Chicago, September 5th, 2010 AD.
She ached all over. It felt as though a battering ram had been slammed into her poor body repeatedly, by some fierce heavenly avenger. The avenger must have also been exuding a great deal of bright white light, because her eyes seemed to have been blinded.
Maybe she was dead? Floating free, or in free fall in the heavens. Surely she was not in hell. Not in any of Dante’s levels, for surely she did not deserve that!
“Dante?,” a hoarse voice whispered through a quiet room.
Was that her voice? It did not sound like hers. It was hoarse, but the coarse quality seemed more of an aberration than a fact. It was not the voice of command that was used to bellowing orders across a field.
She was no stranger to injuries. She had definitely had her fair share of head injuries which had left her unconscious and then aching for days. But the words that were running through her head? They were strange...
She had always thought in words. Literally. Rather than images rushing through her brain in a river of consciousness, her thoughts came to her with the solid thud of a corporeal step, clad in the words of her people, fully formed ‘ere they reached the conscious stages of her cerebration. However... these words... they were strange in form. Their shape tasted of cold, hard, angles. Their smell twined in sharp thorns. The liquid slither of her tribal words was lost in the solidity of these alien forms.
Tribal words? Liquid slither? What was happening to her? Where were her neural pathways leading her to?
The white, white glare receded slowly. Her eyelids flickered up and down of their own accord. Unseeing green orbs slowly traversed across a white sheet, a cold white hand laying flaccid on said sheet. Understanding did not begin to spark across the velvet pools of forest green even when they touched upon the jean-clad thighs of a strange male.
“Jeans?,” the hoarse voice again reached for her ears, slightly breathy with the beginnings of panic.
The voice was hers. She was speaking, but why did she feel so strangely disconnected from the vocal chords that were issuing these strange, yet understandable words?
“Qu... wha... what’s happening?” The panic was overtaking the hoarseness. The pitch was sneaking to decided high points. The volume was still soft, as though the energy to increase it might be at the cost of a beat of her laboring heart.
Stormy grey eyes moved into her view. Her gaze locked to them, desperate for a lifeline.
“Isadora...,” the eyes seemed resigned. A hint of concern glinted for a moment, and was gone before its reality could be digested.
“You’ll have your way. Sam’s outside, literally in tears. Just... just please don’t start with the dramatics...”
Green eyes clouded over with uncertainty.
“Who are you? Who’s Sam? Where am I? Who’s Isadora?” The words tumbled one on top of the other, not having the patience for clean structure.
Grey eyes rolled, then met hers, pregnant with a thunderbolt of impatience.
“Quit playing your games. This beats everything you’ve ever done. Your selfishness knows no bounds! I can’t believe I’m married to you! And stuck with it too! If it hadn’t been for the bleeding pre-nups, I would have walked out when your brainless fawn of a maid came spouting her cries of suicide at me! Your darling Samantha is out waiting for the nurse to give her OK for you to have extra visitors. So, if you want to see Sam, you better suck in your antics and play nice!”
A tall man unfolded himself from a chair at the foot of her bed. The motion caused a slow feeling of vertigo to envelop her. His face swam in her vision. Chiseled features, raven black hair finger-swept back from a high forehead, deep frown lines above a beak of a nose, black eyebrows lowered over brooding grey eyes, a shadow of a beard showcasing surprisingly soft lips currently in a marked straight line of irritation, and a dark,even tan to highlight the overall ruggedness of him. An eyebrow winged up at her stare.
His lips unfolded, he looked about to speak. After a moment of stares caught, his frown reappeared. Broad shoulders rose and fell in a shrug that spoke of disinterest. A quick turn, and before she could utter another word, his back was to her and he was walking out.
A woman bustled in, dressed in clean lines and smelling of... disinfectant. Nurse. The words swam up to her lips. She was in a hospital. Except... what exactly was the nature of a hospital? She discovered that if she thought too hard, the words stopped making sense. However, if she relaxed and did not focus on the immediate situation, words and descriptions floated into her grasp. She shook her head, bewildered at the uncertainty of the moment.
She realized that she had closed her eyes while these unconnected thoughts were running through her brain. Reluctantly forcing her eyes open, she countered a sharp look from the nurse.
