Senses filling with pain.
Gradually drifting into consciousness, my clouded gaze fixed unsteadily onto the alien horizon before me. Masses of young people stood in unison, preoccupied with deafening ‘music’ but they were facing away, oblivious to me; I was alone. In a rash attempt to stand, I placed my rough, blistered hands on the soil of the ground and pushed up desperately. I fell rapidly to the floor and released a cry of pain.

  An unbearable sensation was released from my pelvis. It was broken. In agony, desperation and helplessness, I began to wail uncontrollably. I felt like a child who could not find his parents.  The music was too loud; I could not be heard. The crowd were facing the stage; I could not be seen. I was all alone and I could not be helped. I felt my hips, attempting to recognise the amount of damage. My sore fingers ungracefully slid across remarkable amounts of swelling and unnatural bony lumps on my pelvis (majority, the right side). This was severe.

  My squinted hazel eyes searched the surroundings, glancing at anything – everything – in hope of an idea to aid me in my distressing situation. I saw a youth dressed in black Wellington boots and a denim miniskirt stroll by, but she was preoccupied and did not notice me. I saw an army of: port-a-loos, multicoloured bins, speakers everywhere, a ground of dirt, a crowd of thousands and a large banner on a pole above. Yes! A banner which helped me realise exactly where I lay.
Glastonbury! I was at Glastonbury festival!  The concept was familiar – me being at this festival – but I couldn’t remember why. Why was I here? Who was I with? How did I get into such agony?

  Approaching at an alarming pace was a male about twenty years of age and with a striking, recognisable face.

  “James! James, dude, oh my …” screeched this guy as he was sprinting across the field, dodging three people sitting in a ridiculous space, his eyes fixed on me alone. I was longing to remember him, my mind tormenting me by placing his name on the tip of my tongue. I couldn’t think as the pain was worsening.
‘Aaron? No, it wasn’t that. Alex?  No – hurry, he’s running over. Adam? It was Adam!’
 Memories of him returned to me like a computer eventually opening a file. I had ventured to Glastonbury with Adam. I had been playing with fire on the –
Adam was kneeling beside my injury, struggling to look at me and possessed with shock.
 “James, what happened? I’m so sorry man. Oh crap.”
“Get … help! Go!” I shouted trough gritted teeth.
“I will, you’ll be fine James.”  He darted toward the crowd, searching frantically, for help and leaving me, once again, alone. 

  I started to regain memory and recall patchily what happened as I lay forward waiting for assistance. We (Adam and I) hands planned far in advance that we would go to Glastonbury festival this year and so far, it had been a very memorable experience but today, I strolled away from the stage entertainment -  I’m not much of an Amy Winehouse fanatic – and lit a cigarette with Adam, far away from any people.

   I had slept very little the night before as my tent was thin and uncomfortable; the rain was heavy and constant. My tiredness was now beginning to be difficult to control. Adam turned back to get nearer to the stage and I, with my eyelids turning to the weight of lead, began to fiddle with my alight cigarette, subconsciously. Suddenly asleep and with the burning substance in my hand I was blistering and smouldering. Aware of the pain, I awoke rapidly, dropped the cigarette and jumped back. I must have landed on something unsteady as I fell ungracefully to the floor, landing on my pelvis.

  Adam appeared after a few minutes with a couple of young, nervous paramedics. They lifted me steadily onto a stretcher and carted me away to hospital. My healing process was slow. Whenever I feel the uneven skin on my pelvis now, I almost certainly remember the fear and helplessness I felt at Glastonbury.

  You’ll never catch me sleepy and obeying the demands of a cigarette at Glastonbury again.