When I woke up the following day, I was alone. The curtains were shut, the door closed and the lights were dim enough to make it comfortable. Being alone was a relief. I needed a moment alone to think—to try and remember.
The clock on the wall opposite my bed told it's five in the morning. I was thirsty. And hungry. Really, really hungry. I've been trying to swallow saliva a few times to test whether or not my throat still hurts. This morning, it was bearable enough to talk. Although my voice is barely a whisper, I could do it nonetheless. Which means I could ask questions.
What's the last time you remember, Caterina? I asked myself. Think! Think!
Japan. Something with Japan. Yes! A Japanese man rained bullets in a museum in New York. My father and I talked about that over a meal.
My father...
Where is my father? Why isn't he here?
What happened after your meal, Caty? I barked at myself. Priority. But nothing came. It was just there. The rest were just hazy fragments and I didn't know when it was nor the entire picture. Like the talk I had. I had a talk at a university I cannot remember what.
BANG!
...I was on the floor. A man was hovering above me. I cannot move nor hear anything except for the chuckle of his voice and the hanging sound of disorientation. The man was familiar. I knew that crooked teeth and that sick smile anywhere. It's Freddy. I recognized him.
"Say your prayers, little Caterina," he said and he took the shot. I screamed from the pain as the bullet blazed through my skin...
"MARI!" a loud voice shook me off from the memory. I was shaking, lips trembling and eyes watering. I was pulled into a hug by someone I didn't know. But I gripped an arm so tightly I feared it would bruise. Then I was sobbing, warm tears ran down my cheek. "You're okay." The voice came again. It was him. The man from the back of the room. Lucas. My fiancé. "You were screaming. I heard you from the hall."
"I'm sorry miss, Santelli," the nurse who was picking up capsules on the floor. "The tray must've slipped."
I couldn't respond, I was too shaken up to comprehend anything that's going on around me. But Lucas held his ground, unmoving beside me, tightly but comfortably gripping me still. I see how his jaw tightens every now and then, and I can feel the drumming of his thumb on my arm. I was taken aback with the mild memory that followed. Lucas and I were at dinner with my father, I couldn't remember what was being said but Lucas looked like he was ticking. The way his index finger drums the table was the same as he was tapping me.
"Please leave us," Lucas commanded and the nurse nervously nodded and departed the room carrying with her the tray with scattering pills. When the nurse was gone, Lucas slowly let me go, giving me time to breathe and relax. He settled the paper bag he's holding onto the table beside me. Whatever it was, something that smelled good was inside. It made my stomach rumble. "Are you—"
"I remembered," I whispered, frowning as I gripped the memory once more and this time, the tears were unstoppable. "It was him—Freddy. He was holding a–a gun. And I was on the floor." A whimper escaped me and I brought my hands to my mouth to quiet it.
"Mari," Lucas soothed, sitting on the bed with me. He took my hand and I welcomed the warmth he offered. I could see the pain in his eyes as it stared into me and I couldn't ignore how a subtle growl escaped with his breath. "That was supposed to be me taking the bullets. Not you."
"But it was me on the floor," I stared at him through my wet lashes. He took a lock of my hair and tucked it behind my ears, smiling.
"It was you because you decided to take all the bullets that supposedly were for me."
"That's stupid," I frowned. From the looks of Lucas' physique, he can handle a bullet or two. Why did I use myself as a human shield?
"My thoughts exactly," he chuckled and I sniffed, smiling as well. There was something about him that I trust. It wasn't his smile nor his touch but it was something else. Whatever it was I knew I was safe with him and that no one would hurt me.
"When the tray fell, I remembered the gunshot," I admitted, fidgeting my fingers.
"Sigmund said it would be normal for you to suffer from PTSD," he pointed, standing from the bed and unpacked the paper bag. Like I suspected, it was food—mushroom soup. "He also said that you might be hungry. So I bought you this." He took out a styro-bowl and a plastic spoon out of the bag, and settled them onto the table, throwing away the packaging.
Then he sat back on the bed, taking off the lid and slowly mixing the soup with the spoon as the satisfying steam from the bottom clouds. He took a spoonful, slid the spoon on the side to avoid it from dripping, and blew like a fucking mother.
