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1
RIVER
Ihave the worst headache I could ever imagine.
Everything is dark.
I feel like I’m melting into whatever surface it is that I’m lying on. In a way, I wouldn’t be surprised if I had grown into it. Maybe I’m overgrown with moss in the middle of a forest. That would mean I’m dead, but I don’t remember-
“River! Can you hear me?”
The sound of a disembodied voice breaks me from my fevered confusion. Now I’m confused about something else entirely.
Who are you? Where am I? Why am I here?
The owner of the voice is now snapping his fingers near my ears. “I know you can hear me. Just open your eyes for me. That’s all I need you to do for now,” he says, his voice straining to sound sweet while projecting impatience.
I take a deep breath and try to open my eyes. At first, I feel like I’m in a dream where I can’t see, so I try to pry my eyes open with my hands.
I’m not even able to lift my hands from the sides of my body.
What the hell is wrong with me?
“Come on. I know you can do it. You’re so close,” the voice continues, pressuring me more intensely to perform for him.
I figure that being able to assess my surroundings isn’t the worst idea in the world, so I focus hard, slowly fluttering my eyelids open as the light from the sun outside blinds me. It’s a searing white light, far too unpleasant to be heavenly. I guess I’mnotdead.
“There you go, keep going,” he says as I squint my eyes closed again.
Fuck, my head hurts so much.
After a few more attempts, I force myself to hold my eyes open, and what I see confuses me more than being in the dark.
It appears that I’m in the bedroom of some kind of mansion or estate, with excessively ornate crown molding lining the ceiling above me. There are gigantic windows to the left of me, reaching from the floor to the ceiling and allowing all of the sunlight in the world to bleed into the atmosphere of the room. Directly across from me at the edge of the room is a set of French doors, mahogany or cherry wood.
While I’m not at all disappointed by the place I’ve decided to wake up in, I’m bewildered by the contrast between the luxury of a private bedroom and the noise of medical equipment beeping and clicking in the background.
I attempt to sit up a little, but as soon as I put pressure on my arms, my head throbs like a jackhammer has fallen on top of me from a hundred-story building.
“Careful, don’t stress yourself out. You need to keep your blood pressure down, or you’ll bleed again,” says the voice, which can now be traced to a large, tattooed man with piercing eyes and a wary expression.
“What do you mean I’ll bleed again? What happened? Why am I here?” I ask, growing more impatient and anxious by the second.
“Calm down. You have nothing to worry about. You were injured by a stray bullet in a drive-by shooting. You were in the hospital for two weeks, but now you’re at home recovering,” he replies, pulling a chair closer to my bedside.
While it’s clear that I have no memories right now, I find it strange that I don’t feel some kind of familiarity or déjà vu. If this place is my house, why do I feel like an interloper?
“I don’t know who you are. I don’t really know who I am either,” I say, scanning his face over again as I wrack my brain for answers. He doesn’t seem malicious to me, but bad men tend to look exactly the same as good men. The Hollywood tropes are a façade.
“Your name is River Poltorak. You’re my wife of five years,” he explains, reaching over to lift my left hand. “You still have your ring on. I thought it would be lost for sure when you were rushed to the hospital.”
I glance at my hand, still feeling uncertain about all of the information being fed to me. He’s correct. I’m wearing a diamond wedding ring with an obscenely large princess-cut diamond. Even though he’s already explained to me that it’s mine, it feels stolen. Something about the ring feels... inauthentic.
I don’t even know who I am. How do I know what kind of wedding ring I like?
I think I just need to trust this person.
My husband, but who is he?
