23rd December 2016 – Afternoon
Before: Friday, 11th December 1992
Now: Friday, 30th December 2016
Then: Friday, 23rd December 2016 – Late Afternoon
Then: Friday, 23rd December 2016 – Early Evening
Before: Tuesday, 15th December 1992
Then: Friday 23rd December 2016 – Evening
Before: Friday, 18th December 1992
Then: Christmas Eve 2016 – Morning
Then: Christmas Eve 2016 – Lunchtime
Before: Saturday, 19th December 1992
Then: Christmas Eve 2016 – Afternoon
Before: Monday, 21st December 1992
Then: Christmas Day, 2016 – Early Evening
Before: Thursday, 7th January 1993
Then: Christmas Day, 2016 – Early Evening
Now: Tuesday, 3rd January, 2017
Then: Christmas Day 2016 – Evening
Now: Tuesday, 3rd January 2017
Before: Sunday, 14th February 1993
Then: Christmas Day, 2016 – Night
Now: Tuesday, 3rd January 2017
After: Six Weeks Later 15th February 2017
After: Wednesday, 15th February 2017 – 04.00
I’ve always delighted in the free fall between sleep and wakefulness. Those precious few semi-conscious seconds before you open your eyes, when you catch yourself believing that your dreams might just be your reality. A moment of intense pleasure or pain, before your senses reboot and inform you who and where and what you are. For now, for just a second longer, I’m enjoying the self-medicated delusion that permits me to imagine that I could be anyone, I could be anywhere, I could be loved.
I sense the light behind my eyelids and my attention is drawn to the platinum band on my finger. It feels heavier than it used to, as though it is weighing me down. A sheet is pulled over my body, it smells unfamiliar and I consider the possibility that I’m in a hotel. Any memory of what I dreamt evaporates. I try to hold on, try to be someone and stay somewhere I am not, but I can’t. I am only ever me and I am here, where I already know I do not wish to be. My limbs ache and, I’m so tired I don’t want to open my eyes – until I remember that I can’t.
Panic spreads through me like a blast of icy-cold air. I can’t recall where this is or how I got here, but I know who I am: My name is Amber Reynolds; I am thirty-five years old; I’m married to Paul. I repeat these three things in my head, holding on to them tightly, as though they might save me, but I’m mindful that some part of the story is lost, the last few pages ripped out. When the memories are as complete as I can manage, I bury them until they are quiet enough inside my head to allow me to think, to feel, to try to make sense of it all. One memory refuses to comply, fighting its way to the surface, but I don’t want to believe it.
The sound of a machine breaks into my consciousness, stealing my last few fragments of hope and leaving me with nothing except the unwanted knowledge that I am in a hospital. The sterilised stench of the place makes me want to gag. I hate hospitals. They are the home of death and regrets that missed their slots, not somewhere I would ever choose to visit, let alone stay.
There were people here before, strangers, I remember that now. They used a word I chose not to hear. I recall lots of fuss, raised voices and fear, not just my own. I struggle to unearth more, but my mind fails me. Something very bad has happened, but I cannot remember what or when.
Why isn’t he here?
It can be dangerous to ask a question when you already know the answer.
He does not love me.
I bookmark that thought.
I hear a door open. Footsteps, then the silence returns but it’s spoiled, no longer pure. I can smell stale cigarette smoke,