Page 13 of Amnesia

For all the bustling going on around here today, things seemed to hush, to settle down, as if everything held its breath.

A low creaking filled my ears, a noise so low I wouldn’t have heard it if it weren’t so quiet. Lifting my chin toward the sound, my eyes went right to the figure that seemed to appear in the hallway out of thin air. Shock and anticipation battled in my chest, rumbling down to my stomach, making it flip over.

It was her.

Paralyzed, I couldn’t move at all. I stayed there in my position against the wall, my eyes clinging to her every move. Her every detail.

She didn’t see me. All her focus was on putting one foot in front of the other, moving cautiously over the tile.

I couldn’t tear my eyes away to see if someone was coming to help her or if maybe she was out here because she was supposed to be. As soon as the thought drifted through my mind, I knew she was out here rebelliously. There was no way the staff would let a girl with no memory wander the halls alone.

The white-and-blue-checked hospital gown was all I’d seen her in since I brought her that night. It hung off her thin frame like curtains on an open window on a breezy summer day. The scratchy fabric floated around her, swaying slightly as she walked.

Her movements were slow. She leaned on the IV pole, which was what made the low squeaking sound. The one wheel probably needed tightened.

She was medium height, shorter than me, but not what I would consider short. I was just tall. Her feet were bare, and she had long fingers. Her skin was pale, and there was a spattering of light freckles over her nose. As I watched, her teeth sank into her lower lip in concentration, and something in me melted a little.

I was so weak when it came to her. I didn’t even know why.

Well, yes, I did. I’d always been weak to this girl, but looking at her now, it seemed in more ways than I even realized.

Slowly, I slid up the wall so I was standing straight, my eyes not leaving her once.

Thick, wavy strands of wheat-colored hair fell around her face when she looked down at her feet. They were uneven, some long and some oddly short. But it looked soft, regardless of how uncombed and unequal it was.

As she drew closer, fatigue seemed to cloak her. Her feet paused, and she practically sagged against the unstable pole. I pushed off the wall, thinking to help her, but my movements startled her.

Her head snapped up so quick it unbalanced her. Her feet went back, trying to keep her upright, but the IV slid forward. She was left in this awkward fall/tug-of-war between her body and the pole.

I surged forward as the wheels began to teeter and lift off the ground. “Careful!” I said, shooting over just in time to catch her before she fell.

I couldn’t help but notice the way a few of my fingertips brushed against the smooth skin at the small of her back. The damn hospital gown wasn’t enough coverage if she was going to be wandering the halls.

Her hand wrapped around my forearm, gripping as if her life depended on it.

We stood there for a few prolonged moments, almost as if we’d been dancing and ended with me dipping her toward the floor. I glanced down. She glanced up. Our stares collided.

It was unsettling to realize how infinitely drawn to her I was.

I searched the depths of her round brown eyes the way I’d longed to do for so long. I wasn’t even sure what I was looking for. Something. Anything. A spark of recognition from either of us.

Her lips parted on a breathless gasp, her eyes the first to pull away. Long, thick lashes swept down, closing off the honey-brown irises and disappointing me.

When they reopened, refocused on my face, I felt as if I’d won an award.

“I almost fell,” she told me.

I shook my head slowly. She wouldn’t have fallen. “I got you.”

She tried to scramble up, but her body didn’t move as fast as she wanted. So I helped her, keeping my palms at her waist and nearly lifting her back onto both feet. Reluctantly, I let go, sliding the IV pole close beside her in case she needed it again.

“I’m pretty sure patients aren’t supposed to be wandering the halls,” I said, resisting the urge to reach out and fix the neckline of her gown.

“I’m pretty sure most patients have visitors,” she murmured.

I tilted my head, but then she realized what she’d said and straightened. “I’m not wandering. I have somewhere to be.”

Amused, I folded my arms over my chest. “Oh? Where’s that?”

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