ENTRY 9
I'VE FALLEN AND I CAN'T GET UP

"It's not gonna be easy. It's going to be really hard; we're gonna have to work at this everyday, but I want to do that because I want you. I want all of you, forever, everyday. You and me…"

The enormous lump in my throat makes it difficult to swallow the decadent bon-bon that I just shovelled into my mouth—not the first chocolate I scarfed down tonight, if I'm being totally honest. I chase the sweet treat with a gulp of red wine and swipe an errant tear from my cheek.

My annual self-pity party is interrupted by the chiming of my iPhone. There's a text from Alice—a picture of her dainty little fingers on top of Jasper's, modelling a rock the size of Jupiter. I text back the word 'congrats' followed by about 46 exclamation points, but a shameful part of me feels the hot sting of resentment, and now I'm not just crying at The Notebook. This is the third Valentine's Day that I've spent alone in my sweatpants on the couch eating Chinese food, getting wasted and knocking off a heart-shaped box of candy that I bought myself; it's the third Valentine's Day since I got dumped, hard, in the middle of a crowded restaurant while not one, not two, but three couples at adjacent tables got engaged. It's the third Valentine's Day that I've sobbed while scrolling through my Facebook feed and seeing every person I went to high school with getting married or having babies.

The credits are rolling when I swallow the last of the Merlot, and I can see my reflection in the TV. God, I'm a cliché. No wonder nobody wants to be my Valentine. I am Bridget Jones. I am the sad, lovelorn protagonist in every romantic comedy ever made, except there is no charming, handsome beau come to sweep me off my feet and rescue me from a future where I get eaten by my cats.

I honk unattractively as I blow my nose before kicking off my sweatpants and lurching to my feet. A bolt of panic hits me when I feel the smooth, cool curve of a glass wine bottle rolling under the arch of my foot, and I'm cursing because I know what's about to happen and there's nothing I can do to stop it. I'm going down. Goddamn it. I'm not even going to reach my final form as an elderly spinster. I'm going to die at age 32, alone in my apartment. The neighbours are going to notice a weird smell in a couple of days and the firemen will break down my door and find my bloated corpse in a pair of granny panties and a t-shirt with Elmo's face on it.

I'm helpless to stop my fall, flailing as I go, yelping when I collide with the hardwood. There's a sickening thump when my head bangs against the floor. My leg is all twisted up at an odd angle, and I'm pretty sure I heard a crunching noise. With my last meagre reserve of strength, I manage to dial 911 on my cell phone, croak "I've fallen and I can't get up" like that old woman in the commercial, and then everything goes dark.

Beep, beep, beep is all I hear when I come to. I want the noise to stop. It feels like somebody is pounding their fists against the inside of my skull, and the fluorescent lights blinking above me when I open my eyes are making me nauseous. It takes me a few moments to register that I'm in a hospital room. I fumble around for the call button and then stab at it with a vengeance. Need pain meds. Like, now. Everything hurts.

I close my eyes again and listen to the sound of sneakers slapping against linoleum. A throat clears above me, and I look up into a pair of sparkling eyes the colour of jade or emeralds, framed by dark lashes that are almost feminine in their length and set in a pale face that must have been chiselled by the gods. Those eyes… that aquiline nose… those full, slightly crooked lips… Jesus Christ, those cheekbones… shit, this head injury must be bad. I've gotta be hallucinating. This walking wet dream in a lab coat with a stethoscope draped around a neck that I want to suck on and carrying a clipboard that I'm jealous of because I want those hands to be touching me can't be real. When he talks, his voice is smooth like velvet, and it sends a tingle down my spine and up my leg. The timbre is rich and deep, and God help me, he's British.

"Welcome back, Miss Swan. I'm your doctor, Dr Cullen."

"What happened?" I croak.

"You took quite the nasty spill, I'm afraid. You have a concussion and a broken leg. How's the pain?"

"I feel like I was hit by a truck," I groan, shifting uncomfortably in the skinny, hard stretcher and thanking God that somebody put me in a hospital gown, because I don't think I could handle Dr Feelgood here seeing me in my ratty old drawers.

"Well, never fear. I've got you some morphine right here."

"Oh, bless you," I sigh, and then I let out a little mewl when the painkillers hit my bloodstream and I sag into the bed like my bones have melted.

"I'll be back soon to check on you, Miss Swan. Is there anything else you need?"

"Sure," I slur. "Will you be the Noah to my Allie?"

His laugh is booming and kind of musical, and the world is a little fuzzy around the edges, and I'm just about to drift back into unconsciousness when I swear I hear him say, "If you're a bird, I'm a bird."

#V3ENTRIES

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