4. Diego
DIEGO
Leaving an injured, memory-less woman alone in my apartment just screams bad idea, but I’ve got no choice. She needs painkillers, I have to work and keep up appearances, and I need a second to breathe.
She doesn’t remember.
Not me.
Not the crash.
Not what happened to her before she got in my car.
She’s a blank slate with a deep enough fear that she knows, down in her soul, that she doesn’t want to go to the hospital or the cops.
At this rate, it won’t be long until they turn up on my doorstep anyway. Burning the getaway car was a good idea at the time, but it took a night’s sleep for me to realize how pointless it was.
My own car is still there next to two dead bodies.
One look at the license and the cops will batter down my door, lock me in cuffs, and God knows what will happen to Amber.
It’s partly why I leave.
Maybe the cops will track me down, break in and find her, then get her the help she needs.
She might have escaped from a hospital, be someone who harms herself, or even a dangerous person who escaped retribution.
I could have a serial killer in my bedroom, so maybe it’s a good thing the cops will pop by.
I tell myself that on the bus to work. I repeat it as I greet my staff and lock myself in the office, feigning illness, and let the bar run itself for the afternoon. I recite it until curiosity gets the better of me and I start googling.
Starting with missing persons reports, I type in everything I know about her appearance.
A woman as beautiful as that? Someone has to be missing her.
Unfortunately, none of the reports matching my search criteria look anything like her, and those that come the closest are children who have been missing for decades.
Could she be a kidnapped child running away from a captor after decades of torture?
It would explain the fear of authorities, given how someone that cruel would definitely instill that kind of terror.
But those men chasing us seemed… different.
They were dressed smartly and didn’t flinch at running us off the road, beating me, or trying to kill her.
I adjust my search for muggings, attempted kidnappings, car crashes, even explosions, anything I can think of that would result in the wounds she has. Other than a few muggings of nearby stalls and a couple of store robberies, that search also gives me nothing.
At this rate, she’ll think I’m the one who did this to her.
A rowdy patron drags me away from work for twenty minutes and after taking care of him, I return to my computer and cautiously search up details of last night. Surely, someone reported the murders or the car accident, right?
My search comes up empty. The last reported car crash was a week ago.
Should I cover my bases and act like my car was stolen? Maybe, by some weird stroke of luck, no one’s driven that busy road all night or day and nothing has been discovered.
I’m clutching at straws, but it’s enough to calm my racing heart, along with a glass of Bourbon. Liquid courage like that makes it easy to email my insurance with a bullshit claim that my car was stolen, then I end my shift early and take the bus to the local pharmacy.
And stand outside with my heart pounding.
I lost years of my life to drugs. I chased an impossible high that no shot could ever recreate, and the years slipped by until I nearly lost my own life. Now, five years sober, I’ve stayed away from everything and anything resembling drugs and it’s been fine.
Until now.
Assuming Amber’s even still alive, she needs something to help with her pain and I’ve put it off long enough. She can’t get her memory back if she’s overwhelmed by agony and sensation.
But in there are rows upon rows of drugs that will start my spiral back into darkness, and I’ll lose another ten years. Five years have been easy in comparison to the itch that crawls up my spine and nestles in my mind.
I can do this, can’t I?
If I just go in there, buy the strongest ones available, and walk out, it’s fine. They’re not for me. Having them in my apartment won’t set me back.
I mean, sure, it’d be nice to have painkillers again. Numb my body and my mind every once in a while. Would they even work, though? If I really wanted to help her, I could call Tech and get—
No.
I cut that thought off abruptly.
It’s just painkillers. I can do this.
Sucking in a deep breath, I enter the pharmacy and head straight for the counter. The man at the desk doesn’t even bother to look up at me as he types lazily on his computer and speaks to me out of the corner of his mouth.
“Can I help you?”
“I need painkillers.”
“Well, you’re in the right place.”
“Obviously. I need strong painkillers.”
“Got a prescription?”
“No.”
He lifts his head and slowly looks me up and down. Hot sweat breaks out across my shoulders and immediately soaks into my T-shirt while my heart hammers so loudly, it’s a wonder he doesn’t hear it.
“What kind?” he drawls.
“Any. Strong as you can give me.”
“Any allergies?”
“No.” Not that I know of.
“Fine.”
Within ten minutes, my bank account is painfully lighter, and I leave the pharmacy with painkillers burning a hole in my pocket. Oddly, that was more terrifying than being held at gunpoint by Amber.
My heart remains fast like the frantic sprint of a rabbit and doesn’t calm until I’m off the bus and letting myself back into my apartment.
“Amber?” I call for her immediately, relieved that none of the doors look kicked off their hinges. I didn’t notice any unfamiliar cars in the street either, so maybe the cops really haven’t tracked me down yet.
Reaching my bedroom, I nudge open the door.
Amber’s fast asleep on the bed with her beautiful, light auburn hair spread out across my pillow. Her skin is pale, eyes sunken, and she’s not breath—
She’s not breathing?!
“Amber!” Flying across the room, I collide with the side of the bed and grab her arm. “Amber, wake up!”
“Wh-what?” Groggy and weak, her seemingly motionless body springs to life with a deep breath and she slowly opens her eyes. “Diego?”
“Oh, my God.” I sink down onto my knees beside the bed. “I thought you were dead.”
“What?” she croaks again, painfully slowly pulling herself into a sitting position. “Why did you think that?”
“Your skin is so pale and I couldn’t see your chest moving, so I thought—” I cut myself off, panting. “Holy shit. I thought you’d died.”
“You took so long, I thought something happened,” Amber says, wincing sharply. “Then I g-guess I fell asleep.”
“Here.” Pulling the painkiller box from my jeans pocket, I press it into her hands. “Painkillers. Take them.” Back on my feet, I rush into the bathroom where I grab her a cup of water and return to her side. “Don’t overdose, but take what you need.”
“Uh…” Her eyes widen and she frowns at the back of the box, then shrugs and pops four straight out of the foil. Amber crunches them like candy, chases them with several gulps of water, and sinks back into the pillows. “Holy shit. I feel like I’ve died.”
Pink spots seep through the bandages covering her body, and given that it’s been over twelve hours, they definitely need to be changed.
“I’m reminding you again that I’m not a doctor,” I say with a light smile, forcing a few deep breaths to calm my heart. “But I think I need to clean some of your wounds, if that’s okay?”
Amber nods, and her eyelids droop, so I sneak away as quietly as I can and head to the kitchen to retrieve my medical kit.
She looked dead.
She really did.
I can’t leave her alone for that long again. No matter who she is or what she’s done to end up like this, I can’t leave her to die alone in my bed.
I let my brother die. I can't let it happen again.
When I return to my room, she’s sitting up in bed and appears much more awake than before. Slight color returns to her cheeks, although that might be a touch of shyness, given how she can’t look me in the eye when I remove her T-shirt and begin tending to the wounds on her back.
It’s much like a repeat of when we first got here, only this time, I ask her how she’s feeling, how much something hurts, if anything feels broken or in the wrong place. Most of her answers are the same.
She’s fine.
But she flinches at my touch, jerks away from painful wounds, and whimpers through her teeth when I tend to the deepest gash on her head.
“This still looks really bad,” I say after laying new gauze on her forehead. “I really think we should take you to the hospital. Or a doctor. Someone local.”
“No,” she replies with her eyes closed. “We can’t.”
“I know it feels like you can’t, but maybe that’s just the shock of what happened to you, y’know?”
“No.” Amber’s eyes open slowly and she meets my gaze with a sad smile. “It’s too dangerous. If we go to the hospital, we’ll be caught, and the people I’m running from will kill you for killing those men.”