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He likes my weakness and my pain.
He likes my suffering.
Help.
Someone help me.
A voice from my dreams—or nightmares—whispers in my head. That voice is so similar to mine.
Who the hell did I ask for help from before? I don’t like asking for help. I might not know my name or my damn age, but I know I don’t like showing vulnerability that way.
The door hisses open, cutting off my connection with the asshole who called me a monster. He releases my chin and steps back as if he wasn’t suffocating me not two seconds ago.
The kind nurse from earlier returns with a skinny, black doctor who’s wearing frameless glasses.
The asshole clutches my wrist and sits by my side, holding my hand in his. Shock ripples through me at how soft, yet cold his touch feels.
How can a touch be so gentle and yet so…cold?
It’s like I’m being held by a freezer.
His attention falls on the doctor and he smiles. There’s something curious about that smile. It’s not exactly fake, but it’s…dead. Lifeless, just like his touch.
“Dr. Anderson.” He speaks in such a polite, calm way. It’s completely different from the asshole from earlier. “How is my fiancée doing?”
I stare between him and his hold on my hand. No, I can’t be the fiancée in this tale. This fucking jerk can’t be my future husband. I’d really feel sorry for myself and my poor choices if that were the case.
I mean, come on, first I don’t remember my name, then someone calls me a monster, and that same someone turns out to be my
freaking fiancé?
A girl can only take so many shocks all at once.
“Miss Ellis.” The doctor smiles in that polite but distant way. “How do you feel?”
“In pain?” I don’t know why it comes out as a question.
I swear Mr. Asshole’s lips twitch. In amusement or in sadism, I don’t know.
Dr. Anderson and the nurse do a thorough examination, including checking my pulse and my temperature. He also puts that light thingy in my eye. Now I know who was bothering me in my sleep.
“Do you remember your name?” he asks.
“It’s…” The name hovers at the tip of my tongue, but it’s like I can’t reach it. “I d-don’t know.”
Sure, I heard the name Reina Ellis before and after I regained consciousness, but I don’t relate to that name.
That name is wrong.
So I choose not to say it.
The doctor scribbles something in his notepad and continues asking me about what year it is, what country we’re in, what state, who the president is, etc.
I answer all of them in a beat. I count to twenty. I recite the alphabet.
When he asks me again about my name and my age, I freeze.
The entire time, the monster who called me a monster doesn’t let go of my hand. His presence is an unyielding, dark entity, all-powerful and non-negotiable. The stabbing pain at the back of my head pales in comparison to how constant he is.
