NOT MYSELF
![f0020-01](https://article-imgs.scribdassets.com/9u2k9yacsg9f38fg/images/file1ITUZU73.jpg)
![f0020-02](https://article-imgs.scribdassets.com/9u2k9yacsg9f38fg/images/file9CMH37LF.jpg)
![f0020-04](https://article-imgs.scribdassets.com/9u2k9yacsg9f38fg/images/fileH95XF3Q0.jpg)
![f0020-03](https://article-imgs.scribdassets.com/9u2k9yacsg9f38fg/images/fileVSC0D9SI.jpg)
Fonto the sofa, I pointed the remote at the television. Flicking through TV channels, I sighed. What’s wrong with me? I thought, feeling miserable.
It was my day off from college, and I was home alone.
My mum Tracey, 46, and stepdad Tony, 46, were at work, and my 17-year-old brothers Samuel and Charlie were at school.
Normally I was so productive on my days off, but I just didn’t have any energy.
Maybe I’m coming down with the flu, I thought.
When Mum came home later in the afternoon, I was still vegged out on the sofa.
‘Are you alright?’ she said, feeling my forehead.
‘I don’t feel well,’ I said. ‘I just feel like I’ve been kicked in all of my joints.’
Mum frowned, and then I saw her focus in on my arm.
‘What’s that mark on your wrist?’
You’re reading a preview, subscribe to read more.
Start your free 30 days