Stranded by Lies

607-555-4357

The throbbing in my head intensifies with the sound of each gust of wind - they attack my frail body, and I feel my lips cracking from the dehydration. Wearily, I open my eyes and observe my surroundings; I have no idea why or how I ended up laying on the side of the freeway. Cars are passing at dangerous speeds barely 10 feet away from me. I notice a new warmth on my body as the sun creeps up behind a horizon of pine trees. It's most likely too dark for any driver to see my body, otherwise I'm sure someone would have stopped to help me by now. 

I sit up and am immediately greeted by a severe pain in the front of my head. I grip my forehead with my dirt-covered hands. The grit feels like I'm smashing coffee grounds into my skin. 

I gently remove my hands and breathe in - dried blood is now mixed with the dirt, and new blood is smeared like paint across my palms. Rolling up my sleeves, I notice something on my arm that wasn't there before. A series of numbers and dashes. A phone number to be exact; the area code isn't one that I recognize. I should probably call it when I get the chance. Maybe I'll get some answers.

I must have been right about drivers not being able to see me - the sun has gained brightness by the minute, and I notice a red sedan slowing down to pull over several yards in front of me. People with red cars always bug me. It seems so self-conceited and extroverted, like someone who must constantly be at the center of attention. I am not in a position to judge. I'm sure I'll be all over the news in a matter of hours. I can see them, the journalists scrambling at their desks trying to cover my story, assistants tripping over their own feet trying to make their quick coffee run. I didn't ask for attention, but I find when you don't ask for it, sometimes that's all you'll get. 

A woman in her mid-forties steps out of the car. She's wearing blue scrubs and white sneakers, her dark curly hair hardly passes her chin and the signs of a long night are showing themselves on her aging face. She must be a nurse. What luck that is for me, being bloodied and delusional on the side of the road. 

"Miss, can I help you? Is everything okay, you don't look too well," she takes out her phone and some antibacterial wipes from her bag. Definitely a nurse. 

"Sorry, I don't know what's going on. But yeah, I think I need help." I grimace as I try to sit up further. 

"I'm going to call the police--" she types in the passcode on her phone before I can stop her.

"No, wait, there's one number I'd rather call first," She raises her eyebrow and I show her my arm, "I don't remember anything from last night, but the last I do remember was yesterday afternoon. And this number was not on my arm then."

"Well, what is the last thing that you remember? I don't know if it's a good idea for you to call that number. It might not be safe."

"I-- I was at home, waiting for my boyfriend..." Crap. Liam is probably worried out of his mind right now, especially if I wasn't home last night. 

"Did he do this to you?" she gasps.

"No no, he would never hurt me, I'm sure of it." Classic. An injured, stranded girl claims her boyfriend would never in a million years lay a hand on her. Everyone but the poor girl is thinking the same thing. But I could never imagine... Liam loves me. He does. I have no doubt in my mind that he had nothing to do with this. "I just don't know what happened, I don't remember anything. But please, I'm sure that this number is important somehow. I don't have a cell phone on me, otherwise I would have used mine. It would have been in my purse."

She takes out a wipe from the packet and steps towards me, kneeling onto the ground. I see her face up close, the smudged black eyeliner, concealer that has failed to cover the bags under her eyes. I can imagine what she sees when she looks in the mirror, her heart sinking as she notices the wrinkles clawing their way across her face. She has no wedding ring on her finger. 

"Someone really scraped up your face... Miss..."

"Dahlia," I offer a half smile. 

"Well, Miss Dahlia, if you're so intent on calling this phone number, I suppose I have to let you," She looks with disgust at my face. The wrinkles on her brow bone intensify. "I'm a nurse, and I can safely say that you will need stitches for that." She uses pressure with her hand to help stop the fresh blood.

I outstretch my hand, "I'm sure it's fine. Just please, I'd really like to use the phone."

"Might want to wipe your hands off, first," she smiles, handing me another wipe. I do as I'm told and rid myself of the dirt and dried blood. She trades me my used wipe for her phone, and I dial the number.

607-555-4357

I place the phone by my left ear and listen to it ringing. The woman waits, still kneeling in front of me. 

"Do you happen to know where this area code belongs to?" I whisper away from the phone.

"You're not from around here?" she says, shocked. "It's a New York code. Not the city, but the southernmost part. We're pretty close to Pennsylvania right now."

"Are you serious?" I ask, dumbfounded, "I live maybe an hour outside of Philly, but you're telling me we're in New York right now?!"

"Yes... yes we're near the border of New York and Pennsylvania..."

"What the hell," I mumble, listening to the echo of the phone's fourth ring. After what seems like a hopeless idea, I hear a click on the other end. Someone's answering.

"Hello?"