Page 15 of Prelude to Madness

Breathing was difficult, talking even more so.

“Angel, are you ok? Come back to me. Please don’t leave me.”

What did he mean? I was going nowhere. I just needed to sleep.

A hand held mine, a thumb stroking back and forth, providing comfort.

“I’m not leaving you,” I whispered. “I’m staying right here.”

“Oh my god, Rick. You’re awake.”

Of course I was awake, and who the hell was Rick?

I slowly opened my eyes. I was no longer in the plush bedroom of my captor but in a room, stark and cold, a man I didn’t recognise sitting next to me.

I snatched my hand away. Who the hell was he, and why was he holding my hand?

So many questions and very little in the way of answers.

“Nurse, he’s awake. He’s awake,” the man shouted.

I closed my eyes and tried to go back to sleep. Hopefully, I’d wake up again back in the comfort of my captor’s room, but the incessant beeping of the machine attached to me kept me awake.

Fuck!

Was this real? Or was my captor’s room real?

I was so fucking confused.

A myriad of people talking, poking, and prodding me, prevented me from going back to sleep. Small lights were shone in my eyes, and my blood pressure was taken several times. All the while, I wished I was somewhere else…with someone else.

I answered questions as much as I could. What year was it? Who was the prime minister? Did I know what had happened? All my replies were correct.

The only answer I couldn’t give was the name of the man hovering in the doorway. The one with worry in his eyes, the one asking the questions.

The one proclaiming to be my husband.

Eric/Rick

“Don’t you remember me?” my husband asked, tears in his eyes.

I shook my head. I had absolutely no recollection of who he was, but I knew he believed what he said to be true.

It was several days after I’d woken up, and he was still here. He’d stopped holding my hand, but had kept his place at my bedside, rarely leaving it.

A woman who said she was his mother would occasionally visit, a pitying look on her face as she watched her son try desperately to get me to remember him.

I’d heard them whisper as I feigned sleep, talking about what they could do to help me remember. It was no use. The only men I recalled were Hugo and my captor.

I glanced over to the table by the window, feeling a connection to the sparsely decorated Christmas tree. It looked how I felt: miserable.

The machines had gone at least, as had the beeping, leaving behind an uncomfortable silence.

“Can I show you some pictures?” Dex asked.

I nodded. It couldn’t hurt. He helped me sit up and fluffed my pillows, making me more comfortable.

“This is us on our first holiday together,” He flicked to another. “And this is us getting the keys to our apartment. Took us ages to get your piano up the stairs. It reminded me of ‘Friends’.”