There is a perfectly good reason why:
1.) I can’t move my body.
2.) I smell a strange lemony scent.
3.) I am lying on soft sheets, on an even softer bed, and am wearing a long shirt I do not recognize.
Unfortunately, I can’t think of that perfectly good reason.
A monitor beeps next to me, a noisy rhythmic sound that every part of me—the part that wants to play my music, the part that practices in my parents’ too-small basement—hates. The sound blares in my ears, and I miss the nothingness, the silence that surely I have just awoken from.
Perfume hits my nostrils. It’s too sweet, as if somebody has bathed in bubble gum and roses. It reminds me of the girls at school, and I turn my head away.
“Oh my God!” a high-pitched voice squeals in my ear in an American accent. “He’s awake!”
Shouldn’t I be awake?
“You’re awake, Caleb! You did it!” the voice says, this time louder and more screeching. I’m being unfair. There’s a joyousness there, and I want to capture it with music. I want to smile. I am smiling. If only everyone praised me with the same enthusiasm. I mean, I haven’t even opened my eyes yet.
Why can’t I open my eyes?
A shiver runs through me, and I scrunch my eyes together. I struggle to part my lids as if I’ve forgotten how to do it.
Read more about the author and the book here.