I had never been outside. The world was a mystery and social construct was beyond me. My house had no windows. No door, either, except for the front door. Or at least, I think it was the front door. I had never been in any other people's houses so I wouldn't know.

I had no friends. The only humans I ever knew were my parents. Mum and Dad. I knew them by no other name. I didn't even know my own name. Was it Lucy? Katie? Elisabeth? I never bothered to remember my own name, I didn't have any friends to call my name. My parents hardly ever called me by my name either; they were always gone. Sometimes, I'd wake up and my mum would be there, making eggs, I think they were called. I was never sure.

Those days were rare, however, and eggs were a delicacy. Instead, I lived off bland cereal. Grain, wheat, flour. I didn't go to school. I didn't have a phone or a computer. My only possessions were books. I had memorised them all, but never tired of drinking in their musty scent, feeling their old, cracked spines, the soft, warm pages, yellowed with age. They were my only source to the outside world, if there even was one. I never knew. They taught me what I needed to know. Stories like 'Charlotte's Web' taught me to love. 'Hear the Wolves' taught me to fear. 'Swiss Family Robinson', 'Hatchet', and 'The Island of the Blue Dolphins' taught me to survive.

Survive in my lonely, grey house. To survive with nothing but my books, my stories, my bland cereal and my rare eggs, my forgotten name, my too-big house, my too-small room, my non-existent parents.

When I couldn't read anymore, I would amble around the house. I would touch the grey walls with shaking hands, shuffle down the dark-grey wooden hallways, stand in the white doorways between rooms. I wasn't allowed near the door. Wasn't allowed to look at it; let alone answer if someone were to knock.

But no one ever did.

Until one day - or night, I gave up on keeping track when I woke up in this house years ago - one day when someone did.

It was a soft 'tap-tap-tap' on the Front Door, barely heard, but it struck me through the core. The shadows of my parents never knocked. They never even made a sound. Mum would hand me a single egg on a plate, nod and leave, sometimes she even smiled.

She's only smiled once, though.

The gentle taps grew louder. Now it was a loud 'thunk-thunk-thunk'. I was curious, but oh so afraid. The Door was off limits.

The 'thunks' turned into 'bangs' and I slowly made my way to the Door. Everything was screaming at me to stop, and I almost did, until my hand was on the doorknob, turning, turning, turning.

The Door opened with a click.

For a few seconds, I was blinded. Blinded by the sun, the grass, the sky, things I've only read about.

I took a step outside. My body cried out. I took another. My mum came running. I took a third step.

And closed the Door.

The wind rustled my hair. The sights and smells overwhelmed my senses and a little voice told me it was bad, that I should run and hide. But I didn't; it felt like a miracle.

My feet moved of their own accord and soon, I was laughing, running, leaping. I smiled for the first time in what felt like years. There were houses, people, cars, grass, sky, warmth, so much different than the life I had been trapped in. Yet the most extraordinary thing was colour. I had never seen colour before; I had heard of books, read of yellows and blues and greens in my books, but had never really seen it. At home, there was no colour. At home, everything was grey, It was dark and dreary and I never wanted to go back.

A butterfly flew past me and I laughed, chasing it to a patch of the flowers. The butterfly (it was orange, dotted with blacks in a pattern I had never dreamed of) landed on a white daisy, I almost cried at this feeling- the feeling of freedom. Freedom from the stuffy house, from my cereal, my too-big house, my too-small room, my forgotten name, the ghost of my parents, my once-in-lifetime smile, served sunny-side-up next to a small plate of scrambled eggs. I took a deep breath to steady myself, to swallow the tears, to live in the moment when suddenly, I was crying.

The world dissolved around me, lights flashing in my vision, tearing apart the taste of freedom that had felt so real. I fell to the grey floor and curled up, sobbing.

Pictures flitted across the back of my eyelids- pictures of a dark night, a loose seat belt, an icy road. There was blood. My hands were wet. The car rolled and rolled and rolled and it wasn't stopping and there was screaming- was it me? I was alone, it had to have been me, the high pitched sobs and the car rolled to the stop, leaving me stranded and hurt.

My arm was on fire. My legs were shaking. My head was filled with static, my vision blurry. My throat was turned to ashes, my shirt was torn and my side was numb. Red lights all around me, blue lights too. Hands grabbing me, glass shattering. Electricity is racing through my veins and everything goes offline. It's black. Then it's white. Then it's a little bit of both, a dull grey.

And I woke up.

I woke up to my too-big house, my too-small room, my fake cereal, the name I never heard, my lonely eggs and the shadow of my mum and dad.

I wake up again, this time in the flower patch, tears streaming down my face.

I remembered. I remembered my name, who I was; everything.

My name was Emily. I was 16 years old. My hair was short and dark, my eyes were a peculiar shade of hazel.

I was in a car crash that almost ended my life.

"Emily."

I raised my head, confused. The sound of my name filled every crevice of my mind, every crack in my being, but it didn't seem to have a source.

"Emily. Emily, please, wake up."

The sound came again, but it was fading. My eyes started to close again and the too-big, too-small house with my soggy eggs and absent parents. No, no, no, no, I don't want to go!

"Emmie... Come home."

I wanted to call out, wanted to speak, to tell the voice that I was here, that I wanted to come home. The ambient light around me started to fade, cracking and crumbling out of existence, a layer of black behind the falling walls. My breathing began to quicken as another wave of anguish washed over me and I cried out.

"NO!"

The walls stopped tearing themselves apart. The earth stopped shaking. And I stopped fighting the darkness.

The next time I woke up, I was in bed. My eyelids were heavy; there was a slight pressure on my torso, my legs. Someone was gripping my hand.

Something rustled beside me, yet I kept my eyes closed. Instead, I listened. There were voices outside. The thing on my hand, shuffling in the corner, was breathing loudly. Every breath was grating, loud, raspy and thick. They had been crying.

Beneath the thunderous breathing of the thing was a soft, monotone beeping sound, consistent and unwavering. A heart monitor. I was in a hospital.

The raspy breaths returned and I let out a soft exhale. It reminded me of my mum when she made me eggs. She would breathe like that.

Maybe it was my mum.

The realisation hit me and I swallowed, suddenly afraid. What if I was back in that place, back in the house, the grey-scale walls, and the goopy eggs. The beeping sped up.

"Emily?"

I inhaled sharply, then choked on something lodged in my throat. Panicking, my eyes flew open and I coughed, wincing at the way the thing pulled and the dryness of my oesophagus.

The heart monitor started going crazy. There were shouts and a doctor rushed into the room, yelling something or another. The thing was pulled out, I gagged at the sensation, and a glass of water was shoved into my face. I stared at it and burst into tears. I hadn't had water in years.

Unfamiliar green eyes peered at me from over a blue surgical mask and I cried some more.

I was free. Free from my too-big house, my too-small room, my ignorant parents, the delicacy of an over-cooked egg, my dreary cereal, my never-seen smile, the grey walls, grey doors, grey halls, and grey floors.

I was home.