Page 23 of Midnight Between Us
“Do you know where you are?”
I look around.White walls.Machines.Didn’t she mention I’m in a clinic?So I blink once.
“Good, you remember Birchwood Springs.”
That name hits differently.More like wrong.Something inside me knots, pulling tight without warning.I blink twice, more slowly this time.
“Okay,” she says carefully, like she’s tiptoeing around something fragile.“Maybe this is temporary amnesia.We’ll start with the basics.I’m Dr.Moreau.You’re in Birchwood Springs.Do you understand?”
No.I don’t.
But now that she repeats the name of the town, something inside me tugs.It’s like hearing an old song I used to listen to often but never really liked.It scratches at my ribs, searching for a place to settle.
I try to move again.Anything.Arms, legs—nothing.
She sees it.
Her brow lifts slightly as she steps closer.For a moment, I think she’s going to touch me, to ground me somehow, but her hands remain frozen at her sides.
I focus every ounce of energy I have on moving toward her, on catching even the edge of her hand.My fingers twitch uselessly against the sheets.I’m trapped inside my own body, screaming without a voice, reaching without a way to reach.
“You’re not paralyzed,” she says quickly like she knows what I’m thinking.“The neurologist will test soon, but your spine wasn’t compromised.You’ve got a ventilator in, and you’re still coming off sedation.Your body hasn’t yet caught up.But it will.”
She pauses.
Then softer, almost too soft: “There’s a lot going on with you.You flatlined.I brought you back—twice.Your brain swelled.I had to operate, but you’re okay.You’ll be okay.”
My brain?
That explains the pressure.The fog.The missing pieces.
I don’t know what to do with all that information.Honestly, I want to close my eyes again.Slip back into nothing.Go back to the stairs.The hallway.The rock.Where nothing made sense, but at least I didn’t have to pretend it did.
But I can’t look away from her.
Because somehow, I know her.
Not her name.Not her role in my life, but the curve of her mouth, as if she’s holding back tears.The silence that envelops her words.
The ache in her voice when she speaks to me—like it still costs her something.
I want to ask—were you there?In the truck?On the rock?Were you the one who pulled me out?
But I can’t.
So I just stare at her.
And I hope she sees it—the questions clawing at me, the fear bleeding through everything I can’t say.
I hope she understands how fucking terrified I am, because I don’t even know who I am anymore.
Even if the details are foreign, the feeling isn’t.
Fear is something I know too well—and loathe even more.
I hate being vulnerable, hate being exposed, and hate the taste of weakness more than anything.
It curdles in my gut, raw and ugly, a reminder that no matter how broken I am right now, part of me still knows what it means to fight.