“How are you, Miz Isadora? You have been through a rather nasty patch. We thought we had got to you well in time and flushed out the toxins from your system. You seemed stable and we were just waiting for you to wake up, when all your vital signs went into a spin and we thought we were losing you. And just as suddenly, they stabilized and you’re with us. But we’re still not sure as to what happened, so please be sure to communicate any pain or weakness to us immediately.” A nasal twang added a grounding touch to the meaningless words.
“I’m really sorry, but who is this Isadora? And where exactly am I? What on earth is happening?” A thought popped up. Maybe she had been drugged, forcibly made to ingest a poison which was causing hallucinations? Because how else could she be in a place filled with strange equipment that she had never before seen, talking in a language that seemed alien and yet known? What strange magic was this? She had never before seen the like! Was she being experimented upon? A victim of kidnappers who were then forcing her through some strange torture? What would be the point of it? It made no sense!
The nurse was looking at her strangely.
“Let me just take your readings, and then I will get your doctor immediately.”
The nurse approached calmly, and slipped a cold glass tube, a thermometer, between her lips. She was asked to keep it there for a bit and during that time, a tight pressure wound about her upper arm and slowly deflated. She kept her eyes closed and tried to think things through.
A few minutes later, after scribbling something on a pad, the nurse left after asking her to stay calm.
She drifted slowly in an uncomprehending haze. There were raised voices outside: the man’s, the nurse’s and another female voice. She did not make the effort to try and understand the dialogue. Energy seemed to be in short supply at the moment. A few moments of blessed quiet...
A man came in, trailed by her self-proclaimed husband.
In terms of simple physical looks, she mused, he was quite an attractive specimen for a husband. When taken in separate parts, just his beak of a nose for example, or his square prow of a chin, he was composed of some strangely disenchanting bits. However, the whole picture had a charming, rugged burst, which when taken with the energy that practically halo-ed him, must attract partners in droves. His personality, based on the few lines exchanged between them, was decidedly unattractive. Not being someone who was used to self-delusion, she fully understood that these musings just served to procrastinate her investigation of her present condition. But the pounding in her head, and the depleted energy levels in her system left her quite guiltless over such procrastination.
Ah yes, the new entrant would be the doctor. Said doctor was carefully watching the expressions flit over her face. When she focused her vision upon him, he carefully nodded, made eye contact with the subject of her musings, then turned his attention upon her.
“Ms. Isadora, I just spoke with Sheila. Your nurse? She said that you appeared a little confused as to where you were and why you were here. The where is quite simple; you are in the Saint Bethany Hospital in the recovery ward. The why is not quite so simple. You see, your husband, Mr. Reginald here, rushed you in about 3 in the afternoon, day before yesterday. You had apparently ingested a whole bottle of sleeping pills and left an accompanying suicide note.” A decided note of disapproval crept into his face and voice. “We were successful in flushing the toxins from your system. However, within the hour, you suffered a strange relapse from which you recovered early this morning. Since then, this is the first time you have gained consciousness, and we are anxious to ensure that all is well with you. Do you recall taking the pills?”
Her eyes had slowly widened with each word that the doctor spoke until she acquired a rather frog-eyed look. She had to forcibly calm herself down before reaching the edge of hyperventilation.
“Pills? Sleeping pills? A whole bottle? Toxins? SUICIDE!??!!! What is this nonsense?! Who are you? Why am I here? What is happening?” The machines next to her started beeping, which further increased her panic. She realized that her reaction was bordering on hysteria but there was nothing to ground her, center her, and keep her from the edge.
The doctor, seeing her panic, tried to calm her. The moment he tried to lay his hand on her, however, she started hyperventilating. White glare converged on her vision. She switched her gaze back onto the man named Mr. Reginald, and with his concerned face filling her eyes, she surrendered to unconsciousness.
Her faint must have only lasted a few minutes (a few very embarrassing moments to a woman who prided herself on her iron constitution). When she regained some semblance of consciousness, she could hear the soft conversation between the doctor and Mr. Reginald.
“Mr. Reginald. The only possibility here is some sort of amnesia. Her seizure yesterday might have resulted in such a symptom. Hopefully, it is only temporary. If you take her home and keep her calm, introducing her slowly back into her general surroundings, she might recover very quickly. However, since I do not have any conclusive ideas as to what the cause of her seizure was, I am unable to tell you exactly how quickly she might be cured, or even if she will completely be cured at all. Since she is in fine shape physically, and since there has been a rather drastic increase in the number of patients due to the unfortunate collapse of the bridge nearby, I am going to have to discharge her into your care. Please do bring her in regularly for follow-ups however, as I am still nervous due to her instability yesterday.”
