13. ANASTASIA
Chapter thirteen
M usic, like a lasso, tugged at my awareness. Soft strands of a familiar melody drifted along like wisps of mist in my mind, awakening something from the murky depths of nothingness in my mind. Each flicker of recognition drew me closer to consciousness.
There was a voice too. I focused on it as it tapped at the fringes of my mind and enticed me tenderly back to the present.
I tried to move, but found I was encased in something thick and unyielding. It was like being buried beneath the icy-cold remnants of an avalanche.
And then the pain seized my attention. I could no longer hear the melody or feel the voice’s warmth wrapping around me.
Stabbing pain erupted against my skull, and the cold turned to fiery tendrils. They began racing through every vein, nerve, and fiber of my being. Each breath was like inhaling shards of glass. Panic started to take over, but I couldn’t move—I couldn’t get away from the fire.
Calm down. Just calm down and focus .
My mind was hazy and thick, as if I was half asleep or in some drug- or liquor-induced stupor. Confusion and fear swirled around, muddling my ability to comprehend.
Where was I?
What was happening to me?
Wait…what was my name?
The answers were there, but as soon as I tried to snatch a hold of them and force them to connect, they evaporated. Dammit, I knew they were there. It was like when a word was on the tip of your tongue, but it just wouldn’t come. The circuits in my brain were misfiring. Why couldn’t I recall my own name?!
The faint notes of a song danced across my mind once again. I compelled myself to focus only on the deep, soothing timbre of the voice that was singing. I told myself to breathe in and breathe out to each strum of the guitar’s strings.
I was alive and breathing on my own. All I needed was a little time.
Little by little, I calmed myself enough to gather clues about my circumstances. I was resting in a bed. I could hear soft, mechanical beeps and swooshes. And there was a stale antiseptic smell coming directly into my nose. It took what felt like forever for me to connect the dots. I was in a hospital.
That explained the pain. I didn’t like feeling helpless or out of control. I had to stop and assess my current situation and break down the events that had landed me here.
Fingers—I tried to curl them into a fist, but with all my effort, they barely brushed against the smooth surface they rested on.
Toes—they wouldn’t wiggle, but I knew they were there .
Eyes—I just had to open them. Let someone know I was here. But no, they wouldn’t obey my command.
I was frozen inside my icy crypt. My only saving grace was the voice— his voice, each note sung with a gentleness that was like a lifeline cast across the turbulent seas of my mind. I clung to it, the intonation blending with the gentle plucking of guitar strings and somehow softening the sharpest edges of my pain. I swallowed. This motion that should’ve come naturally was now a forced maneuver.
But soon I found that each breath was getting easier, a little less like inhaling glass. Each note of the song brought me one step away from the precipice of panic.
As I lay there, tethered to life by the melody, something encouraging began to happen. The darkness that swirled around the edges of my consciousness receded a bit, pushed away by the warmth of his song. The fear that had clutched my heart started to dissolve, replaced by a deep, overwhelming gratitude. Here in this sterile hospital room, amidst the beeping machines, his music was my sanctuary.
I wanted to tell him. I wanted to open my eyes, to speak, to let him know that his presence was my only comfort. But my body refused to cooperate, and I remained a silent, invisible listener, my voice locked deep within.
Then, another voice pierced the serenity—a woman’s voice, crisp and professional, saying, “Visiting hours are wrapping up. It’s time to go.” A simple sentence, yet it fell upon my ears like a sentence of doom.
Desperation surged within me, an urgent plea for him not to leave. I needed him. His voice was the only thing keeping the darkness at bay. But I was powerless, my thoughts unspoken, my pleas unheard. I wanted to cry out, to beg, to hold on to the man.
“See you tomorrow, my pretty warrior,” he whispered. Then, the sound of his footsteps—a soft shuffle—faded away. With the absence of his voice, the cold void descended immediately, enveloping me once more.
More questions hit me. Why did he sound so worried? Did I know this man? He claimed me as his, but I had no memory of him. But then again, my mind was a jumbled mess. Did I have a memory of anyone?
A single tear escaped, tracing a warm path down my cheek. The comforting blanket of his music had been ripped away, leaving the bleak reality of my solitude to press down upon me.
As the door clicked shut, a heavy darkness rolled over me again, thick and suffocating. Everything went dark once more—the pain, the fear, and the loneliness merging into an oppressive force that dragged me into the realm of sleep.