My eyes sliver open and I see my delusions have surpassed the auditory stage and entered the physical plane. Wow. You know your brain damage is pretty freaking serious when you’re imagining a petite fairy princess verbally berating you while jostling your shoulders.
“Finally! I was beginning to think you were dead,” she hisses, her eyes locking on mine. The shaking stops momentarily. “Come on. Move your ass!”
I must say I’m surprised. I figured if my damaged psyche were able to conjure up anyone after twenty-four hours alone in a basement without food or water or use of a bathroom facility, it’d be Nate. Not a foul-mouthed pixie with navy eyes and a seriously great head of unruly blonde hair, currently pulled back in a high ponytail. Bitch could be a Disney Princess, with hair like that.
A fairy godmother, come to save me. How quaint.
“What are you supposed to be? Tinkerbell?” I mutter at my disturbingly vivid delusion, moaning as pain crashes through my head in a wave. “Ow. Crap on a sesame seed bun, that hurts.”
“Keep it down!” She shakes me again. “Jesus, do you want to get caught?”
I shoot her a skeptical look. “Fairy godmothers are supposed to be round, old, and kind. You are none of those things. You don’t even have a wand,” I inform her, albeit in a quieter tone. “This is my hallucination. Where is your freaking wand? And why are you in jeans and a hoodie? I’m pretty sure fairy godmothers wear magic cloaks and stuff.”
Her eyes narrow on me. “I can’t decide if you’re brain damaged or just plain stupid. Frankly, even if we had the time to figure it out —spoiler alert: we don’t — I wouldn’t give a shit.” She grabs my hands and pulls me from the chair in a surprising show of strength for such a tiny thing. “Now let’s go, you cotton-headed ninny muggins, before I change my mind and let you rot down here.”
“Was that an Elf reference?” I ask, feeling some of the haze clear from my brain when I’m back on my own two feet. It’s only then I notice the bonds are gone from my rubbed-raw wrists and ankles. Tink must’ve removed them.
Her eyes cut to mine. “So?”
I shrug, swaying a little. Whoa. Woozy. “I mean… I’m just surprised. You say fuck a lot.”
“So?” she repeats, impatience saturating her tone.
“So, people who say fuck a lot don’t usually quote children’s movies.”
“I’m a classy bitch who happens to enjoy cursing and kid’s flicks. You can ruminate on it later. But right now…” She starts pushing me toward the back of the basement. “You need to fucking move your fucking ass before Mac’s boys get back or you will be dead fucking meat. Comprende, chica?”
“I never took Spanish, actually. My boarding school encouraged everyone to take Latin, said we’d do better on the SATs if—”
“Just shut the fuck up and follow me.” She starts moving along the wall, into the pitch black. “Christ, it was way easier to convince myself to help you when you were unconscious.”
My lips snap shut. Not because of what she said, but because at some point in the past minute I’ve realized I am not, in fact, delusional or brain damaged. (Well, maybe a little…) Point is, Tinkerbell isn’t some figment of my imagination.
She’s actually here. Alive. Real. And currently saving my ass.
Crap on challah, hold the mayo.
“The stairs are the other way,” I call quietly, when I realize she’s moving away from our only escape route.
“There’s a storm entrance in the back. The door jams but if you’re small enough, you can wiggle through. Perks of being petite.”
“How do you know?” I ask, voice cracking. God, my throat is dry.
“Because that’s the way I got in here, genius.”
“But how did you even know I was here?”
“Are you reenacting the Spanish Inquisition? Enough with the questions.” Her voice is moving farther away by the second. “And FYI, I’m not waiting for you. So unless you want to stay down here alone…”
She trails off. With no other choice, I follow her into the dark. We move quietly through the vast space, trying not to trip over stacked boxes and broken furniture. It’s slow going.