“I understand. However, this situation concerns me. Do you see any need for me to take her to a psychiatrist?”
The word, psychiatrist, was associated with mental conditions. She knew that much. In her state of distress, she jumped to the conclusion that, since her husband was highly against the idea of living with her, he must have been suggesting shutting her up in a mental asylum. The idea of a mental asylum, for some reason, brought her on the verge of hysteria again. Forcing the bile down, she decided that she would pretend to the claim of amnesia for now, until she had a better idea of the situation she has found herself in.
Still whispering to each other, the doctor and Mr. Reginald left the room to the quiet whoosh of the door closing behind them. Slowly opening her eyes, she finally decided that she would start at the beginning and try to understand what had happened to her.
Her mind was blank. Start at the beginning... what was the beginning? Who was she? She was not Isadora Reginald. That much she was very confident about. Knowing who she was not, however, did not bring her any closer to understanding who she was.
Eyes scrunched, and fingers clenched. The delicate skin between her brows developed quiet frown lines. Who was she? What was she? Where was she from? She knew who she was; the information was just outside her grasp. Who was she? Who? Her brain was screaming. If she had had the energy, she would have run out of the room and far away from these people who were claiming impossible things about her! Suicide? She? What complete nonsense! She, who was used to fighting through thick and thin just to survive! Wait! She was some sort of fighter, someone used to injuries, someone who was a rational, generally calm person. She was some sort of heiress and was used to responsibilities. All these she understood because she knew she was NOT the opposite. But, a name! If only she could remember her name!
Amnesia... huh! It was not a word that was in her normal vocabulary. Of that much, she was sure. But it seemed to be the correct word to describe her strange state. She wished there was a mirror. Maybe seeing her own face would help her remember. She looked down at her right hand, unclenched it, stared. The palm was soft, white, and weak! There was not one single callus to mar the milky-white surface. It could even have been called pudgy! She gulped panic down. Her left hand was not responding to her pull. She slowly moved her glance to it. A steel... needle... that was the word, was stuck inside the skin! Deep! Very deep! And the needle was attached to a long plastic cord which was in-turn coming out of an inflated, plastic bladder!
Darkness slammed into her, and with it came a name. Isana’ta’meraska, of the Itraska warriors. She, who was next in line for the leadership of the tribes... She, who was the daughter of Inserin’ta’shkersa and the late Shilansa’ta’meraska, was no fainting tulip! She was definitely no Isadora Reginald, suicide-prone or not! She had been born in the 98th year after the migration of the Itraska outside their sheltered plateau. She was a warrior leader of her people, capable and dutiful. The last thing she remembered before opening her eyes to her supposed husband (husband, hah! She was unmarried!), was being in a skirmish in the northern borders of Jara’din’isk. She had been lying on the lush grass watching the iron-shod hooves of a Felaki’s horse approaching her skull too fast for her to get out of the way.
She must be dead. She must be in hell! But her people did not believe in hell... maybe they believed wrong. But, she felt quite alive. Maybe she had been captured by the Felakis. But, she had never before seen such strange surroundings or heard such a strange language in her world. She had traveled with her father to the furthest lands and had heard the languages of the many ambassadors who had come to visit them. A hundred possibilities tumbled through her brain. Each of the explanations was as full of holes as Swiss cheese.
Swiss cheese! It almost seemed as though her brain was not her own. She was possessed! Yes, either she was possessed or she was possessing someone in a completely different world!
A completely different world... she wanted to guffaw. Her brain must have been scrambled more than she had thought if such strange ideas were appearing genuine to her. Without consciously realizing what she was doing, she pulled the I.V. out of her hand, and walked to the toilet to relieve herself.
Giddiness... Her head swam. How did she know where the toilet was, in this strange place? How had she known to take the I.V. out without realizing it? How had she known how to work the... flush?
She sat down on the bed with a thump. Mr. Reginald walked in. He looked at her, a feeling of sadness apparent on his face. She felt a moment of deep connection with him, which shattered when he spoke.
