The sun is bright and it hurts my eyes, my body, my everything. I have to close my eyes, and turn my head away to block out the blinding light. There's a loud thumping in my ears that I am very much aware of, despite the pain of the sun.
Is that my heart beating?
There is a tree above me with great, thick, heavy arms that stretch up towards the sky. The branches move in the wind, causing the sunlight that streams through the leaves to shift and turn. Like a kaleidoscope, I think, my mind taking me back years and years to a childhood toy that I had happily spent hours playing with in my backyard. I can remember calling it my Other World, and it had been a place that I longed to visit as a child, if only I could just figure out how to open the door. The colors were bright and chaotic, and I assumed that in my Other World, everything was perfect and nothing was ever wrong. I had been devastated when my younger brother broke open the plastic tube, and the portal to my Other World turned out to be nothing more than a bunch of shiny sequins and rhinestones that could fit in the palm of my hand. How was it fair that my Other World turned out to be nothing in the end?
There is a shrill ringing that drowns out both the beating of my heart and all of the other noise around me. I wince at the harsh intrusion, as if shifting away would make the deafening screech go away. It is all I can hear, an all encompassing screech that worms itself into my brain and takes over all of my other senses. I try to move my hand, to block out the sunlight, to claw out the powerful squeal of white noise that's overwhelming me, but I can't move. Why can't I move? Am I dead? Blackness descends upon me before I can do much more, and everything is still and blessedly quiet once again.
The next time I regain consciousness, the ringing in my ears has lessened slightly. I'm able to turn my head to the left to see a field of wild grass, rippling in the wind. It's almost surreal, actually—to be so aware of the agonizing pain rippling down over my body, and then to shift the slightest bit and see the calm and peaceful breeze dancing in the weeds. And I become aware of the fact that someone is screaming, screaming at the top of their lungs. It's a savage, brutal scream that comes from deep within, though the voice is strained and breaking beneath the agony of intense pain. The voice breaks and cracks, and ends in a pathetic sob.
The brief idea that this must be another survivor of the plane crash flits across my mind like a soft whisper, and I latch on to the idea like a drowning man. It's a survivor. It's a survivor. There's another survivor. It takes massive amounts of effort to turn on to my side. The only thing running through my mind is that I have to reach the other person. If I can make it to them, we can figure out what happened. We can regroup. We can go home. We can see our families again. We can forget any of this ever happened.
But all of that leaves my mind once I become aware of an agonizing pressure that's situated in my abdomen area. It's almost as if something heavy is sitting on my stomach and stealing the very breath from my lungs. A cry slips out, and instinctively I curl around the pain, my one hand braced against my belly, as if that would counteract the intense heaviness. My breathing is hard and fast, rattling in my throat as I struggle to continue moving. And when I bring my hand away, it's bright red and sticky with blood. My blood, my mind whispers, and that's when the realization that I'm going to die hits me so intensely, that I nearly forget to continue breathing. I'm going to die. I'm going to die alone and in agony in this field in the middle of god knows where. Will my family ever know what happened to me?
When the pain sets in, it's almost a relief in a strange sort of way. Later, I'll be able to look back on this moment and realize that it was probably shock that kept the pain away initially. But for now, it's like I welcome the throbbing wave of excruciating brutality that slams into me, and I slip into unconsciousness for the second time. My world fades into black, and for the moment, the agony disappears into nothingness and I'm able to sleep.
The third time that the world comes into focus, I am again aware of someone screaming in animalistic agony, though it is considerably weaker than it was previously. Maybe it's me screaming. Maybe I'm the one making all of the noise. I'm all alone. There's no one else here with me in this field. I have to work quickly to swallow the hysterical sob that wells up in my throat. The pain in my stomach is still all encompassing, coming and going in waves and somewhere in the back of my mind, I realize that I am most likely losing a lot of blood. I won't last much longer if the bleeding continues.
