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My head still swims when I sit up too fast. It hurts so much between doses of my pain medicine. Being incapacitated by this injury has taken a piece of me, not only my memory but also my freedom. I hate being dependent on a man, especially to the point where he has to massage my legs just to keep me from getting a blood clot. I feel so frail.
What was our life like before we met? What is my family like? He said I never spoke Russian, so he obviously met me here in the United States. Did he meet me at a job? Off the street? Did we meet like they do in romantic comedies, randomly in a coffee shop after one of us spilled a drink?
Any answer would give me so much more context. I need these pieces to put together a picture of my old life, at the very least to try to put myself back into a rhythm that makes sense for me. Maybe then, when I find my answers, I’ll finally feel whole again.
But for now, I’m stuck here with nothing but questions and a bullet in my head.
I want to know more about Adas, but not anything that he would tell me. It feels important to get to know somebody from all angles, not just the ones that they present to you. What would his associates say about him? What about Erik? How about Leo, the old Russian gardener? I’m sure they all have varying opinions of Adas based on their position in his life.
He seems secretive about keeping a wall between the staff and me here, but that could be just because he doesn’t want to overwhelm me. As he said, the doctors are apparently shocked that I’m even able to talk or converse properly at all. Perhaps overloading me with new scenery and faces would break my brain and put a halt to whatever progress I’ve made.
I guess I’ll just have to trust him.
Trusting feels so hard. It seems innate not to trust just anybody. But when your own husband is trying desperately to help you remember what your love was like before an accident, how can you deny him? All he wants is for me to feel safe and happy back at our home.
How am I to feel safe ever again?
My husband’s lifestyle is what put me into this bed in the first place, but his lifestyle is also what gave me all of this.
I feel terribly ungrateful.
The doubt pricks me in the chest whenever I see his face, and then the guilt doubles in my belly until I want to throw up. I’m awful. He deserves someone better.
I turn my head slowly to the left, away from the window even though I’m on the top floor and nobody could look in at me if they tried. I still feel exposed to the world, here on display for whatever invisible, malicious beings want to gaze into my room and feed on my insecurity and fear.
A tear falls from my eye and drips off the bridge of my nose onto my pillow. Now that I’ve started to cry, I doubt I’ll be able to stop until I feel fully resolved. This is the first time since I awakened that I’ve been able to fully feel my emotions, and they’re starting to fall out of me faster than I can gather them again.
The tears come in streams now, and I struggle not to sob out loud lest I be heard by one of the well-meaning but overly attentive assistants here. Holding back my cries hurts so much that the tears compound, and when I decide I can’t take it anymore, I release myself from it.
My voice is hardly above a whisper, but the sounds bounce off the hard surfaces all over my gigantic bedroom until they reverberate through the door. The acoustics in here are shit for crying. I wonder if Adas has a secret crying room for that reason alone.
Periodically, I hold my breath in the hopes that the deluge of confusion, guilt, and sorrow will cease, and I can just roll back over and fall asleep.
Then, I hear the door open slightly.
“Hey, are you in pain?” asks Adas, standing in the doorway obliviously.
I shoot up in my bed, sending a white shockwave of blinding pain through my skull. “What? No, but I’m trying to sleep. Please leave me alone.”
In the faint light of the moon, I’m still barely able to see his expression change from concern to disappointment.
Why am I so mean?
“Alright, I just thought I heard crying from the hallway. You know, it’s fine for you to be upset about what happened. You don’t have to hide it from me,” he replies, his tone somewhat defensive.
“Yes, I know, and I’m sorry. But I really just want to sleep right now. I’m exhausted,” I say, lying flat on my back and staring at the ceiling with irritation.
Instead of leaving, he slowly approaches my bedside. “Really, is there anything I can get for you?”
The way he’s asking makes him sound like a pushy host at a barbecue rather than a loving, concerned husband, but I can’t fault him for it. I’ve been a bitch to him since I woke up. This is almost certainly not the response he expected from his wife when he was told by the doctors that I would recover.
“No, please just let me sleep,” I reply curtly without taking his hand or touching him at all.
He doesn’t reply. Instead, he nods solemnly before he turns and walks out of the room. The shadows on his face are forlorn, and maybe a little bit lost as the light from the hallway bursts through the door.
He closes it behind him, and I allow myself to cry until three in the morning.
4