“Apparently, I will have to take you home with me and indulge your antics for a while. Please do not think to take advantage of my generosity.”
A pot-bellied man barged into the room.
“Rafe, what’s happening? Dora has amnesia?” Each word was a bellow. Each question was accompanied with a slashing hand.
“Yes, sir. Amnesia.” Rafe (so that was his name) responded quietly.
“Dora, what’s this nonsense about amnesia? Get up, get up! You have wasted enough of our time. You had interrupted a rather important business meeting for one of your childish whims.”
Rafe shot a disgusted look at ‘Sana and turned back to the perspiring man.
“Anthony, I’ll take her home and then meet you at Tora’s for lunch. We can start from there.”
“Yes, yes, boy. That’s a good plan. I’ll get the creditors on the phone and get them to meet us there. You, girl,” a pointed look came ‘Sana’s way. “You stop behaving like an adolescent and start putting yourself to better use. Remember our agreement. And no more nonsense about amnesia!” He brushed out of the room leaving stillness behind.
‘Sana frowned after this Anthony. What gave him the right to speak so condescendingly to her? Rafe’s next words cleared her confusion.
“I’ve convinced your father that you are better off coming home with me right now, rather than going home with him and his new wife. Fee,” looking at her incomprehension, “my grandmother, got here just today. She will help you if you need anything. Please try to be nice to her.” The last line was delivered in a tired voice.
A rush of thanksgiving filled ‘Sana as she understood that this supposed husband of hers had given her some reprieve from facing an unknown, even more antagonistic person. Maybe he believed that her condition was true? No. But maybe he just wanted to give Anthony and his new wife a reprieve from what he had termed “her selfishness”. For whatever reason, this was more acceptable to her than going home with her newly discovered, belligerent father.
A nurse came in pushing a wheelchair.
Strangeness filled ‘Sana at seeing this new contraption. From what she recalled in her home, physically handicapped people were lifted on litters, not moved on wheels with chairs. Splendidly intelligent though the concept was, she still felt a shudder creep through her at the feeling of total displacement she was going through.
Rafe, with a gentleness belying his previous harshness with her, handed her into the chair. He stood back and let the nurse push her through the door and to the... elevator. Elevator! How were these new words coming to her? It must be some strange magic. Sternly mocking the panic that was crowding through her, ‘Sana sat through the elevator ride, a little wide-eyed, a little wild-eyed.
Rafe took over from the nurse and pushed her to a large set of steel doors which whooshed open at her feet. She jerked a little, glanced up at Rafe, and blushed.
The bright sun greeted her. It was early evening. She stared around the parking lot. Stared was not the correct word, her eyes were so wide. Cars filled her vision. She blinked, and stared. Stared, and blinked. And suddenly, the newness got too much for her. She closed her eyes and kept them closed till the chair rolled to a stop.
“Your ride, princess.” A sardonic voice splintered through her screaming thoughts.
Riding a sudden rush of hope, she opened her eyes, straining for a glimpse of a horse. Riding would be difficult, but it would still be a pleasure, one point of grounding in this completely new world. A steel beast greeted her. She sighed and got up, staggering just a little.
Rafe’s supportive hand beneath her elbow led her into the passenger seat.
“Your seat-belt.” She blinked at him. There was too much happening inside her head to make sense of this new command.
He frowned at her. Seeing her sit still, he blew out a frustrated breath which made the curls on her forehead dance, leaned in close ,and drew the belt down diagonally across her chest. The feeling of intimacy was new to her. He was close enough that the shallow breaths she dispelled gently skimmed his cheek. If she leaned forward a little, she would be able to brush her lips across the light dusting of hair there. Heat crept up her neck.
Rafe looked at her strangely, eyebrow up. Shaking his head, he went to the other side, got into the driver’s seat and started the car. The purr of the engine and the motion of the car drew a smothered gasp from her. After a few moments, she found the sound and movement strangely comfortable. Slowly, drawing deep breaths, still so lost in her thoughts that conversation with the silent man beside her was not even an option, she let the comfort seep into her. For now, she would see what there was to see. After taking in the situation, she would make up her mind as to what to do. With this resolution, feeling a little bit stronger, ‘Sana let her eyelashes sweep down and on a quiet exhale, she drifted into sweet slumber.