There's a noise to my left, and I'm able to again turn my head in time to see an elderly man come crashing through the brush. He's brandishing both a staff and a sword, though he lowers the both of them once he spies me on the ground. He rushes forward, and drops to his knees by my side. "My dear," His voice is gentle, though I do take note of the fact that his blue eyes widen once he catches sight of the wound on my stomach.
I haven't even seen the state that I'm in, though it can't be too good, judging by his reaction. "Please," I whisper in a rough voice that I don't recognize as my own. "Help me."
He nods and then makes a move to stand back up, but stops when I grasp at his hand and he turns to look back at me. I open my mouth to speak, but there are no words that come out. My lurch forward to grab at him has jolted my entire body, and dizzying waves of pain are slamming into me. The corners of my vision are rippling and I can sense the darkness creeping back into my sight. There is a strangled gasp that slips out, and then I black out for the third time.
The next few snatches of consciousness that I have are jumbled and confusing. I am aware of being cradled close to someone's body, and we're moving rapidly with the sound of stampeding hooves in the background. The elderly man's face floats above me, and he's speaking to me, though I'm not able to make out the words. The next thing I see is the face of a young boy with a crown of unruly blonde curls peering down at me with a concerned look on his face. He also talks to me, and I think I'm able to say something back to him. But the old man has begun peeling away my jacket and shirt from my stomach, and my agonized screaming is cut off as the boy holds something up under my nose and I fall back into unconsciousness.
Honestly, this is getting a bit ridiculous with me fainting all over the place. If it weren't me in this position, I'd be a bit irritated with all of the swooning. My life isn't a 1920's black and white film, starring me in the lead heroine's role.
Everything that follows after is a slurry blur on my consciousness. I am aware of a woman with dark curls falling into her eyes leaning over me. She has a soothing, quiet voice, though she tuts a lot as she works. The curls clustered on the top of her head bounce as she moves, and I'm mesmerized by the ringlets that slip out from beneath her head wrap. I think she's a doctor, because she brings with her some sort of relief in the form of a numbing paste on my lower abdomen and I am aware of her brandishing massive swatches of clean white bandages. She slips in and out of focus as I hover in and out of consciousness.
There is some part of me that realizes that the situation that I've found myself in is a bad one. I think, deep down, I am aware of just how serious the injuries I've sustained in the plane crash truly are, but there's another part of me that doesn't seem to want to focus on that. Everything is a whimsical smear across my subconscious, and all I seem to want to direct my attention towards is my family, towards the Christmas traditions that we should be celebrating together, to strangely enough, my father. It's his face that comes to the front of my mind, and I have never wanted anything more in my life than to be able to wrap my arms around his neck and feel his scratchy beard against my cheek. I just want my dad.
When I finally rise up out of the fog that seems to have encased my entire body since the accident, the first thing that I hear is a bird chirping. It's almost ridiculous, the juxtaposition between the cheerful tweeting and the pain that seems to have accompanied me since my seat mate was ripped away from me and I slammed my head into the window. If I were in a better mood, I might have laughed at what is surely the most bewildered look on my face. But instead I inhale deeply, like I've surfaced from a long, cold swim and this is my first opportunity for oxygen, for air, for life.
My body is sore, though as I take a tentative breath, I realize that the pain that has accompanied me since I woke in the field has lessened considerably. Experimentally I move my toes and my feet, and then shift my legs before I flex my fingers and move my head around on the soft pillow. Everything seems to be in working order. I'm still aching, and my right arm is wrapped up tightly in white bandages and bound to my chest. Judging by the pressure on my right leg, I also have a cast of some sorts down there. My abdomen hurts the most, though that isn't really much of a surprise. If my memory serves me correctly, there was a lot of blood and I'm sure I had to have stitches to close up the gaping wound.
I'm sure that I should be more concerned with my wounds, but at the moment, all I want is another human being to tell me what's going on. I want to know where the hell I am, and what happened to my plane. I want to see my dad walk through those doors, and to get a hug from my mother and to smell her familiar perfume. I want to know that everything is going to be okay, because right now, I feel like I'm going insane. How much pain can one person withstand before the human body just gives up?
