PART TWO


For hours, there was nothing but stillness. As if the house had stopped breathing when the girl did.

The girl who lay in a twisted heap at the base of the stairs. Like a rag doll tossed aside by a careless child.

Blood oozed from the gashes and scrapes that covered her skin. Her head rested at an odd, impossible angle. And her lifeless body grew colder as each moment passed.

For hours, there was nothing but stillness…

Until the house started to breathe again.

Chloe Sullivan gasped for air. Oxygen filled her empty lungs. Her heart jumped to startled life, racing after being still for so long. Blood started to move through her veins again, made her skin, her bones, to tingle.

As memories of the fall flooded her mind, Chloe's eyes popped open, wide with panic. In a single moment, she relived every detail.

Slamming into the stairs. Sharp edges digging into her flesh. Pain so intense, it became everything, consuming every thought, every emotion, until it was the only thing left.

And then, the CRACK as her neck snapped.

Horror washed over her. Her heart slammed inside her chest. Her breath came in short, shallow pants.

"Oh, God," she whispered, and wondered why she wasn't dead.

Wondered why she didn't feel any pain.

"Oh, God," she whispered again, and her mind filled with visions of surgery, and wheelchairs, and months spent in a hospital. Pitying looks, rude stares, and needing help to do the simplest, every day things.

"Wait," she muttered. She could feel her hands, balled into two tight fists. Could feel her nails digging into her palms. She felt her toes curl. Felt the hardness of the floor against her back.

She wasn't paralyzed.

Thank God.

But that was wrong. If she wasn't paralyzed, there should be pain. A lot of pain.

She was afraid to move. All of those first aid courses said moving would make any injuries she might have worse. But she had to see.

Slowly, Chloe moved her head from side to side. She expected the action to nullify whatever kind of shock she was in, and send pain screaming through her body.

But it didn't.

Chloe lifted her right arm, until her hand was just above her face. All of her fingernails were broken, chipped and cracked and jagged. There was a streak of blood on her knuckles, but she couldn't see where the blood might have come from.

She wiggled her fingers, to see if that would make a difference. But, still, there was no pain.

So, she lifted her left arm. Lifted her legs, one at a time.

Still nothing.

Starting to feel frantic for some reason, she cautiously pushed herself into a sitting position. Knowing as she did that she shouldn't have been able to.

She pressed her hands against her ribs, expecting to find a sore spot. But there was none.

She ran her fingers through her hair, expecting to feel a bump. But there was none.

Chloe shook her head. "This isn't right," she said. "This…this isn't right."

And her mind started racing. There was confusion. And doubt. Had she fallen down the stairs at all? Was that just a dream? But it seemed so real. She knew it was real!

Hesitantly, she stood up. And her eyes went to the stairs. She remembered the fall in vivid detail. The sound, the feel, of her bones breaking. The thunk as her head bounced against wood.

And now there was just nothing?

How could there just be nothing?

Without thinking, she ran into the downstairs bathroom. Stared at her reflection in the mirror, as if she could see what was wrong with her, even if she couldn't feel it.

And there was blood. A trickle from her right nostril. Another from the corner of her lip. A streak across her forehead. Another across her cheekbone.

But there wasn't a single wound in sight. As if the blood had just appeared on her skin, with no reason or cause.

Or as if the wounds had already healed.

Chloe's mind shied away from that last thought, because it was too ridiculous to even think about. Instead, she latched onto another.

"I have to call…someone."

Because that's what you did when something like this happened. You called someone and got help, and maybe they could explain things to you.

Once the idea took route, every other thought sort of faded away. On automatic pilot, she left the bathroom and went to the kitchen. Picking up the receiver, she ran through the list of people she could call. Her father. Or Clark.

She glanced at the clock. School was out. And Clark could be here way before her father.

Or maybe she should call 911. That made more sense. She'd had an accident. This was a medical emergency. Sort of.

As the hum of the dial tone filled the kitchen, she tried to decide. And that's when reality slammed into her like a mack truck.

What was she going to say?

I had an accident. I really bad accident…I fell down a flight of stairs…Well, I know I was hurt pretty bad. I mean, my neck broke and everything. I heard it…No, no. I'm fine now. There's not a scratch on me. I mean, there's blood, and I'm pretty sure it's mine. But, other than that, I'm fine…How? I d-don't really…

They'd think she was lying. That she was a troubled teen who made up some pathetic story to get attention. Not like it hadn't happened before. She'd written about stuff like that in The Torch.

Or they'd think she was on drugs. That she'd popped, snorted, or injected something and imagined the entire thing. She'd written about stuff like that, too.

Or they'd think…that she was telling the truth.

And, suddenly, that last seemed like the worst of all. Because she was thinking of the Wall of Weird. And how falling down the stairs and having nothing but a bunch of broken nails to show for it definitely qualified.

And how she wanted to write about the news, not be it.

Slowly, Chloe hung up the 'phone. For one long moment, her mind was numb and she couldn't think anything. Then, she was thinking a thousand thoughts at once, each running around in circles, too fast to catch.

What happened?

What was she going to do?

With everything going on in her head, she didn't have time to realize her cold was gone.



(TO BE CONTINUED)