To Where It All Began ✔

4. LIES THAT BUILD ARE BETTER THAN TRUTHS THAT DESTROY

The sanitary odour of antiseptic wavered in the ambience, integrating with the muffled whirr of hospital machinery. Smooth shafts of daylight filtered through the slender white curtains, casting a quelled sheen on the woman fibbing dormant on the bed. Her eyelids quavered, her breath superficial, as though her body remained in a peaceful slumber. But her mind was far from rest. Images of water enveloping her, pulling her under, flashed through her mind. The suffocating darkness, the cold, and the overwhelming struggle to survive consumed her even as she lay still. She could feel herself drowning again, the desperate fight for life, the icy river swallowing her whole.

Suddenly, her eyes snapped open, wide and fearful, her heart hammering in her chest as if she had just surfaced from the depths of the water. The unfamiliar surroundings felt foreign, sterile, and frightening. Her gaze darted around the room, her pulse racing as she struggled to make sense of where she was. She brought her trembling fingers to her wrist, feeling for a pulse-yes, she was alive. But how?

"Where am I?" she whispered hoarsely, her voice barely audible. Her body was weak, muscles heavy and unresponsive. Panic stirred in her chest, a rising wave she couldn't control.

Before she could muster the strength to move, a nurse noticed her stirring. The woman, wearing a light pink saree, her hair tied neatly in a bun, gasped in surprise. "Doctor! Doctor!" she cried, rushing toward the door, her voice echoing in the hallway. "The patient in room 112 is awake!"

The sudden clamour heightened Amna's anxiety. She tugged weakly at the IV drip attached to her arm, her instinct urging her to flee, to escape the unknown. Her breaths quickened, shallow gasps filling her lungs. But she couldn't move. Her limbs were too heavy, too frail.

The nurse quickly returned to her bedside, her face softening with concern. "Careful, dear," she murmured, gently taking hold of her hand. "Don't remove the drip. You're still too weak."

Amna's mind spun, unable to focus. The nurse's calm voice didn't reach her panic-stricken thoughts. "Where am I?" she repeated, her voice cracking. "Who brought me here? What day is it?"

Before the nurse could answer, the door swung open again, and a female doctor entered the room briskly, her white coat fluttering behind her. Her eyes were sharp, but there was kindness in them. She stepped beside Amna, quickly checking her vitals before speaking in a steady, soothing voice.

"What's your name? Where are you from?" the doctor asked, her tone gentle yet probing.

The questions felt like jagged shards in Amna's already chaotic mind. She blinked, her lips parting as though to answer, but no words came. She didn't know. She didn't know anything. Fear clouded her thoughts, her grip tightening on the hospital bed's metal rail. "I...I don't know," she stammered, her voice trembling, almost inaudible.

The doctor nodded, her expression unreadable but calm. "You were admitted on March 9th. It's been sixteen days since then," she began to explain, "with severe blood loss, pneumonia, and a head injury. It appears you had an accident and fell into the water. Do you remember anything about that?"

Amna's heart pounded in her ears, her mind a void. She shook her head, her gaze dropping to her lap, her fingers pressing together tightly. "No," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. She couldn't face the doctor's searching eyes. The weight of what she couldn't remember-or wouldn't allow herself to remember-felt crushing.

The doctor sighed softly, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "It's likely the head injury is affecting your memory. Don't worry. I believe it's temporary. You just need time to heal, both physically and mentally. Rest. Don't stress yourself trying to remember everything all at once."