Blackout

01 | begin / end

The last thing I remember is noise.

Images are hazy, and they only come in flashes. Most of them are dark, dripping with night and impossible to make sense of—a glimpse of a tree branch here, a wiry crack in the glass there. Bloodstained fingers. Fragmented pieces of my reflection gazing back at me.

But the noises are vivid, and when I squeeze my eyes shut, I can still hear them. It begins with tires squealing, struggling to gain traction on damp pavement, followed by the devastating crunch of metal connecting with metal. A car door clicks open, and the melodic chime of keys being left in the ignition resonates through the air layered with frantic voices melding together. One of them sounds similar to mine, only warped and laced with pain.

A desperate urge to flee the scene propels me forward, but my limbs fail, and I fall to the ground.

When I wake, I no longer know my own name.

The abrupt shaking of a pill bottle makes the present come back into focus.

Dr. Meyer sits across from me, holding up the bright orange container, and the room is quiet, all eyes trained in my direction. Outside, thick, menacing clouds on the verge of bursting hang low, peering over the canopy of evergreen trees in the distance. There's a garden adjacent to Dr. Meyer's office—a courtyard that must bloom with color later in the year but looks stark and barren against the backdrop of early spring.

After a month of staying here, I've learned that the neurology wing is the nicest place in Pender Falls General Hospital, significantly more inviting than the room I first woke up in—where I was called a name I didn't remember and was surrounded by faces I'd never seen before—or the one in which I spent weeks learning how to use my body again. This meeting is the last checkpoint I have to complete before getting out of here for good.

"Sorry. I lost focus for a second."

"That's all right." Dr. Meyer's smile is gentle, practiced. "This is a lot of information to take in at once, that's why we have your family here with you. The more ears, the better."

Sofia—my mother, though it's far too early to call her that—studiously scrawls notes on the lined paper of the notebook in her lap, while my sister, Audrey, sits on the other side of me, fingers resting on my leg gently in a show of support.

"As I was saying, you'll continue taking these in order to help with your awareness and memory. Over the counter pain meds like acetaminophen and ibuprofen can be taken for headaches and any muscle stiffness you may be feeling."

"How long does she need to take them?" Sofia gestures to the pill bottle. The words are firm, demanding, and I don't know if it's motherly instinct or a desire to be in control of the situation.

"We'll monitor her progress in our follow-up appointments and reassess. For now, she can continue to take them daily before bed."

"Do you think I'm stuck like this?"

The attention shifts back to me, an air of discomfort settling over the room.

"You're not stuck, Alina," Dr. Meyer begins, setting his clipboard on his desk. "It's still very early. There's always room for improvement, and it's likely your recovery won't be linear."

A crow lands on a branch near the window, taking cover beneath the overhang as the rain begins to fall. My mother and sister remain silent.

"How does a brain just forget everything it knows, anyway?" My grip tightens around the thick fabric of the sweater I hold in my hands as I watch the bird.

"Your procedural memory is perfectly intact. Once you're back in your normal environment, I'm confident more things from your life, your past, will come back and be familiar." He sets the bottle on his desk then leans back in his seat. "The mind is a wondrous thing. It's not that your brain has forgotten everything it knows, rather, those memories are locked away, and you can no longer find the key. You may find that key again someday, or you may not. My goal is to give you the tools to cope with either outcome."