Just Me Again. This is my first story, hope you enjoy it. I counted the vibrations as my phone went off again, but ignored his call like I'd been doing for the past month. Instead, I let the answering machine take it. "Hey, Sarah, It's just me again. I know after everything that happened, I'm probably the last person you want to hear from. But I'm just calling to apologize. For... well, everything. It sure must hurt real bad, that cut on your head. Look, I know the accident was bad, and everything that's happened since then has been hell for you. But it was an accident. Please, just call me back, and I promise - " I threw my phone across the room and watched it hit the wall with a thud. It landed hard on the faded carpet, and I ran over to inspect the dent I'd made in my light purple wall. Seeing as it wasn't all that noticeable, I sat heavily on the floor and picked up my phone. That too, seemed to have suffered little damage. The screen was cracked a bit more since the accident, but other than that, it looked alright. I lay flat on my back and watched the shadows from the trees dance across my ceiling as they moved in the wind. Squeezing my eyes shut, I sat up. My head began to pound again and I touched the gash on my forehead tenderly, pulling it away as the familiar sting shot through the wound. The cut wasnt very wide, but it was long. It began in the middle of my forehead and trailed down in a straight line just above my eye. The doctors said i was a fourth of a centimeter away from losing that eye. A chill ran down my spine at the thought and i stood up quickly, trying to leave the whole memory on the floor. The blood rushed back to my head and my vision blurred a bit, so I stood completely still until I'd regained it. The pale darkness of the room gave everything an eerie glow. The neat black and grey bed sheets seemed darker than usual, and the mirror on the wall gave off an unsettling reflection. I walked over to it and gently traced its off white flower design on the outer edge with my finger. I'd gotten the mirror for my eighth birthday, along with the little white clock that sat on my desk in the far corner. My mother had bought it for me. She'd always had the best taste. She'd practically decorated my entire room for me since my last birthday, when she decided that 15 was a good age to let me choose my own little world to create. She bought me paint and new furniture and set boxes down in my room so I could pack away all her decor and put up my own. I didnt change a thing about that room. Instead, we used the paint to give the shed a little color. My mother and I spent all our weekends on that project, talkin about school and her job and getting paint all over every white t shirt we wore. By the time we were finished the entire shed, it had become our own little masterpiece. The outside was a light blue color that reminded me of the ocean and my mother's eyes. The trim was a pale shade of white, and the interior was grey. I remember how warm that day was as we stood back in our enormous white t shirts and dropped our paintbrushes to admire our work of art. "Alright, she said. What's next." By the time we'd run out of paint, we'd painted the dining room blue, my mother's room a gentle rose color, and the picket fence white. So we celebrated with lemonade on the back porch. I remember looking at my mother and admiring her ocean blue eyes and short blonde hair. She looked thinner than usual, somehow. The wrinkles in her face were slightly deeper than I'd remembered. To me, my mother wasn't an old woman. She was lively and independent and healthy. She was also my best friend. But that was all before the accident. Continue?