She ached all over. It felt as though a battering ram had been slammed into her poor body repeatedly, by some fierce heavenly avenger. The avenger must have also been exuding a great deal of bright white light, because her eyes seemed to have been blinded.
Maybe she was dead? Floating free, or in free fall in the heavens. Surely she was not in hell. Not in any of Dante’s levels, for surely she did not deserve that!
“Dante?,” a hoarse voice whispered through a quiet room.
Was that her voice? It did not sound like hers. It was hoarse, but the coarse quality seemed more of an aberration than a fact. It was not the voice of command that was used to bellowing orders across a field.
She was no stranger to injuries. She had definitely had her fair share of head injuries which had left her unconscious and then aching for days. But the words that were running through her head? They were strange...
She had always thought in words. Literally. Rather than images rushing through her brain in a river of consciousness, her thoughts came to her with the solid thud of a corporeal step, clad in the words of her people, fully formed ‘ere they reached the conscious stages of her cerebration. However... these words... they were strange in form. Their shape tasted of cold, hard, angles. Their smell twined in sharp thorns. The liquid slither of her tribal words was lost in the solidity of these alien forms.
Tribal words? Liquid slither? What was happening to her? Where were her neural pathways leading her to?
The white, white glare receded slowly. Her eyelids flickered up and down of their own accord. Unseeing green orbs slowly traversed across a white sheet, a cold white hand laying flaccid on said sheet. Understanding did not begin to spark across the velvet pools of forest green even when they touched upon the jean-clad thighs of a strange male.
“Jeans?,” the hoarse voice again reached for her ears, slightly breathy with the beginnings of panic.
The voice was hers. She was speaking, but why did she feel so strangely disconnected from the vocal chords that were issuing these strange, yet understandable words?
“Qu... wha... what’s happening?” The panic was overtaking the hoarseness. The pitch was sneaking to decided high points. The volume was still soft, as though the energy to increase it might be at the cost of a beat of her laboring heart.
Stormy grey eyes moved into her view. Her gaze locked to them, desperate for a lifeline.
“Isadora...,” the eyes seemed resigned. A hint of concern glinted for a moment, and was gone before its reality could be digested.
“You’ll have your way. Sam’s outside, literally in tears. Just... just please don’t start with the dramatics...”
Green eyes clouded over with uncertainty.
“Who are you? Who’s Sam? Where am I? Who’s Isadora?” The words tumbled one on top of the other, not having the patience for clean structure.
Grey eyes rolled, then met hers, pregnant with a thunderbolt of impatience.
“Quit playing your games. This beats everything you’ve ever done. Your selfishness knows no bounds! I can’t believe I’m married to you! And stuck with it too! If it hadn’t been for the bleeding pre-nups, I would have walked out when your brainless fawn of a maid came spouting her cries of suicide at me! Your darling Samantha is out waiting for the nurse to give her OK for you to have extra visitors. So, if you want to see Sam, you better suck in your antics and play nice!”
A tall man unfolded himself from a chair at the foot of her bed. The motion caused a slow feeling of vertigo to envelop her. His face swam in her vision. Chiseled features, raven black hair finger-swept back from a high forehead, deep frown lines above a beak of a nose, black eyebrows lowered over brooding grey eyes, a shadow of a beard showcasing surprisingly soft lips currently in a marked straight line of irritation, and a dark,even tan to highlight the overall ruggedness of him. An eyebrow winged up at her stare.
His lips unfolded, he looked about to speak. After a moment of stares caught, his frown reappeared. Broad shoulders rose and fell in a shrug that spoke of disinterest. A quick turn, and before she could utter another word, his back was to her and he was walking out.
A woman bustled in, dressed in clean lines and smelling of... disinfectant. Nurse. The words swam up to her lips. She was in a hospital. Except... what exactly was the nature of a hospital? She discovered that if she thought too hard, the words stopped making sense. However, if she relaxed and did not focus on the immediate situation, words and descriptions floated into her grasp. She shook her head, bewildered at the uncertainty of the moment.
She realized that she had closed her eyes while these unconnected thoughts were running through her brain. Reluctantly forcing her eyes open, she countered a sharp look from the nurse.
