His Silent Love

Akari

Are memories dreams, or are dreams memories? What is the definition of dreaming? Is it learning to hope with your eyes closed? Fantasizing unconsciously? Loving knowing that none of it matters because it’s all in your head?

Can memories be reborn in the absence of thought? Can knowing something isn’t real still make it feel like it might be? Can you live knowing you don’t remember any of your past life? So I ask again, are memories dreams, or are dreams memories? How many dreams does it take to rebuild a life lost to the wind? How many memories does it take to construct a person?

My ears become aware of the incessant beat of my heart. It’s like an alarm in my head I can’t ignore. Who knew my heart could be so loud?

Piercing light assaults my eyelids, and I am half afraid to open them.

Nausea swims through my stomach so violently that I think I might throw up this instant. It wanes enough for me to focus on other things.

Something sharp and sterile fills my nose. It smells like alcohol and cleaning products. The air is dry and clean and so, so wrong. My fingers twitch against rough blankets beneath my skin. A swell of panic arises in my chest, and I try to think of why I’m panicking.

I run my left hand across my eyes, but when I try to bring my right hand up to do the same, I meet resistance. My head whips down and I open my eyes to the sight of an IV protruding from my hand, tape keeping the thin tubing in place.

Why do I have an IV?

Voices filter in my head, but I can’t make out the words. There are people in this room, I realize with a sudden jolt.

I rack my brain, trying to think of… Anything. Anything… Anything… Anything…

Nothing but a pounding head greets me.

Why isn’t anything coming? I don’t remember what happened, and I don’t remember what happened before that. Why don’t I remember?

The harder I think the further the thoughts fade until distant, stale air is all that’s left. Panic crawls up my throat until I’m sure I’ll throw up.

White walls. Loud machinery. People trying to get my attention. The scent of disinfecting spray. A window with the blinds halfway up.

A hospital.

I’m in a hospital.

Why am I in a hospital?

My heart thuds louder, panic scratching up my chest and seeping into my bones. I can’t bring coherent thoughts to go out of my mouth. I don’t know what to say or what to think.

Fingers brush my arm and I jerk away so violently I almost fall off the other side of the bed.

I look up into a pair of brown eyes. Her features are soft and concerned. Her mouth is moving, and it takes a monumental amount of effort to distinguish what she’s saying.

“…okay, sweetheart,” her gentle voice sounds. “You were in an accident, but everything is okay now.”

I blink against the harsh lighting as my thoughts spiral.

Accident?

Someone brushes my leg, and I whip my head to the end of the bed to see a man, his gaze concerned but…relieved?

“How do you feel, hun?”

Hun?

Does this man know me?

Do I know him?

I squeeze my eyes shut as questions and thoughts spiral through me in a wave so harsh my body aches.

“I j-ust need…” I push past the pain in my dry throat. “I just need space, please.”

A woman in scrubs checks my arm with the IV in it before saying, “That’s understandable, but can you tell me-“

“I don’t know!” I burst, my eyes stinging against tears that I refuse to let fall. “Leave me alone for a minute. I don’t know any of you! I don’t remember anything, and I just need a second to breathe, please!”

A feminine gasp echoes through the room, but I don’t know who it comes from. I’m too busy trying to remember how to breathe.

Silence coats the room in a thick air of discomfort. I feel embarrassed, like I should be comforting these people but don’t know how. They are worried, but why?

I groan softly as pain starts to throb in my head. My skin itches and aches on my right side, and when I look down to see why, I all but gasp.

Dark red and blistered flesh meets my eyes, so mangled it’s terrifying. How did this happen?

The bed dips at my feet, and I jerk my attention up. A new man has entered my room. I hadn’t even noticed him come in. His eyes are black but gentle, like the receding clouds of a storm. The calmness after the rain stops. He feels safe, and my heart almost instantly settles down.

“Hi,” he says softly, a gentle smile curving his lips.

Something about him is calming. I suddenly have the urge to hide in his arms until everything is right again.

I shake my head to dispense the thought.

“Hi,” I say hoarsely, my throat dry and aching.

He reaches beside him to a table I hadn’t noticed. He grabs the glass of water laid atop it before handing it to me. I gulp it down in less than a minute. The dryness eases, but the aching is still quite prominent.

“Thank you,” I mutter.

His eyes track around my face, gaze assessing yet soft. It’s unsettling but so reassuring. My brain can’t tell me what it wants to think.

“I’m sorry,” I say into the silence.

I don’t know why I say it. Something about the discomfort in this room feels like my fault.

He tilts his head. “Why are you sorry?”

I swallow, whispering, “I don’t know.”

Panic claws its way up my chest again. I grab at it, trying to ease the pressure as it suffocates me.

He puts a hand on my knee. It’s warm and soft and everything I need to calm down. Why does this stranger make me feel safe?

He doesn’t move his hand. His thumb starts to rub circles on my skin, and I know I should probably jerk away from this stranger, but I don’t. He makes everything feel calm and still.

Nausea returns suddenly, fast and harsh. I cover my mouth before muttering, “I think I need a-“ I don’t get the rest out as bile rises in my throat.

The man beside me understands. He grabs a pail from the end of the bed and shoves it under my chin just in time.

The doctor comes over to rub my back, and I find myself inching away. I like the man’s touch a lot better.

“This is completely normal because of the concussion you have,” she states calmly. “You’re doing great.”

Concussion?

I wipe my mouth with the tissue I’m offered before croaking, “Concussion?”

“Yes,” she says, her voice sympathetic. “You were in a terrible accident. You have a concussion, and some burns and bruises. Nothing too serious.”

An accident. Burns? What kind of accident?

“Try not to panic,” the doctor says. “You’re safe, and everything is going to be okay.”

I nod like I understand that I’m safe when really I have no idea what I am. I don’t even know my name. I don’t know where I am or who these people are that keep trying to comfort me.

What I do know, though, is that the man beside me feels safe. Every time I look at him the panic that presses on my chest eases slightly.

He feels sure, and right now that’s all I have.