“Hey. Wen wants to know your name.” Elowen buries her face in Avira’s shoulder.
In the past seven days, this is the twenty-third time I’ve told her my name. It’s starting to feel like karma.
“Salvario.”
She lifts her head and whispers something to Avira, who relays it. “Wen wants to know why you’re here.”
“This is my room. Where else would I go?” I say, holding Elowen’s gaze. We’re having the same conversation for the second time today.
She’s in much better shape now. She doesn’t hallucinate anymore, no woman with an axe watching her, no man with aknife sitting on her bed. She goes into hypoactive delirium less often.
Last night, she recognized all her family and spoke to them normally. Almost all her memories were intact, even though her rational thoughts still weren’t fully functional. But she had no memory of me. Not once has she shown a single sign that she remembers who I am.
Her psychiatrist said it could be because things related to me were too stressful for her while she was being drugged.
But she’s been staying close to me, clinging to me all the time. Just today, out of nowhere, she wanted to stay away from me.
Today she thinks she’s sixteen, talking with Avira about things from back then. I thought she’d improve after her nap, but she didn’t, and she’s still the same.
“It’s not your r-room. It’s m-my r-room,” she says to me.
Her voice is still slurred, but it’s more recognizable now. The stuttering is limited to ‘s,’ ‘r,’ and ‘m.’ Her whole body doesn’t shake as violently as before. There has been a little improvement.
She has lost almost all her grip strength. She can’t hold anything. She can’t walk without support. I’ve been helping her with bathing and everything else. These are the neurological injuries that drug overdose left her with.
That filth drugged her twice the first day, three times the second, and ramped it up to six times a day before she collapsed on the plane. That day he couldn’t drug her, and within an hour of its absence, she lost consciousness.
“You’re sharing your room with me,” I answer.
She frowns, her lips curving down. “You are lying.”
“He’s homeless, Wen. Yesterday you helped him and promised you’d let him stay.”
She looks at Avira, then at me, her frown softening.
“Why don’t you try to talk to him and make friends while I go grab us some snacks?” Avira suggests.
“What if he hurts m-me?” she asks Avira.
“Oh no, that’s impossible. He’s such a sweetheart, he’s never hurt anyone.”
She looks at me again, a flicker of trust appearing in her big eyes. I get up from the couch and walk toward the bed. She tenses as I approach.
“I won’t hurt you. Come walk with me.”
Her face flushes. She quickly turns to Avira. “He’s asking m-me out.”
Avira shrugs, grinning. “He likes you.”
She looks back at me, shy but cautious. Avira nudges her. “Go on. Just walk a little on the balcony with him.”
She bites her lip and looks down. “But I can’t walk.”
“It’s okay. I’ll help you.” I extend my hand.
Her physical therapist advised against a wheelchair. No matter how difficult it is for her to walk, even with support, we can’t do it for her. Full assistance could risk her losing all sensation in her legs.
She looks at me again, slowly raising her trembling hand and placing it weakly in mine. I close my fingers around hers. She edges closer to the side of the bed, and I hold her shoulders, helping her rise.
