Drop

Drop

Status: In Progress

Genre: Romance

Details

Status: In Progress

Genre: Romance

Tags

Summary

One day, I knew nothing. Then all I knew, was him.

Tags

Summary

One day, I knew nothing.


Then all I knew, was him.

Chapter1 (v.1) - • Chapter 1 •

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: December 07, 2018

Reads: 122

A A A | A A A

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: December 07, 2018

A A A

A A A

 

 

Drip. Drip. Drip.

 

It's funny how people wake up different ways.  Some wake at once, whilst others retain consciousness slowly and gradually. Me? I feel like I have been awake and asleep at the same time for an unknown amount of hours... because that was it: I don't know. I don't know anything.

 

I'm in a bed, because I can feel it underneath me - hard and springy and giving me a sore lower back, as I'm leaning against the cushion at my shoulders.

 

I feel hot and stuffy, but I force myself to wiggle my fingers and my toes. Everything responds back - though my right arm feels stiff - and a huge heaviness lifts from my chest: I was afraid I would wake up with missing limbs...

 

My eyes decide to open at just that moment, slowly, leisurely. They are crusted and painful, but the more I blink, the better they feel.  At first, everything is blurry, but then my eyes get used again to seeing.

 

I'm covered in a light swamp blue cover, the threads distinguishable and loose and oddly shiny. My right arm is in a heavy cast, whilst my left has a clear drip attached to it. But that isn't what caused the slight, wet tapping noise I first heard.

 

Drip.

 

There, on the ceiling at the corner of the room, moisture is accumulating, making the material look shiny, abiding to gravity every so often in the form of a drop of water.

 

The room is awfully small, another bed propped on the other side, my roommate-slash-other patient hidden completely under the covers with only brown hair peeking over. They are uncomfortably still. 

 

The sky is grey and cloudy outside the drape-less window; the walls are painted grey and chipped; the flimsy metal bed frame at my feet is a steely grey. Grey, grey, grey... So much depressing grey.

 

My body starts twitching in light tremors, beguiling the fact I'm feeling warm. Maybe I'm in shock... but I don't feel like it. You would think I would be hyperventilating right now. When you see movies or dramas, people always start screaming and throwing things around once they wake up not knowing what happened, why they're there.

 

I don't have the energy to scream. I don't want to throw things around. I just feel nothing at the fact that I can't remember anything. 

 

Not a damn thing.

 

Time passes irrelevantly as I stare at those stupid drops falling one by one. They're mesmerising, soothing nearly, keeping my thoughts at bay. I don't dare move an inch, fearing the needle in my left arm would slip out some way, or I would make my right arm heal wrongly if I messed up the cast, even if I feel something stuck on my forehead that I'm dying to feel with my fingertips to find what it is.

 

The daylight has faded and shy sunset rays are creeping over the walls when the door to the room opens, revealing a woman. A nurse, because she's dressed like one, approaches me quickly, looking surprised but ecstatic to see me awake.

 

She starts babbling immediately, the cadence of her words telling me she's asking questions. I couldn't understand anything, but the sharp clucking sounds makes me realise what language she's speaking, "I'm sorry, I can't talk in Xhaso."

 

Her face falls, and it makes me feel ashamed at my own linguistic ignorance, but then she quickly brightens again, "No worries miss," her accent is strong but beautiful, telling me she has an identity she is proud of and doesn't want to change, "we can speak English just as well!"

 

I muster a weak smile, but it doesn't last long. I still feel so empty.

 

"How do you feel, miss?"

 

I reply that I feel just fine, regardless of the itchy cast, a prickly needle under my skin I can feel every time I just so breathe, and that I am uncomfortably warm and sweaty. She listens, nods, and promptly adjusts the covers lower for me.

 

She then starts doing her medical routine: she checks my pupils with a flashlight - humming at the results, takes my blood pressure, counts my heartbeat, checks under the bandage stuck on my forehead. After each one she unhurriedly scribbles down on her notepad. 

 

I wait patiently because... there is nothing to be impatient about.

 

"Your concussion is much better today, miss," She tells me happily, her brown eyes sparkling.

 

"I had a concussion?" It's weird how now I finally have a piece of information about myself. I imagine going to a job interview, and the employer asking me to tell them about myself - oh, I don't know what I want to do or what my strengths are, heck I don't even know my name or age, but I have a concussion, that good enough?

 

Don't think it would be.

 

"Yes miss, do you remember how you got it?"

 

I shake my head, "No," and just to get it out in the open I continue with, "I don't remember anything."

 

Saying it out loud feels... unreal. Like I am talking in a dream. Or maybe I'm hoping all this was a dream.

 

She furrows her brows and I nearly blurt out at her to stop, that she was gonna get lines on her forehead and she's too pretty for wrinkles.

 

"Your name... age... where you are?" 

 

I shake my head at both, making her even more pensive. After some seconds though, she brightens back and I am glad to see her eyes sparkle again, "No worries, miss," and it's so much like the first words she spoke to me in English it's uncanny, "it's normal for amnesia to happen after a concussion, your memory will come back soon."

 

I wish I could feel as radiant as she looks, but at least her words make me feel hope. Finally, an emotion.

 

"You are in Mother Theresa Hospital," she starts, "in the city of East London. Do you know what country we're in?" 

 

I again shake my head.

 

"We're in South Africa. You were found yesterday morning unconscious by the river."

 

I greedily gulp all the information. They say babies and small children are like sponges, assimilating data crazy quick, but I am no child, and I still feel like a sponge, gobbling up every word. Apparently joggers found me early in the morning, half in the water, half by the river bank, with a nasty gash on my forehead. Apparently I had slipped, hit my head on the rocks, and probably fell on my arm too, causing a fine line break in the bone. I am lucky, the nurse then goes to say, it could have been worse.

