Convergent (Part One)

Her: Chapter 6

I don't know the woman.

If I'm certain of anything, it's that I don't recognize her. But she seems to know things about me, judging from the tightness of her lips and pleasant air that says she's happy to see me. It feels wrong though; artificial. I stare up at her, taking in her black hair pulled back into a neat bun, a painful contrast to the white jacket she wears. Her eyes are a deep brown, hidden behind the thin frames of glasses.

I'd buy the doctor getup if not for the application of lipstick and what seems to be a fresh coat of eyeliner.

"How are you feeling, Beatrice?"


The name settles right, like it fits when it goes to me and I'm suddenly afraid why I can't seem to make a definitive connection between it and myself. The lady must notice my reaction, because she smiles reassuringly. "Oh, don't worry if you feel a bit hazy. Temporary amnesia is perfectly normal under these circumstances."

What circumstances? I want to ask, but my throat seems to have swallowed my voice. I mentally curse.

"Speaking will come in due time. You've been out for quite awhile, so take this slowly," she says, making a gesture with her finger. "This is Idna. She will be attending to you with your rehabilitation as well as for any other of your needs."

The woman who I presume is Idna appears next to the doctor, her hair tied back in the same style, but her complexion is surprisingly darker. She gives me a smile, something that-for the first time-feels real and genuine.

"Well, I'll leave her to work. If you have any questions, Idna will be happy to answer them as best she can. I'll be checking in on you from time to time to clock your progress."

Before I have time to react, the lady disappears, leaving me with Idna. I still can't move in any fluent motion, like my arms have forgotten how to work. My muscles seem jumbled and confused in my own body and everything in my head feels slurred.

Idna momentarily disappears from view before returning back, cup in hand. She reaches down and hefts my head up, slowly tipping its contents back. For a terrifying second, I can't recall how to swallow and begin I choking, but then my reflexes kick in and I'm downing the water and requesting more. I empty three full cups before I feel satisfied, the ache in my throat now gone. Then I rest back down, trying to sort through my thoughts, wishing my voice would work so I can learn what's happening to me.

Why am I here?

Where did I come from?

Why can't I remember anything?

I try to think back as far as I can, before those dark waters took me. But all I see are white walls stained red and the sound of exploding gunfire.

"I know this must be frustrating," Idna says, interrupting my thoughts. "But we will start your rehabilitation immediately. Your body has had extensive damage done to it, not just physical, but your nervous system has taken a toll as well." She gives me another smile. "So let's begin."

My face feels different.

It looks familiar to me and yet, not. I know the eyes, but not the expression in them. I know the lips, but not in the way they fall now, almost without emotion. I remember my face, but I'm not able to recall the feelings it has worn and what I have endured to know that it is truly me I'm seeing.

Blonde hair falls in dull locks around my jaw, ending just past my shoulders. My skin is also pale and it makes me feel ghostly, like it needs to see the sun again. I wonder how long it's been since I've been outside and I'm suddenly wishing I was. I stare into the mirror, the person's slight facial movements matching my own. I blink my eyes and so does she. I bite my lip and she follows suit.

I glance away, suddenly feeling overwhelmed, disliking the sight of a mirror, like it's wrong.

I've been awake for only a few days, but have already made progress. I still struggle to get words out and remain at the mercy of a wheelchair, but I can pick light items up with my hands and gesture with what I want. The mirror is supposed to help me mimic the things I see to what I do, but after a few times trying, I set it down and turn away from it.

Just then, the door to the small hospitalized room I was assigned to opens and at first, I expect it to be Idna. But then I see that it's a man, roughly in his thirties with cropped blonde hair and wide frames. In his hands, he holds a clipboard and a pen. Wasting no time, he approaches me and sits down in a seat which is near the entrance to the small bathroom, next to the cot I rest on.

His blue eyes meet mine. "Hello, Beatrice. How are we doing today?" he asks, as if he knows me and it instantly sets me on edge.

I nod to let him know that I'm okay, because I know that's what he wants to hear.

"Good. I'm Doctor Tunett. I'm this institute's psychiatrist, so I'll just be asking you a few questions to see how you're coming along." He flips a page on the clipboard.

"These will be yes or no questions, so just nod or shake your head for each one, all right?"

I do to prove his point and stare at him, studying his movements. My initial reaction is that I find it weird they're already sending in someone to diagnose my mental state. It's not like I've been up and about for very long and for them to sick a psychiatrist on me already is unsettling. But I try to appear neutral, taking in his white coat, black slacks, and expensive, polished shoes.

He looks back up at me. "So far are you feeling okay? Any nausea or severe headaches?"

I shake my head. He writes it down. "Are you suffering from any confusion?"

Well, yeah, I think, but I don't believe that's what he's referring to. I shrug.

"Understandable under these conditions," he says sympathetically. "Are your medications causing you any pain?"


I'm not really even aware of what I take. Painkillers, I assume.

His pen scratches on paper again. He pushes his eyeglasses farther up the bridge of his nose. "Are you aware of where you are?"

I shake my head. A hospital, I know, as of where it exactly is, I'm unsure. He provides an answer. "This is a rehabilitation and experimental facility located in the city. It's well qualified to help your trauma."


The Doctor continues. "Do you remember anything prior to a few days ago?"

I take in the slight tightening of his hand and the hard look in his eyes and slowly shake my head.

No, I remember nothing.

He gives me a quick smile, jotting that down. He goes on to ask me about the rehabilitation and whether I feel like I've made progress. He also asks questions regarding if I've suffered from any depression and conflicting thoughts "concerning my well being." I shake and nod for all his questions which are surprisingly extensive for such a short period of time and when he'd done, he stands to leave. Doctor Tunnett shakes my hand once before he walks to the door.

"I'll be doing weekly check-ups on you, Beatrice," he says. "So I'll be seeing you around." I try for a smile, but I can't manage one and he slips through the door quietly, closing it behind.

I lean back on the cot, suddenly feeling drained.I glance once more at the mirror resting next to me and close my eyes.

White walls.

White walls are surrounding me, blocking me, closing in on me. It smells humid and the air is thick, reeking of something that closely resembles formaldehyde. I cover my mouth with my hands, trying to block out the scent, but it does nothing. The smell seems to get worse and the walls seem to get whiter, until everything is a smear and I'm crammed into a small box.

For some reason, the feel of it offers a sense of comfort and on instinct, I splay my hands on either side of it, trying to break it open. But suddenly, my vision goes and an explosive sound rips at my eardrums, sounding off like cannons in the distance.



Three shots later.

And when my eyesight returns, all I see is red.

Continue Reading Next Chapter

About Us

Inkitt is the world’s first reader-powered publisher, providing a platform to discover hidden talents and turn them into globally successful authors. Write captivating stories, read enchanting novels, and we’ll publish the books our readers love most on our sister app, GALATEA and other formats.