Part One -
It all started when I woke up, confused, in a hospital room. I turned to meet the gaze of a dark-haired man with stubble on his chin and cheeks. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in days.
My medical team told me I had been in an accident and sustained a traumatic brain injury. I’d had several surgeries to fix the damage and had been in a coma for weeks. I might never recover my memory. They said my name was Grace and I was married. They introduced the man across the room as my husband, Adrian.
I tried to force a smile.
Adrian told me that he was a dermatologist a couple towns over and he had met me hiking. He explained that I was a student taking classes at the local university.
“I got a call from the hospital. You were two towns over, intoxicated, and had been hit by a car crossing the street. It was a hit and run. Fortunately you had your wallet on you, and they were able to get ahold of me because your phone had me listed as your emergency contact.”
The doctor discharged me and I was entered into outpatient therapy services. Adrian drove me to our home, a large home in the suburbs. I didn’t recognize it. Any time I questioned the world around me, Adrian said, “They had to remove part of your brain to help with swelling. You’ll understand if some of your own memories are unreliable.” I became the most unreliable source on myself.
When Adrian took me around family and friends, they gave me alarmed glances, as if they didn’t recognize me.
“I can’t believe they changed her that much.” One of his friends whispered after I’d told them all I was going to bed. I stood in the hall outside the room and eavesdropped, wanting to know what they said behind my back.
“Her face was unrecognizable after the accident,” Adrian told them, “They had to use skin grafts and they did their best to get her as close to her original appearance as they could.” He shrugged, “They said some features might be permanently altered.” The doctor hadn’t told me that. Maybe he was afraid of upsetting me?
I overheard my father say, “She’s just not the same girl anymore.”
I looked at old photos of me, searching for the similarities and differences everyone pointed out.
The woman in the photos had the same dark hair as me. Her nose was the same shape. Her eyes were almond, like mine, and dark brown as mine were. But the shape of her face was longer and thinner than mine. Mine was rounder and heart-shaped, and I had softer cheeks and wider lips. We could have been two different women, but Adrian said it was just the surgeries.
I put the box away and stared at the mirror for a while after that, wondering why I felt so off.
I lost my spot at the university because I couldn’t focus. I spent my days online shopping, trying to fill an empty void with things I didn’t need. Since Adrian made enough to keep us afloat, I didn’t need to work. Months went by, and I didn’t retrieve any memories. Therapies ended. Life went on.
I felt disconnected from Adrian, and he understood. We were strangers in our home.
I became angry. I wanted myself back so desperately. I wanted to understand who I was. I felt silenced and lonely.
I visited the town where I’d been hit. I wanted to walk the street again and try to remember anything I could. That’s when I saw it, a poster on a bulletin board in a convenience store, with a face that was undeniably mine.
“Have you seen this woman?” The poster read, and the paragraph beneath it wrote that the girl’s name was Katrina. But the poster had been torn, and the contact information was missing.
I went home, angrily wanting answers, but I didn’t have any. I tried searching the girl online, but all of her social media profiles were private. I couldn’t even see her friends. It left me feeling like I’d met a dead end, and I felt stupid for even thinking that girl could have been the answer to my questions.
When I got home, I stared at the face in the mirror and asked myself, “Who are you?”
When Adrian left for work the next morning, I knew it was time to explore the parts of our home I hadn’t looked into yet. It was up to me to piece back together my reality.
I looked everywhere, unsure what it was I was looking for, and feeling ridiculous in the process.
Then I found it - a key hidden in a shoebox under the bed. It wore a tag that read the name of a storage center and had a unit number written on the tag. Could this be the answer to my questions?
I was going to find out. I went to the storage unit, which sat in the middle of a desolate run-down town in a sketchy neighborhood. I entered the center and walked until I found the small, walk-in closet sized unit. I breathed in sharply as I stuck the key into the lock and pulled the door open. This was it. I nearly melted to my knees. It was like something out of a horror film.
An axe sat surrounded by rope, chains and cuffs. I saw photos taped to the wall with duct tape - photos of Katrina and photos of Grace. A large suitcase sat with a padlock on the zipper. Multiple broken cell phones lay in a pile. A safe was nestled between the disorganized mess and the wall. The unit smelled horrible. There were trash bags and towels covered in what I could only assume to be blood. I was terrified.
I left. What was going on? Who was the man I was living with? Who was Katrina? Who was Grace? And more importantly, who was I? I came home and ran upstairs to restore the key, and I knew I had to leave.
I packed up some clothes, my computer, and the few credit cards I had access to. I checked into a local motel. I had to hide.
It’s been a few hours since then. I left the motel and I can’t say where I am. It occurred to me that Adrian could be watching the credit card statements, and I don’t want to take that risk.
I don’t know what to do. I feel stuck. I have nowhere to go. I’m so scared right now. I have gotten a few texts from Adrian, wanting to know where I am, but I can’t answer them. I don’t want him to find me. What happened to Grace? What happened to Katrina? Am I crazy? Someone please help me figure this out before Adrian finds where I am.
Part two