When I open my eyes the morning of my eighteenth birthday, I can't help but to gasp for air. I am not soaking wet like I had strangely expected, I am dry and warm in my own bed—in my own beige bedroom. I take a look around to find that everything is as I left them last night before I went to bed.
I have the faintest memory of blue eyes, though—eyes as blue as the sea. What the hell?
I look around to see if someone else is in the room with me but, with an odd pang of disappointment, I realise that I am alone.
The baby pink satin sleeping gown that I put on after my shower last night is bunched up to my stomach. Sweat trickled down my back and forehead.
The room is dimly lit, the light from the moon washing all the colours in my room to shades of grey. I get up from my bed and gasp as my feet touch the cold marble floor. This is why I keep arguing with my mother to install wood flooring instead of marble—of course, I obviously keep losing our argument.
