I'm sorry. I tried to apologize to the screaming voice, but no one was listening. The searingly familiar burn began to overtake my right side, and I dimly perceived a figure on the floor in front of me. Their face was contorted in agony, their limbs splayed in a million unnatural directions.
I'm no good for you. The memory of Rian's voice pushed through my muddled, terror-stricken mind. But that wasn't right, that didn't belong here, why was that here? A hand closed over my wrist and I stopped thinking as the burn intensified, then doubled, then tripled. I screamed, but not out loud, not for myself. Let me go. Please. Let me save—
Hanna!
My own name jarred me awake. I stifled a scream, settling instead for a shuddering breath. It's okay. It was over, it was gone. The nightmare was gone.
But it was just a lie I told myself, similar to the one you'd tell a crying child, scared of the monster under their bed. The monster might've been fake, a ghost buried in the past, but the memory of that fear never really left.
The sunlight streamed inside and I realized it was already morning. Unlike last time, I didn't deny myself the pleasure of admiring how beautifully the sun lit the room. Even if I couldn't escape the guilt, dwelling on it wouldn't do anyone any good. Apologizing might help, but for me to do that my forgiver had to actually remember what I was apologizing for.
Which reminded me: I had a task to accomplish.
I slid off the bed, eager to wash the cold sweat off my body. As I stepped into the shower, a thought came to me. It wasn't one I hadn't had before, but I'd selfishly ignored it: maybe Rian was purposefully repressing his memories, trying to keep that trauma from becoming fresh again.
The hot water mercilessly pelted my shoulders. It made sense. It would explain how he could forget so much in just three years, and I'd be lying if I said I hadn't wished for amnesia myself. When the tears finally stopped and I was left feeling numb and empty, all I'd wanted to do was forget.
So yeah, it made sense. The irony was not lost on me: a psych major who may be repressing his memories? How very Freudian, I contemplated drily.
My train of thought persisted even after I got out of the shower and started preparing for the day. Despite my reasoning, there were things that didn't make sense about Rian's supposed memory loss. Things that just didn't fit.
His knowledge of Apartment 212, for example. I now refused to believe it was simply a coincidence that he'd chosen that particular apartment to live in, or that he had the book on hand. He was probably reading it when he started feeling sick, I realized. The book triggered the fever.
There was his nightmare, too. And that episode I'd had in the elevator. He had been too controlled, too unsurprised by my actions for him not to have known their cause. He hadn't denied the accusation I'd flung at him in the hospital, either.
Who am I kidding? I thought, amazed it took me this long to solidify my convictions. He's playing with me. He remembers, that fucking—
An abrupt knock on the door interrupted me. I looked up sharply from where I'd been seething on my couch. It was too early for visitors. Rokim, maybe?
I stood and walked over to the door, carelessly pulling it open. "Listen, Rokim, today's not—"
My voice died in my throat as I noticed who was standing in the doorway. Here's a hint: it wasn't Rokim.
Of course it isn't, because why the hell not?
Rian stared down at me, one eyebrow raised at my little case of mistaken identity. He didn't seem impressed. "Expecting someone?" he asked, and I hated how easily his voice made my blood pump faster and mouth go dry.
YOU ARE READING
Finding Obsidian
RomanceHe brushed his lips against my jaw, his dark hair falling over his brow. "Open your eyes," he commanded. "Look at me." I followed his orders and looked into the raven-black depths before me. I saw my entranced gaze reflected in his glaring one. "Tel...
18 - Return of the Asshole, Again
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