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Chapter Four
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I was dreaming of chasing and being chased.
I ran from a man with a gun, shots being fired at me, which I darted and ducked. I followed a woman up ahead, tall and slender, her black hair flying out behind her as she ran. I wanted to catch up with her, was more worried about that than dodging the bullets behind me. She cast a glance back over her shoulder and caught sight of me, her dark, almond shaped eyes widening. I wanted to tell her to stop, that it was only me, and I’d help her, but she seemed frightened. I opened my mouth to shout her name, but nothing would come out. I knew her name, I was certain of it, but the more I tried to yell it, the further it retreated in my mind…
***
I burst from sleep, gasping, and sitting upright in the hospital bed. Daylight streamed through the window, cutting lines through the slats of the blind.
The dream stayed with me and I pondered it over. My subconscious was trying to remind me of things my conscious mind had forgotten. It had been twenty-four hours since I’d regained consciousness, and I was feeling stronger, but my memory seemed no closer to returning. I’d have to leave the hospital soon, and I still had no idea where to go, or in fact, who I was before I’d woken up here. The doctors kept reassuring me that my memory would start returning to me. Normally, they would bring in loved ones with photographs and video clips, things to try to restore my memory. I would be taken home to be surrounded in what would be familiar, and gradually things would start coming back to me. The doctors told me that it was perfectly normal to suffer some memory loss after such a traumatic event such as almost dying. They’d done scans of my brain and there was no physical reason why I didn’t remember what had happened.
Part of me wondered if I simply didn’t want to remember.
When I tried to think back, I was filled with unease, like I’d eaten something rotten, or said something I knew I shouldn’t have.
Who was the woman from my dream?
The young doctor who’d been there when I’d first woken up approached me. He had a serious expression, and for a moment I had the crazy idea that he’d seen into my dream and understood what type of person I was.
“You’re making a speedy recovery, which is good news, but the question arises that we need to figure out where you’re going to go when you leave here.”
“You don’t need to worry about me, Doctor. I’m an adult. I can take care of myself.”
“I understand that, but you have been through a traumatic event, plus your continued memory loss is concerning.”
“More is coming back to me all the time.”
He smiled, encouragingly. “That’s good to hear.” Then his expression grew serious again. “I hate to talk about money when you’ve been through so much, but you understand that we’re going to have to take a swipe of your credit card for the hospital bill. I’m guessing you don’t have any paperwork for insurance anywhere around?”
I could only give a shrug as an answer. I was pretty sure I didn’t have health insurance, though I had no idea if there would be enough credit on the card to cover whatever ridiculous sized bill they were going to throw at me. I figured a week’s hospital stay with an induced coma and gunshot wound was going to come to a decent amount.
“That’s fine. I understand.”
The number came back to me. One, three, nine, nine.
Another number came with it—two, four, one, four, nine. What did that mean?
