I didn't see that "Caution, Wet Floor" sign until the very last minute. And I pay dearly for it.
It's almost comical how my body flies through the air. One minute my feet are levitating, the next minute the sound of my head slamming against the floor with a sickening crack echoes within my ears. I would ever wish this pain on anybody. As my eyes drift up toward the ceiling, I can't help but wonder if the janitor will be pissed at me for getting blood all over his freshly mopped floor.
Lucky for him, and for me, it never comes.
As I slow got up from the floor, it felt like there's static in my head. Like an old-school television, where you have to position bunny ears antenna a certain way in order to get a clear picture. Everything felt hazy and out of reach. I know I look like a fool, sitting in the middle of a hallway, hands on my head. But that's all I know. And my brain is too hazy to offer me any concrete answers. My hands are a terrible pair of bunny ear antennas and I can't seem to position them in such away that will make everything in my head much clearer.
"Finn!" In the blur, I can see the figure leaning over me. They are no more than a messy, blurry blob. But it sounds like they are concerned. "Are you okay?"
My eyes sharpen enough to see the hazel eyes. My heart aches. But...I don't understand why.
"I...don't know." I know I'm speaking but I don't really know what I'm saying. The world feels fuzzy and pain throbs in my head as I'm helped off the floor. "Ari, I...think I hit my head."
"You think? I could hear the crack all the way over here! That looked like it hurt."
"Yeah..." The static in my head just won't ease up. No matter what I do, it just won't let up. "Is there a bathroom nearby?"
"A bathroom? Okay, but shouldn't we take you to the clinic or something?"
Somehow, I wander into the ladies' room, still in a haze. Lucky for me, it's empty. I don't want anyone to see me like this. Little details begin to filter through the static. I just finished my English class. Ari and I have the same class and that's why he's with me. We're headed to the cafeteria to have lunch with the rest of our friends. It all seems legit. But there's something missing. Not a small fragment, but a huge, gaping chunk that's very important. It's so close and yet just out of reach.
Grunting in frustration, I grip the sides of the counter, my head hanging over the sink. After a few deep breaths, the dizziness begins the fade away, little by little. As if guided by some higher force, my eyes look over to the mirror.
The moment I see myself in the reflection, something snaps.
A young woman stares right back at me. Her skin is discoloured or fraught with winkles, but smooth and supple, young and fresh, not old and withering away. Her hair isn't grey and brittle, but jet black, cascading down the curves of cheeks down to the her shoulder blades. The straight bangs frame her face nicely, giving me a bit of an edge even though she think she's anything but. Her fingers run up and down the length of her charcoal grey wool trench coat, her most treasured piece of clothing, looking somewhere between a elegant model and modern witch.
I can't take my eyes off her. She can't her eyes off me.
Entranced, I run my fingers through my hair and she does the same, over and over again. It's so thick and shiny, the kind of hair you dream of when tossing in some stupid boy's face. The kind of hair that belongs to an model on social media with thousands, maybe millions of followers. The kind of hair that would make you want to buy the most expensive hair product possible to recreate the look.
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Rewind Reverie
Roman d'amourJosephine "Finn" Harwood has lived a frustrated life. Her husband never loved her. Friends and family are non-existent. She has lived much of her life in affluent solitude. On the night of her 56th birthday, she decides to end her marriage and make...