I'm in a small wooden bed with great, big, pillows behind my head and a neat brown and orange quilt tucked tightly around my body. To my left is a wooden nightstand with a pitcher and a towel sitting on a delicate lace doily. There's a three-shelf bookshelf just beyond that with many books carefully arranged. The window next to it is open and covered in a white, filmy curtain that moves ever so slightly in the breeze. I can still hear birds chirping outside in the sunshine.
There's a wooden desk with a chair tucked beneath it neatly, and I can see a candle sitting on top. To my surprise, the duffel bag that I'd brought on board the plane is sitting on the floor, alongside both my purse and the rolling suitcase that I specifically remember tucking into the overhead bin. My luggage doesn't look any worse for the wear, though there is a considerable amount of dirt on it.
As soon as I realize that my things are sitting only a few feet away from me, the realization that my cell phone should be in my purse slams into me. If I can get to my phone, I can call my parents and let them know that I'm okay. Surely they must know of the plane crash by now, and they're probably frantic with worry. I can call them, and let them know that I'm alive, and they will be by my side as fast as they possibly can.
Spurned on at the idea of hearing my father's voice again, especially when I'd been convinced earlier that I would never hear it again, is enough to get me to move. I use my good arm to push the blanket and sheet away from my body. I spare a fleeting glance at the stiff bandages wrapped around my right ankle and leg before I swing my legs over the mattress and prepare to stand. I reach forward, using the edge of the nightstand as leverage while I haul myself up to my feet.
But as soon as my weight settles down on my legs, I scream at the pain that races up my legs and I fall backwards onto the bed. Immediately I am aware that screaming was a poor choice, as my throat is sore and raw, and the deep inhalation leaves my sides tingling and angry.
Someone clears their throat, and I turn my head to see an elderly man standing in the doorway. We make awkward eye contact for a few seconds before he comes further into the room.
"Good morning," He greets me, crossing his arms behind his back and nodding at me. "Or I guess I should say afternoon, as we're well past the lunch hour." When I don't say anything, he moves further into the room and continues talking to me. I watch in bewilderment as he continues packing the bowl of his pipe with practiced ease. "It is the thirteenth day of Solmath," His tone of voice is light and breezy, as if he doesn't have a care in the world as he brings out a match and lights the pipe. "A Trewsday, as it were—not the warmest of days, but also not the coldest day that I've experienced. And I have experienced quite a few cold days in my time," He finishes up with a small smile before he begins to smoke his pipe contentedly.
I watch as he waves away the lingering wisps of pipe smoke away from the frilly white curtains before he shuts the window and makes a big show of stowing his long pipe back somewhere in the massive overcoat that he's wearing. He's an older gentleman—the one who found me in the field, actually, now that I think about it. He has wild gray hair that is smoothed back away from his face and hangs to just below his shoulders. He has a long beard, one that looks as if it would be able to be tucked into his belt if he really wanted to do so. Perhaps strangest of all, he's wearing a shabby looking overcoat, also gray, that skims the floor as he moves. It's bizarre; it's as if he is all one color… different shades of gray, but all gray just the same.
"You have had quite an eventful few days," He speaks in a deep rumbling tone that reminds me of an uncle of mine from long ago. He folds his hands neatly, and his gaping sleeves fall over his fingers. "How do you feel?"
I open my mouth to speak, but my throat revolts at the very idea. I choke on the air and swallow, desperate to get any sort of moisture back into my mouth. A strangled noise slips out, and I wince. The disuse of the past few days combined with the trauma that I've surely inflicted upon my throat by screaming at the top of my lungs has left my throat tender and raw.
To his credit, the older man moves to the bedside table and pours a cup of water from the pitcher before he helps me sit up in the bed. I accept the water with a grunt of thanks before I start to drink, the water brimming up and over the lip of the cup and running down my chin as I gulp thirstily. I finish it off with a gasp of air, and he takes the cup back from me before he silently refills it and hands it back to me.
