Where are you on your first day of a well-deserved holiday?

This was the second one I ever did for the group... I decided that I wanted a twist to it, and this fit the bill!

I wake up slowly, luxuriously. It is this that tells me that I am on holiday, the fact that I am not being jolted awake by the persistent screech of the dreaded Alarm Clock, the worst invention ever to reach mainstream consumerism. I open my eyes, and gaze up at the sky-blue ceiling, feeling relaxed for the first time in what seems like centuries.

The sheets of the bed are like silk against my skin, cool, refreshing, reviving, like a summer breeze. I stretch, enjoying the sensation of moving my fingers without the usual aches and pains that one acquires from sitting at a desk typing all day long. It feels like heaven.

I sit up, and glance at the digital clock on the bedside table. 10:00. I haven’t woken up at ten since I was seventeen! I laugh, and swing myself around so that my legs are dangling over the edge of the bed.

It’s too good to be true. Says the pessimistic side of my brain. You wait and see.

Shaking off any stray feelings of doubt, I stand and walk over to my huge leather suitcase, intent on getting dressed. I unclip it, and heave the lid up, a feat that is somewhat harder than one might imagine.

Dumbstruck, I stare into the depths. It is empty, save for a tiny spiral bound notebook, the sort one might pick up from a two-dollar shop. Hand shaking slightly, I take it, and flip over the cover. Inside is written:

Where are you?

I blink, considering, and realize that I have no idea. I cannot remember anything! Fear begins to creep its way up my spine, and I flick frantically through the pages, trying to find some clue to my whereabouts, and why I can’t recall. Nothing.

I look back in the suitcase, and see that I was wrong. There is something else in there. A pen. Lifting it, I notice the word ‘Memory’ is scrawled across the lid in permanent ink.

This is insane! I think, and stride over to the door. I turn the handle, and attempt to open it, but it refuses to budge any more than a centimeter. Pressing my eye to the crack I see white walls, and what looks like a bed. I’m really scared now.

I turn, and grab the phone on the table near the wall. I dial… Who? I can’t remember anyone!

I slump onto the bed, shaking.

What am I going to do? ‘Help!’ I scream. ‘Help!’

And a voice from inside me says, ‘Memory’.

I glance down at the notebook and pen. With my teeth I pull off the pen lid. Opening the book to a blank page, I begin to write.

The pen dances across the paper with no conscious thought on my part, but there is no ink. It does not matter, though, I can feel the writing; I don’t have to see it.

The phone call, I remember now. Julianne booked me a room at the Twilight Hotel. Good old Julie, she knew I needed a holiday.

And then…the truck…the noise…the crash…

I look up from the notebook. The door swings open, and pure white light shines into the room, almost blinding me. I get up, and step through…

Falling…

My eyes flutter open. I blink and begin to focus. White walls, white ceiling, hard white bed. Julianne asleep in visitors chair.

Oh, yes. I remember now. I wonder if the truck driver was hurt?

There is a calendar on the wall. So, I’ve been in a coma for three days.

Some holiday.

The end.