CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I step out into the hallway and find my parent's rooms easily. It seems someone thought to be nice and put me in a room near them.

I decide not to see my mother first, just in case I have another blackout and start seeing things, and so I push open the door to my father's room. He's sitting up in his white hospital bed, reading a book but upon hearing the sound of the opening door, he looks up and places the book in his lap, smiling when he sees my face.

I nearly burst into tears. Here he is, in a hospital, covered in bruises and cuts, and it's all my fault. If he knew that the car crash had happened because of me, would he be smiling right now?

I take a seat on the grey-blue chair beside him and ask, "How are you?"

"I've been better," he says, his voice croaky. He coughs and continues. "But I don't have any broken bones, which is a miracle considering the scale of the crash."

The scale of the crash. I shiver.

A minute or so later, I recover from the overwhelming feeling of guilt, which squeezes at my heat, and breach the silence that has fallen upon us. "How did it happen?" I know the answer already, of course, but I have to ask. Maybe it wasn't a vision I had, but a strange dream. Maybe it's not my fault after all.

The moment he speaks, I know that my vision was, in fact, a vision, and my heart drops a thousand metres in my chest, plummeting to the unforgiving ground.

"I don't really know," he says, frowning. "One second I was driving, the next, the steering wheel started spinning out of control and the car increased in speed without me having to touch the accelerator. Before I knew it we had flipped and then I got hit on the head and was knocked unconscious. I think our car might have malfunctioned, either that or I did it myself by accident and the knock to the head has made my memory fuzzy."

I have to bite my tongue from telling him that it wasn't his fault or the cars. It hurts to see him like this, but what can I say? That this man used his magical powers to cause the accident because he wanted to kill me? That he wants to kill me because of my ability to see the past, present and future? While I'm at it, why don't I just throw in that my disease is slowly killing me, I'm trapped in the wrong body and that I'm not really his daughter?

I don't know how, but he must see something in my face, because the next thing he says freezes me to the core.

"You know what happened, don't you?"

My heart rate spikes. When did he become so observant?

"Were you there?"

It takes me a while to remember how to move, and slowly I start to shake my head.

My father notices, yet again, that something's up. "What happened?" he presses.

"Nothing," I say, a little too quickly. Then I realise it was the wrong thing to say, and I quickly cover it up. "I mean, I don't know what happened."

My father stares me in the eye and I do my best to hold his gaze. "Why won't you tell me?"

"Because I can't," I blurt out and then clamp my mouth shut. Great work, Melissa. You've really done it, now. I stand.

"I should probably go. I need to see mum." My voice shakes despite my efforts to keep it steady.

"You know, you can tell me anything, Melissa. I'm your father."

I swallow. I know perfectly well that he's not my father. "I'm sorry, dad. I have to go." I'm out the door before he can say another word.

I lean against the wall of my father's room for a while, taking deep breaths until my heart beat begins to even out. How did I get so close to spilling everything? Is it really that hard to keep my mouth shut?

Later, I enter my mother's room. I don't drop to the ground or fade into a vision, instead I find myself simply standing in the doorway, unable to move closer to her. She lies asleep on her bed, her breathing slow but steady.

It could be anywhere from an hour to five minutes, but eventually I enter the room and sit on the chair beside her bed, watching her breathe, in and out. In and out.

It's all my fault.

And then the tears come.

-:-:-:-:-

After spending the day alternating between being by my mother's and father's side, a nurse finally tells me that I should probably go home. Caden left the hospital ages ago, but Rand stayed to give me a lift. The doctors said that they wanted to keep my dad in for one more night and my mum won't be going anywhere for at least a week.

In a way, I'm glad that my dad won't be home tonight. While he didn't continue to press me for information about what happened when the car crashed, I have the feeling that the more time we spend together, the higher the chance of him pursuing the topic.

The house that never felt like home feels even less so when I enter after getting back from the hospital. The sound of my footsteps echoes loudly throughout the rooms, bounding up the stairs long before I do. My clothes have mainly dried out from running through the rain early this morning, but once I reach my room, I still change into a pair of comfortable pants and a plain white shirt.

