Amy Hadley 1. "Number Nine"

Chapter 2

-       Al ? I call.

I recognize the wooden cellar of our old country house, the one we lived in before the war started, and before we moved to the suburbs - that same suburb which, in reality, almost looked like a city on its own, bordering the wall and the force field that protected the Global. I still remember very well this cellar, poorly lit and where there was a smell of sawdust. My mother hid me there during the war to protect me from outside explosions and bombardments, not that I would have been more safe, if a missile had hit our house, but it was her way her to protect me from the horrors that we could see in our streets. Later, I also understood that she was hiding me in this cellar in order to protect me, in case enemy army soldiers entered our house, with the intention of capturing civilians, or simply, to execute them. I had spent hours and hours locked up there, lying on straw and hiding from each explosion behind the sacks of flour and grain for the horses.

   I remember perfectly this moment, the same moment that keep haunting my nightmares since. This moment where Al was coming into the cellar, like he did every times to reassure me, and to take care of me. He was so tall, comparing to me, that he needed to bow down and crawl to come by my side. He was always taking me in his arms, making me seat on his knees. He took my head in his hands, petting my hair softly, making me look at him in the eyes.

   Above us, many explosions made the floor shaking and I scream.

-       Look at me, Amy. Look at me!

He was always saying these words. But the explosions, outside, was terrifying me and I couldn't stay calm. I was crying. I was only a child. The floor looked brittle and unstable below, as much as the ceiling. The beams flickered, threatening to crush us both, and streaks of white dust escaped from the concrete blocks that made up the roof.

-       Everything is ok, Amy. Look at me.

I was looking at his big deep blues eyes. My brother always tried to make me look away from the horror of the war that was happening outside. He wanted me to concentrate on something else, on something prettier. But he didn't know that I was seeing, or at least guessing by the reflection in his eyes. I could see this familiar shadow; I could hear again this gunshot. And I was seeing, in his deep blues light eyes, the fire dancing.

  It's the pounding inside my skull that reminds me that I'm still alive. I groan, arching my back. I'm lying on something soft, I guess it's probably a mattress. It is warm and pleasant. The place smells of aged wood and a roaring fire or roasted chestnuts, which I am not familiar with. I turn around, wrapping myself in warm sheets to fight the cold, when a draft tickles my legs, brutally bringing me back to reality. I jump, and open my eyes.

    Another damn nightmare. It's always the same.

    I regret I didn't keep my eyes closed a little longer. The first rays of the sun wake up a sharp and pulsating pain inside my skull, and the pounding become more and more intense as I regain consciousness. I have pain in my temples, behind my ears, and a violent nausea twists my stomach. So that's it, a hangover. Worse than what I have imagined. I am not used to drinking alcohol, however, I haven't felt like I was drinking a lot the night before. Unpleasant palpitations that spread all over my chest shake my heart, I have a dry throat, and a terrible migraine.

   I don't know the room when I am. It's small, all made of wood like most of the houses in this old town. In front of the king size bed where I was laying, there is a wardrobe and a mirror. I get up, looking at my reflection. I frown and push away the sheets.

  I am wearing my same jean and black top, but someone took my boots, my sweat and my leather jacket. I turn on the mattress to let me slip on the other side of the bed, in front of the mirror, and there I find my others clothes on the floor. I frown and get up, walking upon my clothes. Barefooted, I come closer to the mirror; its frame was copper painted gold, the engravings were in Victorian style, which contrasted strangely with the rest of the room. The glass was dusty. I lean toward my reflection and detail it with curiosity, before uttering a scream mixing surprise and stupor. My pupils are dilated, too reactive to light, and my eyes are bloodshot.