My drinking this time is a little bit more dignified. I finish off the water and then use the back of my good hand to wipe off my chin. I awkwardly hold the cup in my bandaged hand before he plucks it from me and sets it back on the nightstand. I watch as he gather his overcoat about him in both hands and settles down in a simple wooden chair and then surveys me with wide, blue eyes that seem unnervingly knowing.
"Parched throat aside, how do you feel?" He asks again, those eyes twinkling merrily at me.
I clear my throat and shrug, before I immediately regret that action. Pain races down the left side of my neck and grips at my shoulder. My left arm is bundled up heavily in white bandages and strapped to my chest so tightly that I can barely move my arm. I catch sight of the tips of my fingers in the sling, and I'm a bit taken aback to see that they're swollen and bruised.
I realize that the man is still waiting for my answer, so I tear my gaze away from my injured arm and look back at him. "Sore," I mumble, my voice rough and broken. I can feel the skin on my lips, cracked and dry. "Where am I?"
"The Shire, more specifically at a place called Bag End," He rumbles, leaning back in his chair. The wood creaks beneath his weight, as if the chair were made for someone much smaller—not that he is a large man, by any means. He's wiry, and tall, but certainly not big. His knees nearly come up to his chest with the way that he's sitting. "You've been here for nearly a week and a half now, although this is the first time you've seen fit to regain consciousness for longer than a few seconds."
"I've not heard of Bag End Hospital," I murmur, more to myself than anything else.
My heart is pounding in my chest as I struggle to come to terms with the fact that I've lost a week and a half of my life. My parents must be going insane; has anyone been able to tell them anything? Has the cause of the plane crash been figured out yet? God, my job—Amy is probably going ballistic! I was only meant to be gone for three days. One of them was a holiday, so I was really only going to miss two shows. But now, now I've missed… what, six or seven shows? My understudy has probably gone mental. Do I even have a job anymore? What will I do for money now? I can't live in New York without a source of income.
"There, there," That voice creeps back into my conscious, and a light touch at my knee brings me back to reality.
I'm surprised to realize that I'm crying. I use my good hand to wipe away any trace of my tears before I look back at him with watery eyes. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm crying exactly."
"Oh," He dismisses my words carelessly with a wave of his hand. "You've been unconscious for nearly 11 days. I've cried over less, believe me. To wake up in an unfamiliar area surrounded by strangers would be a touch frightening to anyone, I'd imagine."
"Is it that obvious?" I ask just as we both hear the clatter of footsteps from outside of the room.
There's an exasperated groan, before the person in the hallway calls out. "Gandalf, have you been smoking indoors again? You know those are my mother's curtains, and I have worked too hard for too long to allow them to yellow like that. I simply won't allow it."
A small man appears in the doorway with a wild mop of blonde curls and an annoyed look on his face. His gaze slides effortlessly from my companion of the last few moments to me sitting in the bed, and he looks a bit startled to see me up and about. "Gandalf?"
"Bilbo, I've just been chatting with our guest here—" His voice trails off as they both turn to look at me expectantly.
"Mia," I speak up quickly. "I'm Mia Adams."
"I've just been chatting with Mia here about the time that she's spent here in Bag End. I certainly wouldn't smoke in front of a recovering woman, and I haven't seen anyone smoking. Have you, Mia?" The elderly gentleman turns to look at me with wide, innocent eyes, and I'm a bit surprised to see both of the men turn to me, one looking suspicious and the other looking far too mischievous for his own good.
I blink rapidly and then hold up my good hand in defense. "I—uh, I have not seen anyone smoking in here, either."
"She's already under your thumb, Gandalf." The shorter man snorts before he stomps over to the window and flings it open. "And do you think me stupid? I can smell the pipe-weed all the way in the kitchen—best nose in the Shire, and you insult me with that line."