Downstairs again. I put a frozen meal in the microwave and sit and watch it spin around and around behind the microwave door. When the beeps finally go off, I pull it out and eat at the table in silence. Sometimes, I think I hear my father's voice saying, "So, how was your day?", as though the house itself remembers our nightly conversation and is destined to repeat it over and over again until long after we're gone and all time ends.

In the end, I find my mind taking up the conversation.

"It was alright," replies my mum, half-sighing.

"What about you, honey?" my dad asks.

"As normal as it gets."

And then I think: Am I crazy?

But no, I'm not crazy. Crazy people aren't worried about being crazy – they don't question their sanity like I do.

I eat slowly and when I'm finished, instead of retreating into my room, I move over to the lounge room and sit on the couch in front of the television. Had it not been for me, my parents would be here now, watching the TV from the same couch I'm on. I would be upstairs, spending another night doing nothing in particular until I'm too tired to stay awake.

My life has always been a repeat of the same things. Relocate, face a new batch of stares, wait until it gets too cold and move again. Wake up, get ready for school, survive school, go home, avoid conversation and retreat upstairs. Wake up, sleep. Wake up, sleep. On and on and on. Day after day after day. Nothing ever changed in my life for a solid twelve or so years.

And then Caden came along and turned everything upside down.

Now I know things that I shouldn't know – that should be impossible – and I have people who care for me – who can see past the disease that has ruled my life.

I know that these thoughts should generate some sort of emotion in me, but I feel nothing but numbness. I know the truth, but my parents are in hospital. I have people who care about me, but I'm dying. No one has seen Sarah for years, so why should she suddenly appear now? She's my only chance at staying alive and she's nowhere to be seen. Doesn't she know that if we don't swap back, she dies too? How long do I have left anyway?

A few days ago, fear would have stirred in me at these thoughts, but now I just feel hopelessness. What is the point? Why am I bothering?

I stare at a blank TV for hours. Sometimes I can hear it, as if it's actually turned on, but it's just my memories playing over and over again in my head, an endless loop of days and conversations and rain.

I start to feel tired around nine, but am reluctant to go to bed. I have to go to school tomorrow, and the sooner I get into bed, the sooner tomorrow will come.

What is school going to be like? I find myself wondering. Will Caden keep his distance? Will I spend yet another day in solitude? I'm so lost in my swirling thoughts that I nearly miss the knock at the door. Sighing, I stand up and make my way over to the entrance.

When I was little and had just moved for the first time, my parents preached to me about stranger danger.

"Don't get into cars with strangers."

"If someone is following you, run to a public place."

"Never open the door when you don't know who it is."

I suppose all those years of being taught how to remain safe slip my mind when I hear the knock, because I swing open the door without a second thought. On the other side, stands a young man I've seen only once before, in a dream that turned out to be a vision.

He smiles. "Melissa, I presume?"

I swallow. You idiot, Melissa, a voice reprimands in my mind.

His dull blue eyes watch me as I watch him, waiting for me to make a move. So I step backwards, my fear arriving and banishing the numbness inside of me. But it's a stupid move. For every step I take backward, the man takes another one forward until my back has hit the wall behind me and I cease moving, realising that I'm trapped.  My heart starts to speed up.

He doesn't speak, or at least, doesn't get the chance too, because suddenly the wind kicks up and starts gushing into the house, flattening my hair to the wall and roaring so loud I can barely hear myself think.

For a full two seconds, shock spreads across the young man's face, but it soon dissolves into anger. In the time it takes to blink, his arm moves from his side to my neck, his hand latching onto it.  His hand tightens, cutting off my air, and I feel his fingers digging into my skin like claws. I try to pry him off with my hands, scratching and clawing at his fingers and wrist, but it's useless – he's too strong. The whole time, his face is a mask of anger and hatred.

My vision soon starts to darken around the edges as I run out of oxygen and a fire ignites in my lungs, spreading a searing pain through my chest – a scream for help. But I can't help my lungs, or my body, or even myself. The man tightens his grip further, crushing my wind pipe so much that I'm positive that if he were to let go, I still wouldn't be able to breathe.

Fear like nothing I've ever known surges through me, along with several panicked thoughts: This is it. I'm dying.

Help.

And then, as I'm about to run out of air, he's hurled backwards by an enormous gust of wind. He hits his head hard on the ground and slides along the floorboards until he comes to a stop in the doorway.

