What Happened To Madeline Mason

My Name is Madeline Mason

I am told my name is Madeline Mason. Though at the moment, I'm unsure of all else besides my name.

The doctors say I am lucky to be alive and that with my head injuries I should be dead. Who knows? Maybe I'd been better off dead.

Because now, I'm alive sitting in a hospital room with a chubby white haired man across from me who tells me he is my husband. I do not recognize him. A young woman in her twenties sets next to him, she says I'm her mother and she's my daughter.

But I do not recognize either of their faces. My head pulsates as if someone has bashed my skull in with a 25lb sledge hammer. I'm nauteous and throwing up every twenty minutes or so.

The police have been here too asking me questions and though, I desperately want answers as much as they do. I can't help them. Hell I can't help myself at the moment.

My mind feels as if its a 300 piece jigsaw puzzle eager to be worked and solved. But I have neither the time or the energy to solve it.

My name is Madeline Mason.
I don't know my age.
I don't these people.
I don't know who the president is.
Or the year.

I only have my name and even my name feels wobbly. It's loose on my lips every time I say it to the doctors.
But it is familiar, something about it feels right in a way I can't explain.

The doctors say that the white haired man and the brunette girl are eager to take me home so I can recover in a place that feels familiar to me.

I do not want to go home with these people. Something doesn't feel right about the white haired man. The brunette though, I can't remember her name is very kind and gentle. Being near her, gives me a sense of belonging and peace.

She might be my daughter. But that man is not my husband. To be honest, I'm not sure if I'm even married.

There is no wedding band set on my hand. No locket with my lovers pictures. No way to know other than being forced to believe them.

I tell the doctors I don't want to go home. Especially not with him. The brunette woman says not to worry and holds my hand. She stays by my side almost the entire day.

The moments she leaves the room is the worst. That's when he comes and sits next to me and I roll away from him. Not wanting to look at his cold blue eyes that chill me to the bone.

Someone hurt me. And I wonder if he is the one who did it. The one who caused me to lose my memory. His voice is warm when he speaks to me.

"Don't worry Madeline. We'll go home soon and it'll all be alright. We'll get through this together. I'm so sorry you're hurt dear. I wish I could take the pain away from you and put it on me. I'd do it in a heartbeat." He says as he touches my shoulder softly.

I instantly jerk my shoulder away and continue not to look at him. I do find some comfort in his words. He seems gentle but, something about him makes my skin crawl and my stomach churn.

I'm terrified to go "home." And I don't know why it scares me so much. But it does.

The thought of tomorrow makes me want to scream. Because tomorrow,
I'm going home whether I like it or not.

The doctors are eager for me to recover my memory as are the police who continue to call nightly to check on me. The officers who arrived at the scene were to kind to me and so was the truck driver who found me. He sends sunflowers and "get well soon" cards.

Those sunflowers are the only thing that brightens up my day. Not once has the man claiming to be my husband brought me flowers or cards or chocolates. Only the truck driver.

I don't remember much from that night or the two weeks prior. Or anything about my life before then.

I only remember the truck driver because he stayed with me until "my family" arrived. I remember taking his hand and begging him not to go and not to leave me with these strangers.

But sadly, he did leave and my family since hasn't left me alone to breathe before attempting to smother me with conversations and memories I don't have.

They tell me about my life before and the white haired man says how happy we were though in his eyes I can see he is lying. And the brunette woman tells me of adventures and cafe brunches. All are beautiful images in my mind but none of them seem real or feel familiar to me. It breaks my heart to see the disappointment rush over her face when I tell her I don't remember.