Everything is white. White with a lot of mist. Like a movie set in heaven, without the budget for a proper set. Maybe this is a dream, maybe it’s my imagination, but the pain in my eyes is very real. There's just too much light. It’s inescapable. Even closing my eyes doesn’t help. Long sharp needles stab right through my eyelids to the back of my skull. I can only sit down, press my head between my knees and wait.
It seems to take hours before the light slowly subsides to a tolerable level and when I finally dare to open my eyes, I find myself back at our school, right at the edge of the square. At least, I think it is. The iron fence that should enclose it is noticeably missing, and the tree in the middle appears neither as large nor as dark as I remember. It’s uncharacteristically quiet: not a sound, not even the usual 24/7 murmur from the surrounding neighborhood. Everyone must have gone to bed.
Only when I scan the square a second time do I finally notice an old laceless sneaker dangling from a delicate foot, peeking out from jeans with heavily frayed edges, adorned with colorful patches. The rest of the girl is obscured by a boy with thick curly hair, wearing an old army jacket, covered in stickers. He leans forward in a clumsy attempt to kiss her. She playfully fends him off, whispering something in his ear. He quickly glances over his shoulder to check if anyone is watching. My heart skips a beat, fearing he will spot me, but even if he looks right at me, he doesn’t seem to notice me. And then, my jaw drops.
I would recognize my father everywhere and at any age. Even with that enormous amount of hair, that ridiculous moustache, that wild unkempt pirate beard and those ludicrous hippy clothes. The biggest shock, however, is his legs. I’ve never seen them out of a wheelchair. It’s devastating to see that he once was whole and young and in love and…
The girl peeks around his shoulder now, and once again, it feels like a slap in the face. I’m looking at myself. Despite her long hair and colorful hippy makeup, she’s my spitting image. Finally, I understand why some people call me pretty, something I invariably shrug off or sabotage, as I neither wish to be beautiful nor see myself that way. I don’t need the burden of it. However, as I look at the young girl, cradled in the arms of the hippie boy, I realize that my denial is only wafer-thin and superficial—a choice more than anything else.
Suddenly, I realize that, unlike my father, my mother does see me. She looks at me, wide-eyed and bewildered but then the shock of recognition slowly gives way to a radiant smile of recognition. I shiver, but not from the cold.
An uncontrollable urge to walk up to her and bury myself in her arms wells up within me, even though she’s not much older than I am. I want it so much that it hurts. I’ve missed her so deeply. I have so many questions, so many things I need to know.
But then, she loses focus, turns back to the boy, as if I were never there, and answers his kiss for the first time. The blinding light returns in full force, washing out everything around. My head throbs, my skin itches, and my eyes water. I lose all sense of direction. And then I fall.