Was that my name?
Couldn’t remember. Couldn’t remember anything before,
Before what?
Just blank. Just this moment, this room, this silence.
My mouth opened. Tried to say the name back to her. Tried to ask questions. Tried to make any sound that proved I was human and not some broken thing that couldn’t communicate.
Nothing.
Her expression shifted. Understanding bleeding through the professional mask. Not surprise. She already knew.
How long had I been like this? How long had she known I couldn’t speak?
“It’s okay,” she said. Gentleness there, real warmth underneath. “Your body’s been through hell. Speaking isn’t a priority right now.”
The hell it isn’t.
Tried again. Forced everything into it, desperation, will, need. Vocal cords strained. Throat worked. Jaw shaped words that wouldn’t come.
Silence mocked me.
No. No, this wasn’t,
Panic clawed up. My fingers pressed harder against my larynx, as though I could force it to work through pressure alone. My lungs heaved despite rib damage, air going ragged.
Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t call for help. Couldn’t explain what was wrong because I didn’t know, couldn’t ask questions because my voice was gone, couldn’t,
“Listen to me.”
Her voice cut through the spiral. Firm. Commanding. Emergency room authority that demanded attention.
My focus snapped to hers.
She leaned forward, movements still careful. Still reading me, adjusting to keep me from bolting or attacking or whatever she thought I might do.
“Your body went through something traumatic. Right now, you need to rest. You need to let yourself heal. Speaking can wait.”
Easy for her to say. She had a voice.
“I know it’s scary.” Softer now. Almost gentle. “I know you want answers. Your body needs time. You need to be patient. To listen. To let me help you.”
Patient.
The word felt foreign. Wrong. Like something I’d never been, never would be. Patience meant vulnerability. Meant trusting someone else to handle threats I should assess myself.
Meant trusting her.
My attention tracked her face. Looking for deception. For the crack in the mask that revealed this was trap, manipulation, something other than what it appeared.
Found nothing but exhaustion and stubborn determination.
She meant it. Actually believed she could help.
Why? Why would a stranger help me?
No good answer. Her sitting there, blood-stained and bone-tired, looking at me as though I was worth saving instead of whatever I probably was.
