My Backward Life (Sample Only)

FALLING SKY

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: Hi! Thanks for coming to check out my book. This is a sample only. This book is being published on 16th July 2020 as "My Backward Life" and has a different cover on amazon. 

All copyright laws apply. I hope you like it! 

(P.S. This book is a teen contemporary suitable for 12 upwards. )

FALLING SKY

Chills tingled through my body. I sat up with a gasp, one hand clinging to my bedcovers. Slowly, all the jumbled strangeness in my mind trickled down, vanishing beneath the familiarity of my bedroom.

The industrial-sized workbench for my Claymation projects stood beneath the two sash windows. Orange streetlight snuck through the curtains and shone across the paint pots, brushes, pens, and fabrics. My oak wardrobe rested against the far wall. Grandpa's threadbare armchair sat tucked in beside my bed.

My alarm clock flashed 6:08 a.m. I swiveled around to place my feet on the wooden floorboards. My feet...toes, ankles, heels, and skin. All normal. I stared at them for a minute. Why did I think there was something wrong with my feet?

Teeth chattering, I got out of bed. Mum's insistence on not heating the house would end up killing more than germs, I thought, as I tiptoed to the bathroom.

The light above the sink blinked to life with an electric hiss. The buzz made me queasy, and the brightness hurt my eyeballs. I shut my eyes. Images raced across my mind, fast, like one of those subliminal messages in a TV ad. Raindrops. Fingers levering open my mouth. A hand shaking my shoulder.

My eyes flipped open. Trembling, I stepped to the mirror to check my reflection, nose practically pressed against the glass. I looked the same as always: pale, slightly uneven skin, deep-set eyes which were muddy green at the center and lightened into cloudy blue, short brown hair, limp, in need of a wash, a heart-shaped face that looked younger than sixteen because of my puffy cheeks.

I turned to check my profile. No scratches. No bleeding. What was I expecting? My sense of what I thought had happened was breaking down, the coherence of it all crumbling.

I thought I'd died.

A shiver ran through me. I faced my reflection and tried to recall walking home from the gig last night. I could remember the high street, holding my key between my fingers, feeling flushed. But after that, nothing about getting home, letting myself through the front door, and coming up to bed.

I ran the tap until the water grew warm and spent a minute splashing my face. A voice floated in my head as though rising out of a deep hollow. A voice I didn't recognize. And he kept saying,

Can you hear me?

I suddenly noticed Mum standing behind me in the bathroom doorway and sucked in a shocked gasp. She was wearing her work clothes—silk blouse, gray trousers, sensible shoes. (My mother didn't believe in any other kind.)

"What's going on?" she asked. I shook my head. I had no idea. "I've been calling you for twenty minutes. You're going to be late."

"Late?" My voice sounded hoarse, as though I'd been shouting or screaming a lot. "What are you talking about?" I shuffled past her to my bedroom and got back into bed. As I pulled the covers up to my chin, the alarm clock caught my eye: 7:30 a.m. Had I been standing in the bathroom for over an hour?

"Listen," Mum said. "I'm annoyed enough with you as it is. Get up."

I only worked for Mum on Saturdays if her assistant had an emergency and couldn't make it to the shop. That was our agreement now because Mum had decided I needed to focus on my GCSEs and I had no arguments with the extra free time. Besides, I was supposed to be having lunch with Dad. I jerked the duvet over my head.