Two years.
God...twoyears of my life... gone.
The news crushes me like a collapsing building.
Even though the cogs in my head inched toward the same conclusion based on Dad’s reaction, it still feels like the doctor pulled a rug from under my feet. Like he stopped me on the edge of a cliff and kicked my back.
My palms turn icy cold, clammy, slick with sweat.
Two years.
Two yearsof experiences, memories, relationships lost in a maze of synapses and brain tissue. A chasm swallows my mind and I’m staring into a black hole.
It feels... impossible. Surreal. Fucking cruel.
“But... I remember driving. I remember the rain...” I chant as the room starts swaying.
My vision blurs at the edges.
The buzzing in my ears drowns out Dr. Phillips and no amount of blinking helps my eyes focus. His face remains a contorted haze, his silhouette a moving, ghost-like cloud of white and gray, floating toward the IV stand.
I glance at my father, searching for a lie, begging him to say it’s a cruel joke, but his face crumbles, eyes tear up, hand covers mine, and that’s it.
A silent confirmation.
A slow, agonizing howl tears through my chest.
Each beep, each mechanical sigh of the ventilator, reminds me of this new, twisted reality. I’ve never felt so lost. Like I’m drowning in the empty silence of my memories. Silence that screams louder than any noise I ever heard.
I pinch myself, hoping I’ll wake up, but even as I break skin, I’m still in the hospital bed, two years of my lifegone.
“It’s temporary, isn’t it?” I blurt out, wiping the tears off my face. “I mean... I’ll remember, right? I remember a little. College, my blue car, the rain... It’ll take time but it’ll all come back to me, won’t it? It’s not permanent. It can’t be.”
“It wasn’t raining the day of your accident,” Dad says quietly. “It’s a different day you remember. You don’t have your little blue car anymore. We sold it, sunshine.”
“What you’re experiencing is post-traumatic amnesia,” Dr. Phillips explains, pressing a few buttons on a nearby machine. It spits out a graph in red and blue lines on paper. “It happens sometimes after severe brain injury. In your case it’s retrograde, meaning you don’t remember a period of time before the traumatic event: the accident. It might be temporary—”
“Temporary?” I latch onto the word. “How long before I remember? A day? A week?”
“Itcanbe temporary,” he repeats more forcefully. “But it can also be permanent. Given your injuries, the location of the brainswelling, and previous similar cases I’ve handled, there’s a good chance your memories will gradually return as your brain heals.”
New hope fills my veins but the hesitation in his eyes speaks volumes: he can’t make any promises...
“Do you have any questions?” he asks.
“Yes.” I turn to Dad. “Where’s Mom?”
Dad’s face falls. The atmosphere turns heavy, the temperature dropping as if a ghost passed by.
He inhales a shaky breath, peering at Dr. Phillips like he’s silently pleading for... I don’t know. Help? Strength?
A nod is all he gets.
A silent go-ahead.
Permission to speak.
My stomach tightens in response. The anticipation is almost painful, even more so when Dad looks at me. There’s something in his tearful gaze I can’t quite place. Fear? No. More like... guilt?
