Deadly Amnesia

CHAPTER ONE

I curse under my breath.

I had been so close, only moments from tiptoeing up the stairs into the bedroom on the left. But the smell of coffee, and the lights blaring overhead in the kitchen, tell me she's awake. I'm not alone.

At first, I don't see her, the figure standing beside the pantry, just behind the bar. Then she moves towards the coffee pot, silently pouring a cup as if she isn't mad. She takes a long sip, sitting it down beside her buzzing phone.

I swallow, thinking of the text last night, me getting dressed in the bathroom, putting on my lavender cable sweater, pulling my jeans around my waist, grabbing the door keys, and spraying peach body mist.

But then, nothing.

Emptiness in place of memory. A night out with my boyfriend vanished somewhere into my subconscious. Only bits and pieces remained. A fragmented night sky, the sound of a car door, dry leaves beneath my palms. The smell of dirt, aftershave, and alcohol.

She steps closer. Close enough for me to see the circles beneath her eyes, the worry creasing her forehead.

It reminded me of every time I hurt myself as a kid, a bloody hand, scraped knee, stitches under my chin. I suddenly feel guilty, realizing how worried she must have been.

"It's not what you think," I say, almost out of breath, grasping at my following sentence, wondering which lie to tell. "Livia's. She invited me over."

"What time?"

Hand on her phone. Was she going to call? Find out if I was telling the truth?

My skin starts to sweat, my heart racing. I take a deep breath as if that could solve anything aside from giving my brain enough oxygen to think up a better lie.

"Mom, it's not a big deal. We went out with friends. Livia's mom doesn't know." It could be true. After all, Simon and I usually went to get fast food after a night out - stale French fries but a damn good burger from a local place called Hot Spot. And Livia would sometimes join us.

She raises an eyebrow, her signature move. Arms are crossing in front of her now. Mom looks fifteen years younger than her age, with a light mist of freckles across her nose and green eyes with as much youth as a teenager. She often laughs, head thrown back, dirty blonde curls brushing her mid-back.

I miss our good times - before the event, the terror, the amnesia. The black hole in my mind that I can't recover even after three months of therapy. Before mom asked questions, eyes sharp with fear. Always wanting to know where I've been and who I've seen.

I know better than to tell her lies and pretend it isn't happening again.

I hold my breath, walking over to the coffee pot, taking a mug from the cabinet that says, coffee first!

I get a whiff of strong coffee grinds, the black kind, steaming from Mom's cup. She brews it with double the amount it calls for. I pour it halfway, filling the rest with milk, hoping to drown out the bitterness.

I turn mug in hand. "Gonna go change. Be back."

As I attempt to pass her, she reaches out and holds my arm.

"Rylee." She sighs. "Rylee, I know you were out with Simon."

"At first. But I stayed over with Livia, I promise." I smile, a nervous incriminating smile, but I hope it will disarm her.

The truth is, I wasn't with Simon or Livia. I woke up alone. The same place as last. In the grass, surrounded by skinny pine trees, a strip of sunlight cutting through the woods. It was terrifying, a reoccurring nightmare. I was completely alone, just like the first time. Nothing but woods, birds calling in the distance. A dewy mist on the ground, on me, my hair tangled with leaves. But I swore I heard footsteps nearby, a shadow pressing behind a tree. The sickening feeling in my gut that someone was watching.

The last thing I remember last night was the text from Simon, Meet me outside :)

Knowing Simon, we went stargazing. Somewhere we could cuddle, my head on his chest, laying on a stretched-out blanket over rocks and leaves. Is that what we did? Is that how I ended up in the woods?

I stare down at the tiny scratches on my palms, the smeared blood. Mom's eyes look down, and I turn my palms away, crossing my hands behind my back. Guilty as hell.

"You're hurt." She examines my hands, tongue crossing over her upper lip.

"I fell," I say quickly. "I'm alright."

She takes my bag, hanging it up by the door, and I hope she doesn't notice that it's empty. When I woke up, the first thing I did was look for my cell phone. It wasn't in my bag, and neither was my wallet and house keys. A chill still ate away at my spine as I was reminded of just how fragile all this was - last summer's event.

"Go change. Then we'll talk."

I can tell she doesn't believe me. She senses it, the shakiness in my voice, the flicking of my eyes to the left and right. She has always been able to read me like a book, an ability we both picked up early on. It has always been just the two of us. My dad was never in the picture. Mom and I are inseparable, sensing things we can't possibly know.

"It's alright. I promise." But the more I promise, the more fake I feel, the less sure of myself I become.

Everything is not okay.

And I'm in serious trouble.

***
My room is blue, with walls, quilt, carpet, all my favorite shades of blue. The accent color is white, the bed frame, trim, and nightstands.

I close the door, allowing my face to drop its fake expression. My brows push together, lips tighten. I strip off my sweater and the tank top beneath it, hurrying to the mirror and examining my body. No bruises. No marks. Not this time.  Only the tiny scrapes on my hands.

Then I see it as I turn from the mirror—the cut on the side of my leg. I scoot closer to the mirror, pulling at the skin and wincing from the burn. It's not just a cut; it's a letter.

M

My heart is racing. The room is spinning. I look again to make sure. It looks like someone scratched it on purpose, the letter "M."

I hunt out a band-aide from my nightstand drawer and quickly slip it over the cut. There. It's gone. Doesn't exist. But my heart is still racing so much that I have to steady myself on the desk chair.

My phone.

It's charging on the lamp's USB, the screen lighting up as I touch it. How did it get here? Had I come home? Gone back out? Somehow ending up in the woods?

I go straight to my messages, clicking on Simon's name and seeing the last text sent out by me:

Meet you there <3

It's the message I sent in reply to him telling me to meet him outside. Nothing else had been said—no indication of anything unusual.

I plop down on the bed, hitting call.

"What happened?" I ask when I hear his deep voice pick up with a sleepy "Hey baby."

"Hm?"

I hear the bed creak as he moves, the sheets sliding off his body. I imagine him shirtless, moving his phone from his ear to check the time. He never did like waking up before his body's automatic alarm.

"Simon," I say in a low voice, hearing footsteps pass the hallway. "Simon, it happened again."

I'm close to tears, gritting my teeth, grabbing my teddy bear from when I was a toddler, and holding it tight against my chest.

"What? What happened? Are you okay?"

Another breath. Another squeeze. Tears slip down my cheeks.

"Amnesia. I can't remember."