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"They keep me pretty medicated. So while I feel some pain, it's more of a buzz after the meds."
"That's good, right?" She moaned, and I heard chewing soon after.
"No, is that good?"
"What?"
"Your eggs."
"Oh, my god! It's amazing."
I chuckled and listened to her tell me all about how delicious it was. Listening to the sweet sound of her voice was the last thing I heard before falling into a deep sleep. The blanket of painless sleep never came slow. It cloaked me fast and took me deep under until being awake became a distant memory. And for the first time, I tried to fight it so that I could get back to my Mystery Woman.
Chapter Twenty-Two
RAPHAEL
Things kind of progressed steadily for weeks. I had a skin graft done for my arm. My leg healed. And I was doing great in physical therapy. They moved me to my dad's house a few days ago, and I was adjusting fine. I still had to take things easy, but all was looking well. Steady.
They also insisted on me seeing a therapist for the seizures, nightmares, panic attacks, and anxiety. As far as I can recall, I'd never had those issues before. I wasn't even going to mention the voices I kept hearing right before the anxiety attacks. Well, voice. Singular. A woman. She gave warnings and spoke of death like it was always lurking over my shoulders. And there was that weird accent.
Was I going to die?
Dreams of a fire. Flashes of lights. And that smell. It was hard to describe. It reminded me of rotting animals and burnt hair but stronger. Harsher. Something I wanted to forget. And there was this dreaded feeling of failure. Like I'd wanted to do something so badly. Or needed to do it so badly that it almost felt like something or someone depended on me and I'd let them down.
"Can you remember anything from your accident, Raphael?" Dr. L asked. Her name was long and complicated so I'd shorten it to her initial. She'd said I could call her Alice, but that felt wrong and intimate. More like friends or lovers than therapist and patient.
"No. Er… not really. They said it was a plane crash. A misguided plane on the runway by a pilot on some substance. Drugs. Why don't they just say drugs?"
"It's a fanciful way to avoid their reality. What do you recall?"
"Dreams. I keep having dreams about flames and screams. One is a woman. Louder than the rest. I can't see her. I can't feel her. Just her loud piercing scra–scream." I paused, relaxing my tongue and letting my mind calm down. It was also new. That stutter. When extreme emotion happened, I stuttered. New.
"Anything else?"
"The smell. Something was burning. Something besides the plane."
"Any idea what that could have been?"
I swallowed hard. Yeah, as much as I tried to avoid it, I knew. "Flesh. Hair. People."
"Do you remember how you got out?"
I tried searching my memories, but it was fuzzy. The crash wasn't there. Just the dreams that occurred. I shook my head, frustrated at the question.
"If I can't remember the accident, how in the ha–hell am I sa–supposed to remember how I got ow–out?"
"Sometimes unexpected questions make the brain process situations differently. It works the same way when you're explaining something ten times to somebody and then another person says it in a different tone or with different words and then it magically makes sense to the person. The brain is funny that way."
"I understand. But no, I still don't remember."
"Well, unless you have something you want to add, our time is up, Raphael. Next time, I want to explore your dreams a bit more. See what we can gather from it."
"No, I'm fine. I'll see you Friday."
"Indeed, you will."
* * *