"I can manage—"
"No," he shook his head as he carried the spoon to me. I frowned but kept my mouth closed. "Always defying, Mari."
"I might be on a hospital bed, Lucas, but last time I checked, my limbs are working just fine." I crossed my hands over my chest and I stared at him, waiting for what he would do. And he does the same.
"Look," he sighed, putting the spoon back in the soup container. "You can starve to death if you want, but there is only one way to get food into your stomach. This way or nothing." He gave me a challenging look and shrugged. "I heard soup is better when it's hot."
"Fine," I said, giving up. I was hungry after all. And I could lower my pride just this time for a full stomach. Lucas smiled, satisfied, and brought the spoon back to my mouth. I took it without even caring that it's hot. I swallowed the soup, at first my throat was sore, but after a while, I got through it.
"Attagirl, Mari," Lucas cooed when the bowl was empty. I felt so little at that moment, like I was seven—a child, with the way Lucas was treating me.
"Why do you call me that?" I asked when he jumped off the bed and cleaned the table. I noticed how he keeps everything in order. How he neatly disposed of the trash, how he fixed his shirt every time he stood and how he hand-irons the sheet when he fidgets.
"What?" he frowned, walking towards the corner table and pours water on a glass.
"Mari," I pointed. "Why do you call me Mari?"
He returned beside me again, handing me a glass of water. "It's your name."
"Nobody calls me that," I said before drinking the water in half. "Most people call me Caty."
"I wouldn't be special if I called you Caty," he pointed, taking the glass and setting it back on the table.
"And you think calling me Mari will?"
"I don't know," he shrugged, smirking. "But it's not about what I'm feeling. It's about how you feel when I'm the only one calling you that. Mari."
I stared at him, completely taken aback. It did feel different, weird even, that he calls me Mari. But I couldn't deny the fact that something in me tingles when he calls me by my second name. It was like a personal endearment.
"And what do I call you?"
"To you I go by many names," he chuckled. "Fucker, shit, jerk, asshole. But I prefer it when you call me Lucas. It's not special or anything but I like the way your tongue moves when you say it." I felt my cheeks turn red and Lucas threw his head back laughing. "God, you're adorable."
If only our names were the problem, I would've laughed with him. But the fact that I don't remember what happened a few days prior and that I'm suffering from PTSD is slowly vacuuming the joy out of everything.
"Hey," Lucas called when he noticed the change in my expression. "What is it?" I saw his jaw twitch again. Whatever was happening here, he doesn't like it as much as I do.
"It's strange," I started, frowning at Lucas. "That I have no recognition of anything from the last few days yet here I am trusting you." I saw how Lucas suddenly froze from my words.
"If it's the memory you're worried about, Mari, don't. Sigmund said it will all come back. Not at once but fragments." The light mood was gone. I can now feel the tension rising in the air. "And you shouldn't doubt me. If I wanted to hurt you, I wouldn't be bringing you fucking soup and watching over you day and night. It's not really on my bucket list."
"I'm not saying I don't trust you, Lucas," I pointed. "I'm wondering why I trust you. I'm sure you don't know but I don't trust anyone that easily. Chase is the only person I let in. I even doubt my own father. So don't take it personally."
He sighs in frustration. "Mari, I'm telling you only once and I'm saying it now, I don't trust anyone that easily either. I don't even fucking trust that you're telling the truth about forgetting the last week. But I'm still here. It's what good fiancés do. And it's the least I could do after you stupidly put yourself between me and a damn gun."
"You have ways of making me mad without purposely doing it, Lucas." I narrowed my eyes, examining how and why a tense conversation like this almost felt...normal. And a shard of memory flashed. Lucas and I bantered inside a boxing ring. He was sweating, his hand gestures for me to come closer and I ran towards him, punching him in the face. Then the memory fades. I decided not to tell Lucas something was playing inside my mind until I could see the finished puzzle.
"The feeling's mutual," he smirks.
~*~
After the somewhat normal argument we had, Lucas created his own little study in the corner of my room. He was busy taking calls and answering emails while I kept myself busy with pointless news.
By lunch, I was fed with a different kind of soup. I didn't know what it was exactly. It tasted too good to ask. Turns out, I wasn't allowed to eat food that's hard to swallow. But I was satisfied with the soup I'm fed to complain about.
