Cracks by Caroline Green Read Free Book Online Page B

to do with after-effects of being in the coma. It’s an ache for what I thought was my life.
    I keep going over what I can remember but there’s nothing before the cracking ceiling in the boys’ toilets. I have a theory, though: I reckon this was when I was starting to wake up.
I’ve asked Cavendish for details about the crash again and how I got here but he keeps saying he has nothing more to tell me. I wonder about what happened all the time. Who was driving the
car? I must have had parents somewhere down the line. Did they love me, like proper parents? But if they did, how could they have let me stay here so long? Did they die in the car crash? And then I
start thinking about the dead donor boy and wondering who he was. I feel like he’s here, somewhere inside me, all the time. Which is pretty creepy and horrible when you think about it. Who
wants to have a dead person inside them, even if it is just a bit of bodily tissue?
    They bring me tablets but they make me feel sick and drowsy so I pretend to take them, hiding them between the mattress and the fitted sheet.
    One morning I wake up and I realise I’ve had enough of the pity party in my head. I need to do something. I stink, as much as anything. There’s a bathroom next door but I’ve
only used the toilet until now. I’ve been avoiding the round mirror above the sink, like it’s a portal that will take me somewhere bad. If I look like a different boy to the one I think
I am, I really will go nuts.
    I throw back the sheets before I can change my mind and march straight in there. Putting my hands on the sink with my head bent, I count to three . . . and force myself to look up.
    I make a little noise in my throat. My knees go and I slump forwards. I have to take deep breaths. Relief is melting all my bones to warm jelly. Once I’ve got a grip on myself, I look
again.
    Dirty blond sticky-out hair? Longer than normal, but check. Dark brown eyes? Check. Mole on right cheek? Check.
    So far, so me.
    I glance down quickly at my hand. I still have the birthmark: a small oval stain on my palm. I take off my musty pyjama top and check myself out properly. It’s weird, but I look like I
really have been training. I flex my fist and look at the sinewy ropes on my arm. I can’t make any sense of it, but I’m grateful. I probably need all the strength I’ve got right
now.
    I get into the shower. All the stuff they told me about comas and brain tissue makes me feel sort of itchy and dirty so I let the hot water run over me for ages, like I can wash away twelve
years of lies. A sudden thought makes me gasp, accidentally inhaling some water. How did I get clean before? Did they wash me? I want to punch a hole through the glass but I’m too busy
spluttering. It’s not just the water. The shower gel is so piney-strong it makes my nose ache and tickle. My old world is fading fast but I know it was never this brightly lit or as smelly as
the real world. It’s like my senses have woken up for the first time and are all doing overtime. Now I’m awake, that other world in my head feels like a faded old photo.
    After my shower, I find some clothes neatly folded on the bed. They look old but smell clean. I pull on a plain white T-shirt and some jeans that seem to be the right size. No shoes though and
that’s a pain. How do they expect me to go anywhere without shoes?
    Anyway, once dressed, I’m starving. I’ve only picked at the odd sandwich or bowl of cereal left in my room until now. I wasn’t hungry and my throat hurt. But suddenly I feel
like I could eat a scabby donkey if it came with fries. Some toast and jam has been left out for me. The toast is so toasty and the jam so jammy that the flavours make me dizzy. I can’t help
folding a whole piece into my mouth at once.
    ‘Steady there,’ says Beardy. I hadn’t noticed him come in. They all do that. None of them knock. ‘You might want to take that a bit slower.’
    I take a huge slurp of juice,