Page 98 of This Love
Date: 11-17-2025.
I said the name aloud. “Ava Giddings.” Ava felt right. Giddings less so. I turned to the mirror. “Ava Giddings.” The face there looked grim. Unhappy. I touched my cheeks. Ava Giddings.
More blood had welled up on the back of my hand. I reached for the handle of the faucet, but spotted something written on my skin. The sleeve of the gown fell back as I lifted my arm and turned my wrist.
Three lines of words, jagged and black.
Trust only this handwriting.
Find the book.
Remember your life.
Fear bolted through my body. Something inside me aligned. The terror. The urge to hide. It was real. What was my life? Why didn’t I know it? Who took it?
Trust only this handwriting.
I glanced around. Mirror. Walls. White shower curtain. There were no words. Where would there be handwriting? On the bracelet? Those letters didn’t match the words on my arm.
My breathing sped up so hard that I pressed my hand to my chest. I had to brave going into the big room again. Maybe the right handwriting was out there!
I listened carefully but heard nothing. I eased the door open and stepped out.
Where was the handwriting?
A whiteboard on the wall had words written on it. I approached to peer at them. At the top was “Ava Giddings.” That was me. “RN Kenisha. LVN Jennifer.” I had no idea who they were. The date written below the names matched my bracelet. 11-17-25.
But the handwriting wasn’t the same as on my arm. It was short and angled. Mine was tall and straight.
Trust only this handwriting.
I opened the cabinets and knocked the contents onto the floor. There were cups. A pitcher. A basin. But no handwriting. The bedsheets flew through the air as I jerked them from the mattress. Nothing.
I spotted a duffel bag by the wall. Something about it felt right. I lunged for it.
Inside were clothes. Jeans. A shirt. A bra. Underwear. Shoes. Pajamas. It was stuffed tightly.
I snatched one of the shoes and shoved my foot inside. It fit.
These were my clothes. My bag.
The gown hit the floor, and I stripped off the weird paper underwear. The inside was red with blood.
I paused. A hospital was for sick people.
But then I saw something else. More words on my skin.
Ava Roberts. 7-7-00.
Those were written in the same handwriting as on my arm.
But wait. I checked my bracelet again.
Patient: Ava Giddings.
The names didn’t match. Something was wrong.
I read the words on my other hip.