"This is our generous and humble host, Bilbo Baggins. It is his house that we have taken over for the last few days," Gandalf murmurs out of the corner of his mouth as we both watch Bilbo use a lace doily to fan out the air in the room. "He has been most gracious in allowing us to stay—"
"As if you gave me much choice!" Bilbo sniffs, snapping the doily twice more before he replaces it on the shelf. He pulls the window shut, before he launches into what sounds like a well-rehearsed speech. "You show up on my doorstep in the middle of the night—"
"It was hardly night, Bilbo. I believe it was just after afternoon tea," Gandalf replies in a bored voice, but the other man doesn't seem to hear him.
"—with a bloody woman in your arms, no less! She's barely breathing and has multiple broken limbs, and there were blood smears on my front gate. Like my home was the center of some-some sort of crime, and now the entire Shire won't stop talking about it. They think you're nothing but trouble, Gandalf, and-and rightly so, I should say." Bilbo exhales heavily and then crosses his arms over his chest resolutely. "I am sorry, but it had to be said. I'll have you know my family used to be one of the most respected families in all of Westfarthing until—"
"I'm sorry, a house? I'm in a house?" I interrupt, still a bit behind on the conversation. Both men have a strange lilt to their voices, and it makes it a bit difficult for me to follow along with their argument.
Bilbo barely spares me a second glance. "Of course you're in a house. Where else would you be?" He scoffs at me.
"I don't know, maybe a hospital?" I reply slowly, my mind racing as I go through several dozen different scenarios one after the other, after the other.
Have these people kidnapped me? Did they have something to do with the plane coming down? What do they want with me? Was I just collateral damage, or were they after something, or someone, specific on my flight? I don't have anything of importance to anyone. I'm just a girl from New York City with family from a small farming town in Indiana. I am nothing.
"Why didn't you take me to a hospital?" I turn accusingly to Gandalf. "If I was that injured, why didn't you take me to a hospital? Where am I?"
"You're in the Shire, more specifically Westfarthing. We are at Bag End, Bilbo Baggins' home," Gandalf replies slowly, studying me closely. "But I believe that this is a conversation that we've already had, Mia Adams."
Bilbo takes a step to the left, away from me and closer to Gandalf. "What is a hospital?"
"It's a place where sick and injured people go to get better. There are doctors and nurses with medicine—" I sputter to a stop once I realize just how ridiculous this conversation is. Who hasn't heard of a hospital? "What happened to my plane?"
Bilbo and Gandalf both share a look. "Plane?" Bilbo repeats slowly, dragging out the syllables of the word as if he'd never heard it before in his life.
Which is ridiculous, right?
"Yes," I snap, my vision clouding with tears as fear truly sets in. "A plane! An airplane on a direct flight from LaGuardia to Indianapolis International," My voice breaks, and I'm finding it rather difficult to catch my breath. "What the hell happened to my flight?"
"She's suffered a shock, a-a blow to the head," Bilbo shakes his head. In another life, I would laugh at how comical the curls look bouncing about his ears, but I can barely contain the panic that is clawing up my body and taking up residence in my brain. "A spot of tea will fix that right up. My mother always said that there wasn't much that a nice cup of tea couldn't fix. I-I'll be right back." He scuttles out of the room, his bare feet barely making any noise as he goes.
"I found you in a field," Gandalf answers abruptly, and so I blink confusedly up at him before I realize that he's answering my question. "Well, I heard you screaming more than anything. I was on my way to visit Bilbo here in the Shire, and I heard you. You were horrifically wounded," He nods at my battered body. "I brought you to a dear old friend's house. I'm an experienced healer, you see, but I was afraid that your injuries were beyond my skillset—in a field, at least. I was lacking in supplies. You were seen by Healer Took, and she placed you in a restful sleep until your body healed enough to awaken. And that brings us to here."
"But why not take me to a hospital?" I ask yet again. "I want to know why you didn't take me to a proper hospital. Have the authorities been notified? Do they even know that I'm alive?"
