Perspective changes everything...
Ba-Dump. The bus has rolled over another speed bump causing the passengers to rise and fall in their seats.
Jostled out of my sleep I began to scream in panic. What had happened to my warm bed? Why are my arms and legs trapped? My face is cold. My mouth hurts. Shooting pains are in my mouth.
“Shhhhh” My mother whispered. “It’s okay. Shhh. It was just a wittle bump on the bus.”
Reassured, I quietened down. The cold on my face was still a shock. The windows of the bus were frosted; crude finger drawings remained imprinted in the glass next to a smiley face. What a strange thing to draw, I thought. I wonder if my face is frosted too.
While I wondered, I battled with the blanked trying to free one of my arms. Clawing the sides of the warm fluff. Reaching up my clothes. Touching the end of the blanket. Nearly there. Just one last push. Smack! I just hit myself in the mouth with the brutal force of my squishy hand. Wait. My hand isn’t squishy! Too shocked to cry I looked at my hand. It wasn’t my hand at all. It was round and blue. I flexed my fingers and realised that my hand was trapped in this blue shell.
More than annoyed I began to throw my hand up and down, up and down and up and down until the thing came off. Smack! The blue shell that was on my hand hit the lady in front of us. She turned instantly, her face scornful, enraged at whatever had struck her in the back of her head. I whimpered whilst my eyes widened in fear.
“Oh, I’m so sorry! Are you okay?” My mother asked sincerely.
Surprisingly the lady replied with a smile.
“Oh, that’s okay dear. I know what they’re like. What an adorable little face! Did your wittle hand get coldy woldy? N’awwh aren’t you a cutie!” She handed my mother the evil blue hand trap and turned to face the front again.
With my free hand I touched my face to feel the coldness. Warm. I stretched and tried to reach the frosted window. No luck, it was too far away. If only I wasn’t stuck in this awful blanket. Squirming to reach the window I bent my body up and down, wiggled it left to right and pushed my face towards the glass. I hoped that my mother would understand. I looked up at her, hopeful. She shuffled closer to the window. Yes I was in reach! I stretched my hand to the frosty window. It felt wet, and cold, but not frozen. With every line I drew in the window a ripple of wet drops fell attaching itself to another drop, then another and then another. It was fun! Soon there was no more frost left on the window and I withdrew my hand. It was cold now. I touched my mouth only to bounce backwards from my surprisingly cold wet hand.
My mouth still hurts. I scream