Page 3 of When Forever Stays

Nothing comes to me. Instead of dwelling on my growing fear, I focus on what I do know and ask the first question that comes to mind. “Are you a siren?”

She lifts an eyebrow. “No, I'm not. You must have hit your head. Give yourself some time.”

I nod. Closing my eyes, I try to sort through the muddied waters of my mind. But it’s empty. Blank. My nostrils flare as fear threatens to consume me.

After a few more moments, she asks, “Anything?”

“No.” My voice is thick with emotion but I can’t put my finger on which one. Fear? Anger? Frustration? Most likely, all of the above.

“Okay.” She nods. “That’s okay. Sometimes it takes days for memories to return.”

I hear what she doesn’t say:Sometimes the memories never come back.

The throbbing in my arm increases and distracts me from the fact that I have no memories. I look down and notice a slice in my bicep that burns. Blood both dry and fresh covers the skin surrounding it. My stomach rolls at the sight, but with nothing left in it, I dry heave. She gently rubs my back.

“Why can’t I remember anything?” I ask rhetorically. I don’t know who I am, where I am, or how I got here—let alone how I got this nasty cut. I sober as that realization hits me full force.

The angel-siren must read the look on my face. “It’s going to be okay. I can get you the help you need. Tell me what hurts.”

I flip over onto my back and cautiously sit up. “Everything hurts but the worst part is that I can’t think straight.”

Her expression morphs into one of concern. “Are you able to breathe okay?” she asks.

Taking a deep breath, I wince as my lungs scream at me as if that simple action overexerted them. “My insides feel tight when I breathe, but it’s not a struggle.”

“If you don't have trouble breathing that's a really good sign,” she says.

She drops down to her knees and urges me to lie back down. My head spins, so I close my eyes and breathe deeply, in through my nose and out my mouth.

Once the world stops spinning, things come into sharper focus. Specifically, the feel of two of her fingers pressing against my wrist. I open my eyes and ask, “What are you doing?” My voice comes out gravelly and I allow myself to enjoy the feel of her soft skin pressing against mine.

“Right now, I’m taking your pulse.” Her voice turns clinical, and I notice she’s glancing down at her watch. She nods as if she’s satisfied with what she sees after removing her hand from my wrist. She assesses me with a critical eye. When she looks at the gash on my bicep, she doesn’t even flinch at the blood. “You have a pretty nasty cut on your arm, and your torso is bruised and covered in lacerations.”

“Are you a doctor?”

“No,” she says. “But I have active CPR and first aid certifications.” I’m not sure if I should be surprised by this or not. Either way, I’m grateful she’s the one who found me.

She stops what she’s doing and looks directly into my eyes. Something like a memory trickles through the fog of this same woman sitting across from me at a table, her smile wide and her hand in mine.

The serious woman checking me over and the one in the memory—at least, it feels like a memory—do not match up. The girl in my memories is all warmth and sweet smiles; this woman is coming off as cold and callous. Yet I’m somehow almost positive they are the same person.

“Do I know you?” I ask.

The question appears to catch her off guard as her hands halt and her gaze snaps to mine. “The more important question is one I’ve already asked. Do you know whoyouare?”

I try to think of my name, occupation, anything, but come up empty. Unease and frustration simmer as I try to remember something as simple as my name. I finally say, “No.” Something about her is familiar. Even if I did seem to catch her off guard with my earlier question. There was something there in her eyes, a hint that she does know me. Either way, I’m hoping she can give me some insight into who I am so I ask, “Do you know who I am?”

“Not anymore.” She doesn’t give me a chance to respond before asking, “Do you remember how you got here?” She motions with both hands to our surroundings.

I sit back up, hoping the new position will help clear my head enough to answer what should be simple questions. I’m grateful when the world only sways and doesn’t spin. Once my equilibrium is mostly balanced, I search hard for the answer. The harder I think, the more I realize my mind is more blank than I thought. All short-term and long-term memories are non-existent. I grind my teeth in frustration.

“No.” My tone is gruff. She knows me, and I know her, but I can’t place her. “Do you know what my name is?”

She blows out a breath and stands. “Your name is Rhett Stryker.” That name sounds and feels right. Dusting the sand off her tanned legs, she says, “We better get you to the hospital.”

“Why?”

“Well, let’s see.” She places a hand on her hip and raises her brows. “You have a gash on your arm that probably needs stitches, your torso is black and blue, and you have no memories or knowledge of who you are.” She’s silent for a moment before she asks, “What’s the last thing you remember? If anything.”

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