She squints back.

"I'm trying to help you," she snaps. "If you don't want help, you can just say so."

"No, I need help."

"Can't you take my water, then? You're clearly dehydrated. You can't even stand straight."

"Um..."

"I'd take you to town to get some for yourself but I don't know if you'll make the trip."

"Fine." I take the canister from her outstretched hand. "Sorry."

"It's fine." She softens, if only slightly. "I'm sorry. You don't look too good, you must be overwhelmed. Are you okay?"

"I..." I look around, raising the lip of the bottle to my mouth. "Do you know where I am?"

"Yorkshire."

I spit. Water sprays everywhere, including her, but she doesn't even flinch. "What? As in England?"

"Yes." Her forehead creases with a worried frown. "Are you not from around here? You have a weird accent."

"England?" I shriek. "I'm from Australia!"

"Australia?"

"As in the other side of the—"

"Earth," she finishes, eyes widening. She meaneavers me by the shoulders to face her, looking me up and down. Then she stops. I follow her gaze to the bottom-half of my dress, ripped up and in tatters, blowing around exposed glimpses of my thighs. My heart drops into my stomach, and bile lurches into the back of my throat as I realise, as I wonder, as I think—

"No," I croak. "No, no, no."

"Were you—?"

"I don't think so," I say. My voice is no louder than a whimper. "But I also don't remember anything. I don't remember how I got here. I don't remember if there is a reason why I'm here. I just... woke up in a field."

Her eyes warm with compassion, and it's so vivid that I feel some of my fear ebb away. I'm filled with this uncanny charge of trust that promises me everything is going to be okay, even if it isn't right now and doesn't feel like it in the future— she's going to fix it. But I'm not completely consoled. At the same time, I know that she's assuming the worst, which makes me assume the worst. "Do you remember who you are?"

"Yes. I'm Lorelie Lacsamana." I pause. "And who are you?"

"Summer Rose Inoue."