Page 10 of Bratva and Betrayal: Kirill

What was that?

“Retrograde amnesia doesn’t usually happen from a bump on the head,” one of the students remarks eagerly, as if he’s trying to score points by discovering a misdiagnosis.

“I fell down a complete flight of stairs and busted my skull.” I glare at the jerk before Dr. Caroline can answer. “And no, I don’t remember anything from before my injury.”

The student shifts slightly, as if realizing he’s stepped out of line.

“Why don’t you tell us your story?” Dr. Caroline suggests. “It can be helpful for you and for them.”

I draw in a breath, letting it out slowly as I gather the pieces of a story that never quite felt like mine.

“I woke up in a Chicago hospital five years ago,” I begin, my voice steady despite the tightness in my chest. “I had a fractured skull, and I didn’t know who I was. Or anything before that.”

That memory is vivid, while everything before it was black and dull. I recall the sense of disorientation so deep, it felt like drowning. Bright lights overhead, machines beeping, tubes threaded into my arms.

“A man I didn’t know was sitting beside my bed. The first thing he told me was that he was my father and that my name was Jessica.” I pause, my fingers curling slightly against the table. “He looked tired. His clothes were wrinkled, and he smelled like burnt coffee. Then there were just days of doctors, medications, and more doctors.”

“Go on, Jessica.”

“Then a pretty blonde showed up. She said she was my sister.” I choke, remembering how relieved I felt that it wasn’t just the strange man and me. “Then together, they told me my mother had died years earlier.”

Maybe that was a good thing. I would hate to be missing a mother whose memories would have imprinted on me.

“I was in that hospital for a month,” I keep going, seeing how absorbed the students are in my story. “Then I was moved to a private facility called Norridge. It’s for adults with disabilities. The place was nice. Like this.” I glance around the room briefly. “The people there were nice. They helped me walk and talk again. I didn’t need to learn. My brain just forgot. A wire was loose. Then one day…”

I look down and relive the feeling of sadness at the news. For me, it was the first time my heart broke. I’d had boatloads of physical pain and emotional fear up until that point. That day, sadness showed up.

“One day, my sister Lourdes came dressed in black. Told me our father had died.” I take a breath. “A few weeks later, I was transferred to a state-run facility. Something about money running out.”

And that place was not very nice.

I don’t say that out loud, but the thought resonates anyway. It’s a mild resentment that I’ve never fully shaken.

“I was there for a little more than four years. My sister got married and moved away after two.” I pinch my shirt, not telling them that I didn’t see her for years after that because I don’t want anyone to know how much that hurt me.

She’d done the selfless thing and left college in Florida to help Dad take care of me. She kept promising we’d be sisters again, but then she met a guy and moved to New York. I’m jealous when other patients have regular visits with their sisters. I tried to understand and felt sad that Lourdes had a rough time with her first husband. Now she’s married to a good man, and they’re having a baby. A baby is everything.

A baby…

Something stings my brain again.

“But Lourdes came back one day, saying she was bringing me to a better place. In New York where she lived. I was there for a while. Now I’m here,” I finish. “That was three months ago.”

Silence follows, thick and cold.

Dr. Caroline nods. “Thank you, Jessica.”

She’d been reading on her tablet, presumably scanning my chart to see if I’d made any mistakes. Standing, she turns to the students and speaks in medical jargon I don’t understand. The students ask her questions again like I’m not in the room.

“What’s fascinating in cases like Jessica’s is when a patient exhibits a talent that was not part of their therapy. Playing the piano. Speaking another language. In Jessica’s case, she showed an advanced talent for art.” She lifts my sketchbook and folds it to one of my earlier works back in Norridge. “This is an example of the patient’s art.”

Looking at the floral scene I painted, pride swells in my chest at how the color blooms across the sheet in sweeping, layered strokes. The tones are weak, though, because they’re watercolor. It always bothered me because in my head I saw the scene with deep violets smeared in white.

Everything looks like flowers under murky water.

One of the students in the gallery leans forward. “Wait. That looks like a painting that just sold for ten million dollars at auction.”

I look up and see him on his phone, already typing.