Page 52 of Bratva and Betrayal: Kirill

My pulse picks up as I slowly and cautiously open the book. On the first page is a photo of a lanky man with long, stringy hair, and his bio is in a box. I have no interest in his bio. I want to see his work.

Page after page is filled with images of paintings. The vivid colors step off each sheet with movement and texture. I keep turning, instantly drawn to the colors, shapes, and composition.

I stop breathing. I know these. I think.

While so much is fuzzy, this realization is immediate and absolute. I feel like I’m staring at my reflection. I know it’s me.

These are mine. I painted these. I just know it. Something flashes in my head: bright sunlight, white canvases, drop clothes, and pale-yellow walls.

A studio.

And me…in a blue smock.

The memory blinds me, and I get dizzy.

Okay, I think I can see the benefit of having facility people hovering nearby. I’d been working on restoring memories. Doing useless exercises for months at the New York center, then Marlowe in Arizona. Drips and drabs. Letting me hold small objects and waiting to know what it means. Rarely did anything materialize in my head.

This is immersion therapy. Bam. This memory of painting in a studio and wearing a blue smock in the wash of sunlight knocks the air from my lungs. My fingers start to sweat as I tighten my grip on the page, tearing the edge.

My throat constricts, panic rising as I flip through the pages more quickly now. I don’t want to force these feelings away. More, more. I need more of me. The me I lost. The me that was stolen. My breath hitches. Was my memory stolen? Was someone trying to make sure I didn’t remember?

Didn’t remember what?

I glance around this room. Was I supposed to forget this place? Forget Kirill? But why?

I dig into this book for more clues. Am I mentioned?

“Gah!” The tears cry out of me before I can stop them.

Raw and startled, I snap the book shut with a force that smashes the quiet in the room. I hug my body. It’s tight with tension that I’ve not felt before.

Lies. These are more lies.

Before I can think better of it, I lift the book to throw it across the room. Like if it’s on the floor, all of this will go away. As I take my aim, I freeze.

I’m not alone.

A little girl stands a few feet away in the doorway. Did she hear my scream? Wearing a school uniform, she has her ponytail pulled back with a ribbon that has come slightly loose. The hair is…like Kirill’s. But her eyes… Right now, they’re wide, curious, yet entirely unafraid.

I’m a stranger in her home who screamed. She should scream. But she stays fixed on me with an intensity that twists in my chest.

For a moment, neither of us moves. Maybe she’s not real. Maybe I’m hallucinating from not having my meds.

But she tilts her head and speaks, “Who are you?”

Her voice is clear, not muddy like a dream.

“I—” I don’t know how to answer that.

I’ve been told something different from what I believed for the last five years.

I swallow, trying again to speak. “Who are you?”

Her nose wrinkles, like she doesn’t like that response. “I asked you first.”

She speaks with some indignation. She’s so sharp and confident that it pulls me back just enough to form an answer.

“I’m…” I hesitate, my name faltering on my tongue for the first time in five years. Like right now I don’t believe it. “My name is Jessica.”