HARRO.
"Tell me about last night's dream," my therapist said, her eyes locked intensely on mine, as if searching for the hidden corners of my soul.
I took a deep breath, the words tumbling out like a confession. "It's the same as the rest," I began, my voice barely above a whisper. "I find myself falling into a deep, dark hole with no end in sight. It's so cold, so terrifying, that I'm struggling to breathe as I plummet downward. My heart racing, my lungs burning, I'm consumed by an overwhelming sense of dread." I paused, the memories still raw and unsettling.
"And when I wake up, I'm drenched in sweat, my body still trembling with fear, as if the dream has seeped into my reality. The thought of going back to sleep is unbearable, so I'm left staring into the darkness, wide awake and haunted by the echoes of my own mind." I trailed off, the hollow feelings growing inside me, threatening to swallow me whole.
"Why do you think you keep having the same dream?" my therapist asked, her eyes piercing through mine, seeking answers I couldn't provide.
I threw up my hands in frustration, running my fingers through my short hair, a constant reminder of the changes I'd endured. "I don't know, I thought that's what you were here for – to tell me," I snapped, my voice laced with desperation. "I've always had a perfect memory, I never forget anything I've seen, heard, or read. So, how is it possible that I've forgotten a part of my life?" The words tumbled out, a mix of anger and helplessness.
My therapist sighed, her expression softening. "I understand your frustration," she said, her tone empathetic. "But there's no such thing as a perfect memory, especially when someone has undergone a life-altering crisis like you have. It's essential to give yourself time to heal mentally and process things slowly." Her words were soft and gentle, calming my frazzled nerves. I relaxed into the soft cushion, releasing a deep sigh as I let her words sink in.
"Have you tried retracing your steps?" she asked, her eyes sparkling with a hint of curiosity.
I raised my brows, a mix of amusement and annoyance. "I'm not here because I simply forgot where I dropped my keys or I can't remember my safe code, you know?" I said, my tone is laced with sarcasm. "We're talking about months' worth of memories just...gone. In an instant. How do I retrace that?" The frustration was palpable, my words hanging in the air.
She leaned forward, her voice gentle. "I was talking about the day it happened." Her words were like a whispered secret, and I felt a shiver run down my spine.
"The day of the crash?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. She nodded, her eyes locked on mine.
"I already know how it happened," I replied, my tone flat. "My dad told me." The words felt hollow, I hate the fact that I can't even remember how I got hurt.
"I meant retracing it by yourself," she said, her eyes encouraging. "Last phone calls, where you were last seen or headed to." Her words were like a gentle nudge, prompting me to examine the circumstances of my accident.
I took a deep breath, recalling the details my dad had shared with me. "I was last seen with my dad at lunch, and I was driving home when it happened. Someone crashed into my car," I explained, the words feeling like a well-rehearsed script.
My therapist hummed quietly, her expression thoughtful. "To my knowledge, your dad lives in Canada. Was he in town that day?" she asked, her tone was curious.
I nodded, confirming what my dad had told me. "Yes, he said we met for lunch, and I was heading back home afterwards."
"I'm sure there was an investigation," she said, her eyes locked on mine. "Have you seen the report, the pictures? Maybe they could trigger something in your memory." Her words hung in the air, and I felt a shiver run down my spine.
Was I ready to confront the aftermath of my accident? I hesitated, unsure if I was prepared to face the reality of what had happened. My father had been the one to deal with the police, both before and after I woke up. The other driver had lost their life, and I... I had lost my memories.
"Most times, we get closure by facing things head-on, even if it looks scary," she said, her voice gentle but encouraging.
Just as I was about to respond, she suddenly changed the subject, a sly smile spreading across her face. "Now, tell me about this handsome stranger you mentioned last time." Her eyes sparkled with curiosity, and I felt a flush rise to my cheeks.
"Who, Orion?" I asked, playing dumb, though I knew exactly who she was talking about. She nodded, her smile growing wider. "What about him?" I added, trying to sound nonchalant.
"You mentioned you hadn't been able to stop thinking about him last time you were here," she said, her tone serious. "Has anything changed?" Her eyes locked on mine, and I couldn't help but smile, feeling a sense of excitement. She smiled too, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "I take it something did happen?"
"We've been talking," I said, choosing my words carefully, not wanting to reveal the audacity of my approach. "He doesn't seem to mind having me around." I'm still marveling at how he'd taken my forwardness in stride. I couldn't help but wonder, did his lack of offense mean he was interested in men? The thought sent a flutter through my chest.
"That's a good thing," she said, her eyes encouraging me to explore my curiosity. "Have you figured out why you couldn't get him out of your mind?" she asked, her tone gentle.
I hummed, taking a moment to reflect on what drew me to Orion. Was it the way he looked at me, with a depth that made me feel seen? His chiseled features, his striking eyes? Or was it something more intangible, like the sense of calm he exuded? I wasn't sure, but I knew it wasn't just about the physical attraction. For the first time in my life, I felt like I wanted something...more. The realization sent a shiver down my spine, scaring me just a little.
"I think it's because I saw him at the hospital when I woke up," I said, opting for a more innocent explanation. "I'm getting to know him, he's cool," I added, trying to downplay any further discussion.
My therapist nodded, jotting down some notes. "That's good, making friends is good," she said, oblivious to the true nature of my intentions. I chuckled to myself, thinking, If only she knew the kind of "friendship" I had in mind for Orion.
"We were able to talk more today, more than we have on other days. This is good progress," she said, standing up and closing her iPad. "Consider what I said about retracing the events of that day. We're done for today, Mr Bishop."
I stood up, smiling. "See you next week, Doc!" I said, walking out of her office and into the hallway. I pulled out my phone to call my new bodyguard. "Bring the car around to the entrance," I instructed, walking out of the building.
I returned to work about two weeks ago, driven by boredom and a desire to break free from the monotony of my recovery. My days had blended together in a haze of eating, sleeping, and taking medicine, with the added distraction of watching Orion from afar. Despite my dad's vehement opposition, my doctor's clearance to resume basic activities like working out and swimming had given me the ammunition I needed to persuade him to let me return to the office.
However, he'd insisted on reducing my workload, and now I had not one but two secretaries catering to my every need. And, to my annoyance, a bodyguard had been assigned to me - a precaution I'd never needed before the accident, but one that gave my dad peace of mind. I'd been trying to convince him to return to Canada, where he belonged, but he'd been stubbornly refusing to leave my side for months, taking only brief trips back home. The only silver lining was that my cousin, Azalea, and grandmother had finally returned home after devoting a month to my care. Now, at least, I only had my dad to contend with, fussing over me like a mother hen.
As I settled back into my routine, a milestone loomed before me: six months since the accident, and four months since I'd awoken with gaping holes in my memory. The frustration still simmered, a constant reminder of what I'd lost.