Page 3 of Losing The Vampire King
“I was hoping that you’d remember something by now,” she said, with a melancholy sigh, looking down at her lap. “Or that you’d at least know that I’m not your enemy, if you can’t remember who I am.”
“I don’t remember anything,” I admit, but still with my guard up.
“I know you don’t.” She lifts her gaze to meet mine. “It is difficult when the person you love more than anything in the world doesn’t remember you.”
I don’t say anything to that at first. So, we are lovers then. Mates. I try to recognize a scent, anything around her or in this room, but nothing is familiar. I feel like I’ve never been here before and this person in front of me is a stranger. She’s right. I can’t possibly grasp how that must feel.
“I am not your enemy, Eddie,” she says softly.
“Eddie?” I echo. The name doesn’t ring any bells, and something tells me it should. I can see the hope in her eyes. She wants me to remember her. She wants me to remember everything, but there is a blockage inside my mind, a big wall, entangled with thorns which threaten anyone who wishes to even come close, let alone try to climb over.
“That is your name,” she reveals, hope still echoing in her voice, as she stares at me, as if her very gaze might pull me out of the haze my mind is in. “Edmund. And I’m Gala.”
“Gala,” I repeat, but just like with mine, her name means nothing. It is just an empty string of letters, with no emotional attachment.
“Yes,” she smiles, getting up and walking over to me. “You were attacked by a rival clan of skin walkers. The cowards caught you when you were all alone and unable to call for help. You’re lucky I stumbled onto you when I did. They left you for dead, by the river. When I saw you like that, I…”
She wasn’t able to finish her sentence. She turned away from me, burying her face in her hands. Silent sobs were the only sounds she made, as her body closed up on itself, her shoulders slumped forward. A part of me wanted to reach out, to console her, because that is what everyone’s first instinct should be. I almost did that. I almost wrapped my arms around her, but I didn’t.
She probably expected me to. She remained like that for a few moments, then she turned to me again. Her eyes were slightly reddened, but not that swollen. There were no more tears in them. She must have wiped them off, unwilling to allow me to see her cry.
“I know this shouldn’t get to me as much as it does,” she continues, with a voice that has regained some of its control and confidence. “I’m sorry.”
“There is nothing to apologize for,” I tell her, the words torn out of me by an invisible force that has decided in my name, that she is to be trusted, despite everything.
After all, if she wanted to kill me, she would have done it by now. Why prolong the inevitable? Unless there is some hidden agenda, but I can’t possibly see what that might be, when I don’t know a single thing about myself or about her. Cautiousness is something I shouldn’t lose sight of, but with each passing moment, I am more and more convinced that this woman, Gala, isn’t my enemy.
She smiles at my words and lifts her hand towards my face. My first instinct is to flinch, but I fight this urge, remaining put. Her fingers tremble, nearing my skin. Something is telling me to pull away, but another little voice is telling me to stay put.
Her eyes are burning into mine, demanding so much of me, but I’m not certain if I have all that she needs from me. That look feels familiar. Somehow, I know that I have seen it before. A woman has looked at me like that before, I’m sure of it. What I’m not sure is whether that woman was Gala or someone else. It’s killing me that I cannot remember.
Just as her fingers are about to graze my cheeks, I pull away. Actually, not so much pull away, but jump away, jerking my entire body backward, to make the distance between us as great as possible.
The disappointment in her eyes is palpable. My action hurt her. I didn’t mean to, but I can’t pretend that I have all these feelings and memories that she expects me to. It’s impossible. I won’t apologize for that.
I know that all this sounds harsh, so I bite my tongue, so as not to say any of this out loud. She’s already hurt enough. I don’t have to add insult to injury.
“It’s not your fault,” she says compassionately, her hand retracting quickly, as if she had been scorched by the heat of the cheek that she didn’t even get to caress. “I know that it will take time for you to remember everything, to remember… me.”
Again, she gives me that expectant look. A knot in my stomach tightens. I feel angry. I feel bad for her as well, but that feeling of anger is stronger. What has happened to me? I don’t feel like I was almost beaten to death. My body does hurt, but I haven’t noticed any bruises. Shouldn’t there be bruises?
Perhaps it’s been weeks, a small voice inside of me whispers. I guess it’s possible. I haven’t asked her when all this happened. I want to, but not now. I don’t want to ask too many questions. Besides, it seems that she keeps telling me the same story again, and I keep losing track of it. That also doesn’t seem to be making much sense. I didn’t only lose my memory. I keep losing it again, according to her story.
“I’m sure it will come back to me eventually,” I tell her, still on guard. I pay attention to her facial expression. I want to see whether me remembering everything makes her fearful or hopeful, but all I see is the latter. If she is pretending, then she is one helluva a good actress.
I glance at the bowl in her hands. “Is that for me?”
She smiles. “I know how much you like vegetable soup.”
“If you say so,” I grin, trying out a joke. It feels natural.
Am I the joking type? Hopefully. That’s the kind of guy I want to be.
“Why don’t you sit down and eat a little?” she suggests.
I want to, because the smell hits my nostrils, and a rumbling inside my stomach reminds me that I haven’t eaten in a while. But there is still that doubt. I think she can read me well enough, because she stirs the soup a little, then brings a spoonful to her mouth. She swallows it whole.
“Just right,” she smiles, offering me the bowl.
