The Memories That Haunt Me | Completed ✅

Chapter 1 ~ Waking

Chapter 1

Something rough caresses my cheek. A hand. It pats me twice, administering soft slaps, before moving my head from side to side.

I open my eyes, barely a fraction, and bright, blurry white fills the space between my lashes.

"Wake up, sweetheart," a deep male voice prompts. "Wake up."

My eyelids feel heavy, and my sight is unfocused. The blurred outline of his head looming above me comes into view first, then slowly, his features begin to take form.

"That's my girl," he praises, running those rough hands down my shoulders. "You scared me."

I look around the room. Unfamiliar, everything, the man, the white walls, the silk sheets against my skin.

"Where am I?" I ask, more to myself.

"You're in our bed, honey." His eyes roam over my face in concern, settling down onto my head. "You hit your head in the shower."

I lift a hand to the spot, and flinch at the raw pain that ricochets through my skull. I try to remember, and the more I fight to pull the information forward, the more I realize I don't know anything.

Who am I?

I have no idea. Nothing; my name, my age, it's all a fog. My brain is an empty bank. Memories linger in the distant cavities, just out of reach.

"I don't remember," I say to the man, my voice fearful.

He studies me. "You must have hit your head harder than I realized." He turns to the window, and I notice the rain hammering against the roof. Lightning flashes behind the floral curtain, followed by a loud crack of thunder. I recoil from the sound, burrowing myself further into the mattress.

"Shhh," the man cooes. "There's a hurricane. We can't leave for a while, but I'm going to take good care of you." He runs a hand along my hair. "Do you know who I am?"

I shake my head no. "I don't remember." Tears pool into my eyes, stinging at the corners as I fight to hold them back. "I can't remember anything."

The man nods. "Amnesia. You must have gotten amnesia from the fall." He pulls me into him, holding me close against his chest. It feels unnatural, wrong. This man is a stranger to me. "I'm your husband, Tom," he says reassuringly, as if he can sense my reluctance. Tom pulls away and looks at me, his hands gripping my shoulders. "Everything is going to be okay." Soft lips press against my forehead in a tender show of affection.

I nod shakily, dragging a deep breath into my lungs.

Tom gently pushes me back down and pulls the cover back up to my chin. "Lay here. I'll go get you something to eat." His lips press against my head a second time before he stands and exits the room. I watch him go. He's tall, with a sturdy build and wide set shoulders. Nothing about him is familiar, however.

I study the room next, fighting for a flicker of recognition, even the smallest of details, but I'm at a loss. The feeling is strange. I know I'm in a bed, but I don't know how I got here. I know other things as well, like there's a president, but I can't recall who it is. I know that this is Florida, but I can't for the life of me remember which city.

Little tidbits remain, but not enough to get a clear picture, like a broken puzzle with too many missing pieces.

Thunder rolls, and a harsh gust of wind howls just outside the window. I pull the bedspread closer, gripping it into my fist as if it can shield me from the danger.

The bedroom door opens back up, and Tom comes walking in with a tray in his hands. "I made you some soup," he states, sitting the food down and helping me into a sitting position, propping a pillow behind my back for support. The tray is sat in front of me, and Tom smiles. "There you go. How's your head feel?"

"Okay, I guess." My voice is distant as I eye the meal in front of me. Chicken noodle. I know that the soup is chicken noodle, and the green bowl it's in came in a set of four, each a different color. Red, orange, yellow, and this one, green. How I know these things, but not my own name, is a mystery.

"Eat up, sweetheart. The minute this storm passes, we'll get you to a doctor." Tom pats my hand. "I'm so happy you're awake. I was scared to death."

I lift the spoon to my lips, and take in the familiar meal. I remember the flavor, but not when I've ever tasted it before.

"Sorry, I couldn't cook it since the power's out," Tom continues, ignoring my silence. "It went out last night. That's probably why you fell."

I slowly sip the cold soup as I listen to him speak, fighting to remember anything he's saying, to recognize his voice.

Tom wanders the room, looking at the small mementos, touching a hand to the lamp shade. "This storm is a bad one. They're calling it a category four."

I let my gaze fall back to the bowl. For some reason, his presence makes me nervous. Something doesn't sit right with me. Maybe it's the lack of memory, but to me, he's still a stranger. "Tom," I start, looking up from my soup.

He turns his attention to me and moves back to the side of the bed. "What is it, Sarah?"

Sarah. My name is Sarah. "I don't remember you." My voice breaks.

Tom's eyes soften in understanding, but I also see hurt accompanied by an enormous amount of worry in their depths. "It's okay," he soothes. "You will. Get some rest. I'll go sleep on the couch to make you more comfortable." He caresses my cheek. "Just sit the tray on the side table when you're done. I'll come back for it in a little while."

I nod my head and watch as he once again exits the room.

A stranger.

Want more stories like this one? Be sure to check out The OMP projects Thriller Anthology on Amazon!
All proceeds go to charity.