 

It also could have been better.

 

"You had no identification, miss, so we don't know who you are." Her face is apologetic, but I don't mind. I have nothing to mind, really. "But don't worry, we have put advertisements around the city. I'm sure lots of people are looking for you!"

 

The comment arrests me, as I haven't thought of it before. The fact that some people could know me. The fact that I could have a mother and father somewhere, siblings too, a whole family... friends... colleagues... They know me, but I don't know them. 

 

"The facilities are down the corridor. You don't need this anymore," She carefully takes the needle off me, quickly pressing a plaster on the incision faster that I can track. 

 

Now that she mentioned it, I really need to use the toilet. The nurse helps me to get up of bed, assuring me my casted arm will be just fine as long as I don't stress it too much. My legs wobble a little, and my head gets light for some heartbeats, but I manage to get steady and walk to the door by myself.

 

At the corner of my eye, I see the nurse do a quick check up on the other patient in the room, just lowering the covers a bit until more strands jut out, and repositioning them back as before. The figure underneath is still unmoving.

 

"I'm glad you're way better, miss. Unfortunately, I have many other patients, so I have to go. Make sure to remember the way back to this room. I will see you."

 

Before she can walk outside the room, I stop her, "Wait, how will I pay the hospital? I- I don't know... if I have money, or a job... or-"

 

"Don't worry, miss," her repetitive statement is calming, the only stable thing I have in the moment, "we'll find a way for you to pay when you'll be discharged. I'm sure your family will find you before then, though." And she prances off leaving the door open.

 

The room is again dreary and empty, and I'm glad I can leave it, even though I have to clutch my right arm to keep it in place all the time. Why didn't I get a sling? Seeing as the door has chipped corners and even a fist-sized hole in it, I guess their finances aren't that well off.

 

Closing the room behind, I face the corridor in front of me. I don't know who I am, but I do know that I have a concussion, and, possibly, a new friend in the nurse. And that I've already gotten myself a debt.

 

Even though the fluorescent lights are on and painfully bright, the hallway still feels gloomy and dreary. The corners are dark, probably still harbouring faraway wails of family members in despair, the invisible diseases of ghosts past. 

 

The stench of closed up people and body odours is powerful and nearly choking. I thought my room smelled bad, with its stale, cold and mouldy air, but this was on another level, and I feel like I have been quite well treated to until now.

 

There are no signs to direct me the way, so I randomly turn right and start walking. I could have asked some of the many people stationed on the floor, but I don't like their looks. I feel uncomfortable seeing all their open wounds, their grimaces of pain, their curious glances.

 

It's probably because I'm in pyjamas and heavy socks. I woke up with them, and I'm guessing the hospital didn't change me. Something else from my past. The bottoms have no pockets, so the only thing I know is that apparently I liked to sleep in light green cotton wear and striped socks. And apparently I was also the type of girl to take early morning walks by the riverbank in my night clothes.

 

Was I that weird? 

 

The groaning and hissing and low conversational murmur is a constant background noise, something I can focus on instead of thinking about my situation. The toilets is another small space consisting of two cubicles, but I close the main door regardless, wanting the privacy. 

 

The first cubicle doesn't have any paper, so I have to raid the other one. I use an exorbitant amount to clean the seat before doing my business, feeling slightly panicky at the thought of catching something, of dirt and malaise on every surface.

 

The water is cold but I don't mind, splashing it on my face to try to wake myself up. I still feel so lost, like I'm not actually in this body and making all these actions. There's no mirror above the sink, but I'm irreversibly glad, not ready to see myself yet. Not ready to see someone I don't know how to be.

 

The walk back is as strained as before, but the people are less curious now, their heads bent, many bald with sweat shining on their dark skin. I'm back in front of my room, but I don't want to go back in. I have nothing to look forward to in there except losing myself to the sound of dripping water or by wondering about the other patient inside, if they're even still alive.

 

So I take the left route this time, and I lose myself to walking a myriad of corridors instead, the buzzing noise of the lamps overhead fading and strengthening as I pass under each one.

 

I walk and walk, not caring that I'm probably re-stepping on some hallways, not caring that some have probably seen me twice, three, four times in a row already. I walk so I get tired, because I want to feel tired, I need to feel.

 

And then I arrive at the entrance after finding some stairs and going down. There's more voices here, but they're louder, more urgent. There's more crying going on too, because, unlike the people upstairs, the ones down here still had hope, still thought everything was going to be alright. They were at a hospital finally, they had to make them better. They had to save them.

 

I look through them, to the glass doors leading outside. There's an outside, I tell myself, a whole world I used to live in. It's dark of the night, interrupted only by the headlights of cars passing left and right. Another patient enters, more blood fills the room, more hope.

 

And I stand there, still clutching my invalid arm just at the side of the reception counter, not breaking my stare at the doors. I could leave now, nobody would know, nobody would really care, just to take a breath of fresh air. Too many people were here, too many cuts and stabbings and accidents, too many emotions. Maybe if I took a walk it would even help me... help me remember something from my other self. Or maybe I could simply disappear, forget about my past. Forget about everything.

 

I start for that direction, shutting out the screams and tears running freely around me.

 

"Zenaida!"

 

I'm so close I can feel the air getting lighter, cooler, cleaner.

 

"Zenny!"

 

My hand is just there, so ready to pull the knob and usher myself away from the chaos and confusion, but my body is pulled backwards, and in a fast whirl I'm hugged tightly by someone, clutching my head to their chest.

 

"God, Zenaida, I found you... I found you..."


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