Gandalf makes a big show again of bringing his long pipe from out of his sleeve, and unearthing a leather pouch from some pocket. He pointedly ignores my questions, and takes his time in packing the bowl of his pipe before he procures what looks like an unnaturally long match. He sparks the taper, and then holds it to the pipe before he shakes the flame out, and inhales deeply. As he exhales, a heavy cloud of smoke forms and he absentmindedly waves away the tendrils before he seems to realize that Bilbo has once again shut the window.
He rises from the chair, comically large in this small room, and crosses the room before he pushes open the window. "I do not pretend to know the words that you speak," He rumbles in his deep voice, still staring at out the window. "You talk with a strange accent, one that I can't place. Where exactly are you from, my dear?"
"I was born and raised in Indiana," I reply quietly. "I moved to New York City to work four years ago. New York, New York—the city that never sleeps, the Big Apple? The-the United States of America, or-or President Barack Obama?"
He shakes his head at each word that I say, and I can feel the panic rearing back its ugly head. Surely this is a joke. This has to be a joke. Who hasn't heard of America? It has to be a prank of some sort. Maybe I've been signed up for some bizarre sort of reality show where they just prank unsuspecting people—like Punk'd, but for normal people. I can totally see Matt or Tony signing me up for this as a joke. That has to be it, right?
"Okay, so obviously there is a mixup of some sort," I begin slowly, doing my best to stomp down the hyperventilation that is currently brewing in my chest. "And-and I am in some sort of elaborate prank, because who hasn't heard of New York? And obviously your," I motion up and down at his gray robe. "Getup is what I am assuming kids these days call cosplay, because the dress is not practical for every day use, and—"
"I've brought tea," Bilbo announces, walking back into the room with a tray in his hands. He glances between the both of us before he sets the tray at the foot of my bed, looking quite proud of himself. "This should calm your nerves right down. How do you take your tea?"
"I-I don't know," I reply bewilderedly before I turn away. This time I can't stop the tears from welling up and over before they run down my cheeks. I make no move to wipe away the evidence of me crying, and before I can do much more, the hysteria that has been bubbling below the surface erupts completely. I am sobbing uncontrollably—great, big heaving gasps that start low in my belly and work their way up, wracking my body.
Bilbo is frozen at the end of the bed, looking distinctly uncomfortable with my show of emotion. He turns to Gandalf, his hands fluttering anxiously before he settles them in the pocket of his vest. "All of this over tea?"
"No," Gandalf shoots his friend an unimpressed look before he crosses the room and bends down over my bed. He touches my chin, and I instinctually turn. "Sleep now, Mia Adams. Tomorrow will be a new day." He touches the pad of his thumb firmly between my eyes before darkness washes over me, and all is finally still once again.
Bilbo watches in silence as Gandalf guides my unconscious form back onto the pillows and settles me back down before he speaks. "What would cause a person to become this injured, and then not to remember how it happened?"
"A number of things, I would think." Gandalf replies, turning away from the bed and picking his pipe back up. "And all of my ideas are just as absurd as the last."
Bilbo is clearly rattled, as he makes no mention of the fact that his friend is once again smoking next to his mother's curtains. "She uses words that, frankly, I don't understand, and I pride myself on being well-read, Gandalf. What are these places she talks about?"
"I do not know," Gandalf answers slowly, his voice thoughtful as he stares down at my sleeping body. "But it certainly is a curious mystery, wouldn't you agree?"
Bilbo stares at his friend in obvious disbelief before he throws his hands up in the air. Grumbling under his breath, he begins to gather together the tea things before he stomps from the room about supposed friends bringing strangers under his very roof in the dead of night, and what will the neighbors think of such atrocities, and how his father is spinning in his grave.
Gandalf remains in the room for a few moments more, thoughtfully puffing on his pipe before he makes a noise in the back of his throat and shakes his head. He eyes the still form in the bed once again before he turns on his heel and leaves the room.
Let me know what you think?
I'm excited to bring our cast of characters into play. I'm also really enjoying getting to know Mia- she's curiously fun to write.
xo.