Page 31 of Fallen Petal

“Why did you show me that video?” I want to know. “You said you thought that it might make this easier for me, but...”

“It didn’t?” She leans forward, arching her eyebrows with worry. “I thought if you knew that you’re safe you’d be less—”

“Less scared, yes,” I finish her sentence. “But anxiety isn’t what torments me the most. Fear is such a one-dimensional emotion. It’s hard and distressing, but at least it sets a clear focus on something. You know what’s a lot worse?”

She shakes her head.

“Not knowing. Not knowing anything. Yes, maybe I’m here because I wished to be, but how can I be absolutely sure of that if I don’t recall making that choice? I’m completely lost and confused at everything that surrounds me. That’s the most terrible anguish,” I tell her, lowering my head. “Everything. Good or bad.”

“So...,” she utters, her shoulders moving up to her ears as she tenses up. “So, good things have happened since you woke up? Is he... being nice to you?”

Our eyes lock onto each other, hers laced with coy question while I hope she can’t notice the feeble embarrassment that washes over me as I recall the things that transpired between me and Jayson. The way he hurts me, the way he owns everything I am—and how much I crave it. I feel the same warm tingling deep inside my core every time I recall these things, and the way my body reacts fills me with shame as much as want.

“You don’t have to tell me,” the girl says, diverting her eyes. “I don’t need to know details. I just...”

She sighs heavily. “I just need to know that this is all worth it.”

“Worth it?” I probe.

She looks caught, shaking her head violently as she waves me off. “Never mind. Forget what I said.”

I huff. “I’m sorry, I have too much memory space left to forget anything that’s said to me these days.”

My words make her chuckle. “You haven’t lost your sarcasm. That’s for sure.”

The smile on my face is weak and burdened with the sad lack of memory. Her words are yet another hint at the history we must share, a history that must be deep and meaningful—and I can’t remember a single thing about it.

“Will you tell me your name?” I ask, knowing that I’m stepping into dangerous territory.

She smiles weakly, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, no.”

I nod, unsure what to respond.

She stays with me, watching, but barely saying anything while I eat the stew she made for me. A stew that’s heavy with memory and meaning. I don’t know the entire truth behind it, but at least I can feel it, the familiarity, the warmth of a home I don’t remember. If we didn’t look so different, I would almost assume her to be a relative, a sister maybe. I must have a family, too. People who love me, who possibly miss me and are out there looking for me. It’s weird that none of my vague visions seemed to be about them. Do I still have parents? Where are they? And what do they think where I am? Are they suffering because of my disappearance right now?

Or is there just...nobody?

Would she tell me about any of this, if I dared to ask? Probably not. I’m discouraged before I even try, marked by too many rejections.

“I asked him to let me outside,” I say, thinking of the most recent instance when I was denied a simple request. “Just for a little while, just to see the sun.”

Her eyes follow me as I get up, turning away from her as I walk to the window.

“There’s a tiny little crack up here,” I say, climbing on top of the bench. “It’s so small that I didn’t see it at first, but it’s there. Just big enough to let in a blink of light, and even some air.”

I get up on my toes, stretching up as far as I can to point at the upper right corner of the boarded window.

“It’s here, I can see a hint of light when I hold my hand up like this,” I say, balancing on top of the bench as I turn my head, my eyes trailing over my shoulder back to her. “I was so excited when I found this. You have no idea. It’s pathetic. I can’t even actually see anything, but just being able to tell the difference between day and night...”

I stop my rambling when I notice the change on her face. She’s no longer looking up at my face as I speak to her. Her gaze has traveled downward, locking on to my body, my upper thighs to be precise. I’m wearing a white nightgown, like always. The pieces change as I’m provided with new ones, differing in decor and detail, but the style is always the same, and they all end above my knees, thus barely hiding the marks he left on me. They have been there for days, adorning most of my backside with a pattern in diverse colors, blue and red shaking hands as they kiss my skin. They don’t hurt much and I have long gotten used to the sight, even wearing them with pride as they speak of my ability to endure their imprint.

But she has never seen them before.

And it’s obvious that they tell a different story to her.

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