Page 20 of That's Not My Name

I wake up half a second before my eyes open to flashes of a long, darkened ditch. Panic shoots through my body and my scratchy eyes rip open…but I’m not in the dark. I blink up at smooth half-circle logs lining the ceiling. Sunlight streams in through a window highlighting that goddamned beach poster.

Don’t worry, be happy.

I gingerly sit up, and the events of last night roll through my mind like a creepy television recap I really could have done without. Fresh tears sting my eyes, but I take a deep breath to make them stop. The last thing I need is misery-fest round two.

No. I have to stop crying. I have a life to piece back together.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stretch. My joints move like rusty hinges, but the stretching helps. I stand and it’s not outwardly painful. More like a dull ache that happens to cover nearly every inch of me.

I guess that’s not much better.

The unmistakable smell of breakfast wafts through the crack beneath the door, and my stomach growls in response. I tug my door open and grin. The cabin smells like things I want to eat as fast as humanly possible—scrambled eggs, maple sausage, butter, toast.

The woodstove in the corner is bursting with flames, clearly reloaded recently, and pumps out heat that instantly relaxes me.

Wayne looks up at me from the kitchen island and smiles. He’s halfway through slicing a carton of strawberries. “Dang it. I wanted to get this all ready before you woke up.”

I look at the counter. A platter of scrambled eggs sits beside a mess of bowls and eggshells. A cast-iron skillet sizzles on the stove with medallion sausages full of fennel and grease.

My mouth waters. I sit on the barstool across from him. “Nice fire.”

He nods and goes back to chopping. “I know how much you hate being cold. Plus this place can be drafty.”

He places the bowl of fresh strawberries beside the eggs.

The normalcy of this is comforting. Like I didn’t wake up in a ditch ten-ish hours ago.

“Hungry?” Wayne asks.

“Starving, actually.” My stomach makes a sound like a whimpering dog.

He laughs and turns back to the stove, stirring what looks like pancake batter in a big measuring cup beside the stove. “Grab what you want. Your pancakes will be ready in a second.”

I don’t need to be asked twice. I pile eggs and sausages on my plate. I stab at the sausages first and Oh. My. God. It’s like I forgot what food tasted like. I scarf them down in less than a minute.

“You weren’t kidding,” he says, looking back at me before pouringthe pancakes onto a fresh pan. “Your appetite’s coming back. That’s a good sign.”

“Thank you for making all this.”

He waves at the spread with a spatula. “Breakfast is our thing. I couldn’t miss the chance to give you a little slice of normal, even if this kitchen isn’t as up-to-date as the one at home.”

Breakfast is our thing?I should ask him about this, because it might shed more light on this life of mine, but I’m too busy forking mouthfuls of eggs into my face. I scoop some strawberries onto my plate too. They’re a little watery, but I’m not about to complain.

Wayne drops a plate of pancakes onto the island and piles some food onto his own plate. “Are you feeling better?”

I nod because nothing can make me stop stuffing my face at this point. I snag a couple pancakes and scratch at an itch on my neck.

“Good. I’m thinking we’ll hang out here today. You can watch TV and rest. We don’t have anywhere to be, and it’s important you have time to recover. What do you think?”

I start to respond, but there’s something stuck in my throat.

No. Nothing’s in there.

I try to clear my throat, to dislodge this feeling, but it lingers. A crawling itch works its way through my mouth and down my neck. My nails rake across my skin.

What is happening?

I clear my throat again and the itch spreads down my arms. I look down and freeze. My forearms are covered in newly forming hives.

---