Amnesia (Completed, Being Edited)

Prologue

A/N: This story was inspired by 100 Voicemails, by HSH_DeathStar . I read it, I was blown away, and it sparked something inside of me.

There was a lot more sexually explicit content, but due to Wattpad's guidelines, I tamed it down. However, this book is still R rated. If you want to see the sexual content, view my Penana or Booksiesilk profile.

***

I hate hospitals.

The smell of antiseptic assaults your nostrils, and every time that I can remember being to a hospital in the past, it was for the purpose of visiting someone that I cared about.

I hate seeing someone that I love in such a vulnerable state; I even remember seeing my aunt after she had gone brain dead, kissing her cheek and crying as I told her goodbye before they took her off of life support.

Today, however, I am not visiting anyone; apparently, I've been in a coma for over a year.

Fourteen months, eight days.

Legend has it that on October 15, 2015, I, Caleb Winters, decided to ride a horse.

A fúcking horse.

What a joke. Last I checked, I hated those demon spawn fuckérs with mohawks and shovels for feet.

Not that I have anything against mohawks. They're cool, just not on horses.

Anyway, my mum says that I finally got the courage to mount one of those fúckers, which is what landed me here: in a hospital, waking up from a coma.

The worst part is that I don't remember shít. I can't remember anything past a year before supposedly mounted the demon spawn, and I lost some specific memories.

For example, when I woke up, I couldn't remember my shoe size.

However, my doctor said that I should be back to normal in a few weeks, or months.

Mumbling to myself, I pick up my phone - apparently, I have an iPhone 6s - and unlock it with the password my mother told me this morning (why would I even tell her that?).

As soon as I open it, I see in my notifications that my WhatsApp is blowing up with messages, specifically voice notes.

What's even more interesting is every single one since the December after my coma, and many before that too, are from the same contact: Eve.

Come to think of it... how does my phone number even work anymore?

I go to my call log and scroll through, and guess what I find?

My phone has been active; it's been making calls to "Eve".

What the hell?

I go back to her voice notes, and decide to listen. Who knows. I might get some insight into my life, as well as who the hell has been using my phone.

The girl speaking has a heavily accented voice, and a strong wave of Deja vu washes over me as soon as I hear it. However, I shrug it off.

The first one speaks of how she visits me every day, and reads Harry Potter while playing MCR in the background just how I like it.

Oh, and let's not forget the line, "Hey, Caleb. It's your girlfriend, Evetta."

Girlfriend.

Fuck.

Now presently, I don't remember ever having a girlfriend, but I'm pretty sure that one of the criteria of being a good boyfriend, is remembering that you have a fúcking girlfriend.

Amnesia or not, I have a feeling that Evetta is going to be very hurt.

I keep listening, though. I keep trying to decipher her accent, which becomes more pronounced when she gets excited; sometimes, she just starts speaking in some strange creole.

"... do' get why dis' bomboclaat gyal do' cuum out o' mi fuckin' face."

Bomboclaat.

Jamaican.

It is further revealed that she is the one who used my phone to call herself to keep my number active, so that she could keep sending me messages.

I keep listening. Even through the night and into the next day, I listen to her voice; the "I love you"s and "I'll be there"s. The more I listen, the more I realise that I know her - some part of me remembers her. The Deja vu I felt earlier was because she and I are connected so deeply that even after being incapable of remembering so much, my subconscious remembers her.

The last voice note that she sent ends with "I'll be there for you when you wake up."

That was two days ago; she's bound to either send me another voice note, or find out that I'm awake and visit me soon; and what the hell am I supposed to do when that happens?

As if on cue, my room door bursts open, and in comes a girl. She's short, round in the face and has caramel skin; the ends of her natural, curly afro hair are died turquoise, and brown eyes lined with navy blue liner stare at me with curiosity, relief, but most of all, love.

It's as if I've never seen her before in all my life, but I know her.

I don't even have to ask who it is, or wait for an introduction.

"Evetta," I breathe, but from the way that her lips curl into a smile, I know that she heard me.

I smile back, although I am anything but calm. I'm shitting myself.

The question in the forefront of my mind is:

What do I say to her now?