The Accident

There was rain on the cobblestone, that much she could remember. It was dark and the streetlamp flickered above her head. She remembered feeling like she was in an expertly executed practical joke that made her feel as though she were in a real life horror movie. The rain splatted on her forehead as she looked up to see any indication as to where she was.

"I don't remember this street," she mumbled quietly to herself. She had ended up on the corner of Sherwood and Mulberry; funny, she thought, pushing her bangs out of her face, what are the odds?

The lights on either street seemed to be poorly lit and in need of a bulb replacement. Typical of the city, though, they never put the money where it should go. Instead they build more skyscrapers and make people feel like they're stuck in a box. And the higher the skyscrapers scrape, the deeper into the ground they feel. By erecting what they believe to be success, they are slowly digging the citizens into a grave of prosperity and economic growth.

Sell, sell, sell. Buy, buy, buy. Crunch those numbers and crunch those abs. Because when the city finally throws the dirt over our eyes, we want to make sure we leave a beautiful corpse.

Her shoes had soaked in the rain and her feet began to feel the prickling feeling of the cold. How could this have happened? She had been walking home from Quinn's; the same way she always did. The way with all the lights and where people say 'Good evening!' in the cheeriest way one could. Where people walk their dogs and children go up to the dogs and pet them on their little dog heads. And the dogs' tails wag and they'll lick the child in the face and everyone has a good laugh over it. Where people still push prams while discussing what they'll be having for dinner. Where a young couple will look about before stealing a kiss underneath the brightly shining streetlamp.

But here, she looked around again; how did she end up here? The buildings were boarded up and spraypainted with 'Fuck You' or 'Get Fucked' or 'I Am Lord Voldemort'. She chuckled at the last one, at least people weren't completely out of the social loop in this end of town. Sherwood, she thought to herself, how could she not know where she was? She had just been walking.

The tap-tap-tap of foreign shoes interrupted her thoughts.

"Miss?" he spoke quietly. "Miss, you seem to be lost."

"I am," she scratched at the back of her hand. "I need to know how to get home from here."

"But you are home," he smiled, his dark hair stuck to his scalp with gel. "Can't you see it?"

"You're on the corner of Mulberry and Sherwood-"

"Yes," she nodded. "This is not my home. I live on Dorian Street."

The man chuckled and wiped at his mouth. "You've certainly grown up since your last visit here, haven't you?"

"I've never been here," she stressed. "I'm lost and I just want to get home."

"But you are home," he smiled, pointing at the sign. "Don't you recognize this at all?"

She paused and looked up at the sign. "I just want to go home."

"I'm afraid you're stuck here until you can make your way back," the man in the coat sighed. "You're going to be searching for quite some time. And I'm sorry that it happened to you."

He hiked up the collar of his coat and began to walk away. "Don't worry, sweetheart, you'll get home. People like you always do."