Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 164705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 824(@200wpm)___ 659(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 164705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 824(@200wpm)___ 659(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
Syringes made me nauseous. I knew. Not from memory, but through the unpleasant, hot sensation drip-drip-dripping into my stomach.
Obviously, I’d landed myself in a hospital. In America, judging by the signs written in American English.
When did I move to the States?
I vaguely remembered taking a flight, but I couldn’t remember when, why, or who with.
There was a lot I couldn’t remember.
My head throbbed, my thoughts swimming against a current of sticky goo. I reached for my forehead, patting what felt like gauze wound tight around my skull. Tendrils of gold-red locks ivied my fingers, matted with blood. My heart lodged in my throat, struggling to beat.
What happened to me?
Think, think, think.
A jumbled mess of thoughts muddled my mind. I tried to sort through them, forming mental columns of what I knew as facts and what I guessed in my head:
Things I knew for a fact:
– I was in a hospital room.
– It was nighttime. (The clock read 4 a.m., and pitch black stretched across the window.)
– I was no longer a teenager, but a woman. (Exhibit A: Boobs.)
– I was involved in some kind of accident. (Car crash, sky diving fiasco, a tumble through a meat grinder, judging by the extent of the pain.)
Things I guessed to be true:
– I was in the U.S.
– I was no longer in contact with my parents.
– I was suffering from memory loss.
The last part sent my pulse skyrocketing. Huge chunks of my memory left gaping holes in my skull. I rummaged in my brain for my latest recollection, ignoring the acute, throbbing pain that sliced through it like a knife. A hotel. I remembered a hotel. A beautiful one. Though I couldn’t remember what I was doing there or who I was with.
Panic clawed up my stomach, grabbing ahold of my throat. The door to the room pushed open, and a man in a crisp white coat strolled inside, swinging a clipboard. A doctor.
“Oh. Ms. Auer.” He offered a warm smile. “You’re up.” He didn’t look surprised by that fact.
Maybe your injury isn’t that bad?
I noticed that he’d called me Ms. Auer. Did that mean I wasn’t married? I definitely did not remember getting married.
I attempted to scoot up to a sitting position and regretted it immediately. A groan slipped past my lips. Everything hurt too much.
“No, please. I’ll come to you. You’re hooked up on a lot of painkillers and will probably take a few hours before you’re good to walk.”
“I’m not dead?”
It slipped out, but I had to check.
“Not dying.” He smiled, stopping in front of my bed. “I’m Doctor Cohen, and I was here when they rushed you in a few hours ago. How are you feeling?”
“Like hell, but somehow worse.”
He pulled a pen out of his clipboard and began jotting notes. “What hurts?”
“Everything apart from my toes. I can’t feel them.”
“Do you remember what happened?”
I shook my head, tears stinging the backs of my eyelids. I didn’t know anything. Not what happened, not where I lived, who my friends were, what I did for a living …
“Please stay calm.” Doctor Cohen paused to pat my hand. “I’m here to catch you up on everything. There’s nothing to worry about. This is completely typical for your kind of injury.”
“W—” I hesitated, scared of what I’d hear. “What happened to me?”
“You slipped into a water hazard on a golf course.”
My head spun. “Golf course?”
I didn’t know how to golf, and I’d never taken interest in it. Jason and Philomena Auer dedicated whole weekends to the sport, which was enough reason for me to avoid it entirely.
“You hit your head pretty hard on machinery on your way down and suffered a concussion.”
A flash of memory zipped through my mind like thunder. Water. I remembered water. A lot of it. Everywhere.
“How long was I underwater?”
“Not very long. He said a minute or two, maybe.”
“He?”
“Your rescuer.” Doctor Cohen set down his clipboard, hooking it on the edge of the bed. “A man by the name of Oliver von Bismarck.”
Oliver.
Butterflies fluttered behind my ribcage. I remembered Oliver. My boyfriend. No. More than that. My … everything. And he saved me. We were still together.
The instant relief that settled into my bones swept away the nerves.
I rolled my shoulders back, shocked at how much less it ached, now that I had some semblance of familiarity to clutch onto. “Is he okay?”
“Yes, he’s fine. You’ve got quite the sturdy workhorse out there. Came in dripping wet and stripped in the halls after we assured him you’d be fine.”
I laughed, wincing at the way my throat twisted and scratched. “Stripped?”
That sounded like Oliver alright.
“Gave the nurses quite the show.” Doctor Cohen must’ve caught my horror because he shook his head, unable to hold back his grin. “Don’t worry. He kept his pants on. The nurses offered him a spare shirt.”