Sigmund visited me late in the afternoon. He apologized for not being able to check earlier. The hospital was busy, he said. This was the hospital I donated to a few years back to keep it running. No wonder the nurses are polite. He checked my wounds and bruises which are as sore as the day I lost my virginity.
"Your bruises are fading quicker than they should be. Which is good," he said, scribbling something on the chart. "Your body is responding quite well despite what happened, Caterina. But you need your rest if you want to get the hell out of this hospital to have that wedding of yours." It was quite odd that Sigmund was able to joke like that, but the fact that I basically have amnesia isn't really a good time to raise the subject of wedding.
"Okay, Sigmund," Lucas interrupted, grabbing the poor doctor's shoulder. "How about you get out of here and we'll let her rest." The doctor could only chuckle his way out.
"There's no way in hell that I'm sleeping again." I shook my head and crossed my hands against my chest. Though my body is screaming with different kinds and levels of agony, my brain isn't as tired as I would've wanted, which means sleeping would be impossible.
"Yes you are," Lucas demanded, cocking his head towards the comfortable pillow I'm leaning against. I raised an eyebrow and narrowed my eyes, challenging him. "Or I can call a nurse and let them drug you."
"You wouldn't."
"I would." I knew Lucas wasn't kidding about telling the nurses to drug me but I wasn't backing down.
Since I woke up, I've been dying for a mug of coffee and a few miles to run. I wanted to pee since yesterday and there's no way in fucking hell will I be peeing in that damn tube. So I thought of it as an excuse to get up. I threw away the white covers that gracefully pooled on the floor, wanting to feel my feet on the ground. But I froze when I saw the mess of purple and blue and yellow bruises that painted my legs. A cold gush of air escaped my lips. The next thing I know, I was blinking away tears. I couldn't stop them from falling. The tremble of my hands as I carried them to my lips to stop my sobs was proof enough that I really did cheated death.
"Mari," Lucas called when he noticed my tears. He took the blanket off the floor and spread it back over my legs to cover the hideous tracks of the last few days. "Hey," he called again like he was soothing me. But there was no point, at the moment, nothing could calm me down, not until the gaps are filled and I'll know why I decided to walk into my deathbed. Lucas brings my chin up to meet his gaze. "You cheated death four times. Those bruises—" he points at my legs—"aren't enough to make you ugly. If anything it makes you a little hotter." I laughed at that and he chuckled back at my response. "There we go," he said. I wiped the tears away with the back of my palm and Lucas fluffed my pillow, letting me know he wanted me to lay down.
"Help me up," I said, sniffing as I raised my arm for him to take. "I need to pee." If my bladder isn't about to blow, I'd be embarrassed to ask Lucas about me needing to urinate, but beggars can't be choosers.
"You have a damn catheter," he pointed, but he takes my arm anyway. Though I can tell that he's opposed to my decision.
"I'm not fucking peeing on that thing," I snapped, forgetting about my painted legs. The tube has been making me uncomfortable since the second I woke up and my bladder doesn't exactly like the idea that there's a tube in there somewhere. "Call a nurse."
"Stay, Mari," he commanded, slowly putting down my hand as he left and looked for a nurse.
When he returns, a short blonde woman wearing Iron Man scrubs, tailing behind him.
"Good afternoon, Ms. Santelli," she smiled as she checked my chart on the bottom of my bed. She frowns as she scrolls through the pages.
"My bladder is about to explode," I pointed, a little irritated that she's taking too long to help me out of it. "And I'm not peeing on a tube."
"I'm afraid you can't get up, Ms. Santelli," she smiles apologetically. "You need to stay in bed for at least three days after consciousness."
"Mari, just listen to her," Lucas suggested.
"You can either help me, or I'll help myself," I challenged, scooting further off the bed. They could watch or they could help me but either way, I will be peeing on a damn toilet.
The nurse gave a defeated sigh. "Mr. De Marchi, why don't you go check the cafeteria's special today?" That was Lucas' cue to leave and give me my privacy. But before departing, he took my hand and brought it to his lips.
"Behave, Mari," he whispers. Then he leaves.