“How are you, Miz Isadora? You have been through a rather nasty patch. We thought we had got to you well in time and flushed out the toxins from your system. You seemed stable and we were just waiting for you to wake up, when all your vital signs went into a spin and we thought we were losing you. And just as suddenly, they stabilized and you’re with us. But we’re still not sure as to what happened, so please be sure to communicate any pain or weakness to us immediately.” A nasal twang added a grounding touch to the meaningless words.
“I’m really sorry, but who is this Isadora? And where exactly am I? What on earth is happening?” A thought popped up. Maybe she had been drugged, forcibly made to ingest a poison which was causing hallucinations? Because how else could she be in a place filled with strange equipment that she had never before seen, talking in a language that seemed alien and yet known? What strange magic was this? She had never before seen the like! Was she being experimented upon? A victim of kidnappers who were then forcing her through some strange torture? What would be the point of it? It made no sense!
The nurse was looking at her strangely.
“Let me just take your readings, and then I will get your doctor immediately.”
The nurse approached calmly, and slipped a cold glass tube, a thermometer, between her lips. She was asked to keep it there for a bit and during that time, a tight pressure wound about her upper arm and slowly deflated. She kept her eyes closed and tried to think things through.
A few minutes later, after scribbling something on a pad, the nurse left after asking her to stay calm.
She drifted slowly in an uncomprehending haze. There were raised voices outside: the man’s, the nurse’s and another female voice. She did not make the effort to try and understand the dialogue. Energy seemed to be in short supply at the moment. A few moments of blessed quiet...
A man came in, trailed by her self-proclaimed husband.
In terms of simple physical looks, she mused, he was quite an attractive specimen for a husband. When taken in separate parts, just his beak of a nose for example, or his square prow of a chin, he was composed of some strangely disenchanting bits. However, the whole picture had a charming, rugged burst, which when taken with the energy that practically halo-ed him, must attract partners in droves. His personality, based on the few lines exchanged between them, was decidedly unattractive. Not being someone who was used to self-delusion, she fully understood that these musings just served to procrastinate her investigation of her present condition. But the pounding in her head, and the depleted energy levels in her system left her quite guiltless over such procrastination.
Ah yes, the new entrant would be the doctor. Said doctor was carefully watching the expressions flit over her face. When she focused her vision upon him, he carefully nodded, made eye contact with the subject of her musings, then turned his attention upon her.
“Ms. Isadora, I just spoke with Sheila. Your nurse? She said that you appeared a little confused as to where you were and why you were here. The where is quite simple; you are in the Saint Bethany Hospital in the recovery ward. The why is not quite so simple. You see, your husband, Mr. Reginald here, rushed you in about 3 in the afternoon, day before yesterday. You had apparently ingested a whole bottle of sleeping pills and left an accompanying suicide note.” A decided note of disapproval crept into his face and voice. “We were successful in flushing the toxins from your system. However, within the hour, you suffered a strange relapse from which you recovered early this morning. Since then, this is the first time you have gained consciousness, and we are anxious to ensure that all is well with you. Do you recall taking the pills?”
Her eyes had slowly widened with each word that the doctor spoke until she acquired a rather frog-eyed look. She had to forcibly calm herself down before reaching the edge of hyperventilation.
“Pills? Sleeping pills? A whole bottle? Toxins? SUICIDE!??!!! What is this nonsense?! Who are you? Why am I here? What is happening?” The machines next to her started beeping, which further increased her panic. She realized that her reaction was bordering on hysteria but there was nothing to ground her, center her, and keep her from the edge.
The doctor, seeing her panic, tried to calm her. The moment he tried to lay his hand on her, however, she started hyperventilating. White glare converged on her vision. She switched her gaze back onto the man named Mr. Reginald, and with his concerned face filling her eyes, she surrendered to unconsciousness.
Her faint must have only lasted a few minutes (a few very embarrassing moments to a woman who prided herself on her iron constitution). When she regained some semblance of consciousness, she could hear the soft conversation between the doctor and Mr. Reginald.
“Mr. Reginald. The only possibility here is some sort of amnesia. Her seizure yesterday might have resulted in such a symptom. Hopefully, it is only temporary. If you take her home and keep her calm, introducing her slowly back into her general surroundings, she might recover very quickly. However, since I do not have any conclusive ideas as to what the cause of her seizure was, I am unable to tell you exactly how quickly she might be cured, or even if she will completely be cured at all. Since she is in fine shape physically, and since there has been a rather drastic increase in the number of patients due to the unfortunate collapse of the bridge nearby, I am going to have to discharge her into your care. Please do bring her in regularly for follow-ups however, as I am still nervous due to her instability yesterday.”