For a moment, I just stand there, wide-eyed and lost. It's as if the wind that pushed him came from my chest. How is that possible?

I wait for him to stand up for a while, but when he doesn't show any signs of moving, I slide down to the floor, and stare at him lying there in the doorway, the open door behind him letting in the darkness of the night and the wind that becomes less and less ferocious by the second.

I notice quickly that I'm shaking – not because of the cold, but because of my fear and shock. I take in deep, soothing breaths, forcing my heart to clam.

That did not just happen.

Caden was right – they're not sticking to the shadows anymore. They're out to kill me.

I vow to myself then that I won't let them. I can't die. I won't die.

After five or so minutes of urging my body to take action and summoning up my courage, I stand and walk on unsteady feet to the man's side. Slowly, I kneel down and press two fingers to his wrist to check his pulse. At first I don't feel anything, and I start to panic, thinking he's dead. But I soon feel his pulse and pull back.

For a minute longer, I continue to stare at him. I know that I should kill him, otherwise he's just gonna try again and again to kill me, but I can't bring myself to do it. Even thinking about killing him is too much to bear. So instead, I stand and grab some duct tape from one of the cupboards.

Once back by his side, I grab both of his wrists and fasten them together with the tape. I think I go a little overboard, because I use up the whole roll and I wrap up his arms as well.

I sigh, looking at my handy work. Better to be safe than sorry. Then I grab his conjoined wrists and start pulling. There's no way I'm leaving him in my doorway and I don't plan on leaving him in the front yard either.

He's heavy – probably double my weight – but I manage to drag him inch by inch out of the house and off our property. If any of our neighbours were to look out the window, they'd see a small ghostly pale girl dragging a tall and muscly man down the footpath in the rain. As I move him, I hope to God that everyone stays away from their windows. They already know that I cause the freezing temperatures and I don't want anyone calling the police because they think I'm a killer. I can already imagine the rumours that'll spread:

"Did you hear? That Melissa girl killed a guy in cold blood and then dragged him down the street."

"She's a murder. I've heard she's killed more than a dozen people in Australia alone."

"Apparently, she can take on a fully grown man and still come out on top. Everyone thinks she's working with the devil."

I get tired from dragging the young man quickly and my body soon starts to sweat. I consider using my aerokinesis to move him – maybe give him a push with the air like I did in my house to get him off me – but now that the moment's passed, I can't find the strength to use the ability, nor do I know how.

It takes me over an hour, but I eventually get him to a grassy block of land a few houses down from my own. I pull him a little ways into the empty plot, hiding his body behind a big clump of grass. I feel like a murderer, despite the fact that I haven't killed him.

Just last night, I was washing blood off my hands in a sink, and now I'm hiding a body in some grass. Maybe it's the world's way of hinting that I am a killer.

When I get home, I lock all the windows and both doors, and shut all the curtains before getting ready for bed. I switch of the lights when I'm finished and slide under the covers of my bed, hugging the blankets up to my neck like I did when I was a child. I suppose fear does that to a person – it turns you back into a defenceless child who thinks a blanket will keep you safe from whatever evil lurks in the darkness.

Even though I woke up at 1 am this morning, I find that I have trouble drifting off to sleep. Every sound causes my heart to pound against my ribs and my eyes to scan the room. I don't feel safe anymore, not even in my bedroom with the door and window locked, and the curtains drawn tightly shut.

It must take me forever, but I do ultimately fall asleep, and then I'm sucked straight into a dream.

"What are you doing, Sarah?" I ask, as five-year-old-me watches her slip into the small space between the chicken coop and barn. I crawl in after her, fitting easily between the two walls of wood.

"Hiding," she replies.

"Who are you hiding from?" I peer over her shoulder at the sunny field before us. There's no one in sight, but even then, butterflies start to swarm inside my stomach.

"You." And suddenly I see a duplicate of myself on the field, except it's fifteen-year-old-me, with extremely pale skin and hollow eyes.

"Sarah!" Older me calls from the field.

"Shh..." Sarah hushes, sensing that I'm about to give away our location. "I can't let you find me. I don't want to swap back."

"Why not?" I ask, but she doesn't reply. Around me, everything starts fading and I panic. "Why not?!" I yell, and then it all disappears.