“I understand. However, this situation concerns me. Do you see any need for me to take her to a psychiatrist?”
The word, psychiatrist, was associated with mental conditions. She knew that much. In her state of distress, she jumped to the conclusion that, since her husband was highly against the idea of living with her, he must have been suggesting shutting her up in a mental asylum. The idea of a mental asylum, for some reason, brought her on the verge of hysteria again. Forcing the bile down, she decided that she would pretend to the claim of amnesia for now, until she had a better idea of the situation she has found herself in.
Still whispering to each other, the doctor and Mr. Reginald left the room to the quiet whoosh of the door closing behind them. Slowly opening her eyes, she finally decided that she would start at the beginning and try to understand what had happened to her.
Her mind was blank. Start at the beginning... what was the beginning? Who was she? She was not Isadora Reginald. That much she was very confident about. Knowing who she was not, however, did not bring her any closer to understanding who she was.
Eyes scrunched, and fingers clenched. The delicate skin between her brows developed quiet frown lines. Who was she? What was she? Where was she from? She knew who she was; the information was just outside her grasp. Who was she? Who? Her brain was screaming. If she had had the energy, she would have run out of the room and far away from these people who were claiming impossible things about her! Suicide? She? What complete nonsense! She, who was used to fighting through thick and thin just to survive! Wait! She was some sort of fighter, someone used to injuries, someone who was a rational, generally calm person. She was some sort of heiress and was used to responsibilities. All these she understood because she knew she was NOT the opposite. But, a name! If only she could remember her name!
Amnesia... huh! It was not a word that was in her normal vocabulary. Of that much, she was sure. But it seemed to be the correct word to describe her strange state. She wished there was a mirror. Maybe seeing her own face would help her remember. She looked down at her right hand, unclenched it, stared. The palm was soft, white, and weak! There was not one single callus to mar the milky-white surface. It could even have been called pudgy! She gulped panic down. Her left hand was not responding to her pull. She slowly moved her glance to it. A steel... needle... that was the word, was stuck inside the skin! Deep! Very deep! And the needle was attached to a long plastic cord which was in-turn coming out of an inflated, plastic bladder!
Darkness slammed into her, and with it came a name. Isana’ta’meraska, of the Itraska warriors. She, who was next in line for the leadership of the tribes... She, who was the daughter of Inserin’ta’shkersa and the late Shilansa’ta’meraska, was no fainting tulip! She was definitely no Isadora Reginald, suicide-prone or not! She had been born in the 98th year after the migration of the Itraska outside their sheltered plateau. She was a warrior leader of her people, capable and dutiful. The last thing she remembered before opening her eyes to her supposed husband (husband, hah! She was unmarried!), was being in a skirmish in the northern borders of Jara’din’isk. She had been lying on the lush grass watching the iron-shod hooves of a Felaki’s horse approaching her skull too fast for her to get out of the way.
She must be dead. She must be in hell! But her people did not believe in hell... maybe they believed wrong. But, she felt quite alive. Maybe she had been captured by the Felakis. But, she had never before seen such strange surroundings or heard such a strange language in her world. She had traveled with her father to the furthest lands and had heard the languages of the many ambassadors who had come to visit them. A hundred possibilities tumbled through her brain. Each of the explanations was as full of holes as Swiss cheese.
Swiss cheese! It almost seemed as though her brain was not her own. She was possessed! Yes, either she was possessed or she was possessing someone in a completely different world!
A completely different world... she wanted to guffaw. Her brain must have been scrambled more than she had thought if such strange ideas were appearing genuine to her. Without consciously realizing what she was doing, she pulled the I.V. out of her hand, and walked to the toilet to relieve herself.
Giddiness... Her head swam. How did she know where the toilet was, in this strange place? How had she known to take the I.V. out without realizing it? How had she known how to work the... flush?
She sat down on the bed with a thump. Mr. Reginald walked in. He looked at her, a feeling of sadness apparent on his face. She felt a moment of deep connection with him, which shattered when he spoke.
“Apparently, I will have to take you home with me and indulge your antics for a while. Please do not think to take advantage of my generosity.”
A pot-bellied man barged into the room.
“Rafe, what’s happening? Dora has amnesia?” Each word was a bellow. Each question was accompanied with a slashing hand.
“Yes, sir. Amnesia.” Rafe (so that was his name) responded quietly.
“Dora, what’s this nonsense about amnesia? Get up, get up! You have wasted enough of our time. You had interrupted a rather important business meeting for one of your childish whims.”
Rafe shot a disgusted look at ‘Sana and turned back to the perspiring man.
“Anthony, I’ll take her home and then meet you at Tora’s for lunch. We can start from there.”
“Yes, yes, boy. That’s a good plan. I’ll get the creditors on the phone and get them to meet us there. You, girl,” a pointed look came ‘Sana’s way. “You stop behaving like an adolescent and start putting yourself to better use. Remember our agreement. And no more nonsense about amnesia!” He brushed out of the room leaving stillness behind.
‘Sana frowned after this Anthony. What gave him the right to speak so condescendingly to her? Rafe’s next words cleared her confusion.
“I’ve convinced your father that you are better off coming home with me right now, rather than going home with him and his new wife. Fee,” looking at her incomprehension, “my grandmother, got here just today. She will help you if you need anything. Please try to be nice to her.” The last line was delivered in a tired voice.
A rush of thanksgiving filled ‘Sana as she understood that this supposed husband of hers had given her some reprieve from facing an unknown, even more antagonistic person. Maybe he believed that her condition was true? No. But maybe he just wanted to give Anthony and his new wife a reprieve from what he had termed “her selfishness”. For whatever reason, this was more acceptable to her than going home with her newly discovered, belligerent father.
A nurse came in pushing a wheelchair.
Strangeness filled ‘Sana at seeing this new contraption. From what she recalled in her home, physically handicapped people were lifted on litters, not moved on wheels with chairs. Splendidly intelligent though the concept was, she still felt a shudder creep through her at the feeling of total displacement she was going through.
Rafe, with a gentleness belying his previous harshness with her, handed her into the chair. He stood back and let the nurse push her through the door and to the... elevator. Elevator! How were these new words coming to her? It must be some strange magic. Sternly mocking the panic that was crowding through her, ‘Sana sat through the elevator ride, a little wide-eyed, a little wild-eyed.
Rafe took over from the nurse and pushed her to a large set of steel doors which whooshed open at her feet. She jerked a little, glanced up at Rafe, and blushed.
The bright sun greeted her. It was early evening. She stared around the parking lot. Stared was not the correct word, her eyes were so wide. Cars filled her vision. She blinked, and stared. Stared, and blinked. And suddenly, the newness got too much for her. She closed her eyes and kept them closed till the chair rolled to a stop.
“Your ride, princess.” A sardonic voice splintered through her screaming thoughts.
Riding a sudden rush of hope, she opened her eyes, straining for a glimpse of a horse. Riding would be difficult, but it would still be a pleasure, one point of grounding in this completely new world. A steel beast greeted her. She sighed and got up, staggering just a little.
Rafe’s supportive hand beneath her elbow led her into the passenger seat.
“Your seat-belt.” She blinked at him. There was too much happening inside her head to make sense of this new command.
He frowned at her. Seeing her sit still, he blew out a frustrated breath which made the curls on her forehead dance, leaned in close ,and drew the belt down diagonally across her chest. The feeling of intimacy was new to her. He was close enough that the shallow breaths she dispelled gently skimmed his cheek. If she leaned forward a little, she would be able to brush her lips across the light dusting of hair there. Heat crept up her neck.
Rafe looked at her strangely, eyebrow up. Shaking his head, he went to the other side, got into the driver’s seat and started the car. The purr of the engine and the motion of the car drew a smothered gasp from her. After a few moments, she found the sound and movement strangely comfortable. Slowly, drawing deep breaths, still so lost in her thoughts that conversation with the silent man beside her was not even an option, she let the comfort seep into her. For now, she would see what there was to see. After taking in the situation, she would make up her mind as to what to do. With this resolution, feeling a little bit stronger, ‘Sana let her eyelashes sweep down and on a quiet exhale, she drifted into sweet slumber.
