Page 8 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You
Chapter 3
Ophelia
The knock comes soft, before the door swings open. A woman enters, she looks to be in her late forties, with defined cheekbones, cool grey eyes, and a neat bob that frames her face. The badge pinned to her coat reads Dr Whitmore.
I study her features carefully, searching for some flicker of recognition, but nothing comes.
I recall another doctor, a man, but perhaps there are several on staff. With so many students, it would hardly be surprising. Or it’s simply another lapse in my memory.
Two years gone already, and this is yet another piece missing.
To have lived two years of my life and remember nothing of them, no recollection, no trace left in my mind, feels like being cut adrift from myself.
I don’t know this version of me, the girl I must have been during those missing years. What sort of person did I become? Did I change?
How is my relationship with Octavia now, has it stayed the same, or altered beyond recognition?
And my father, what of him?
Did I go on the holiday we had planned?
Did I meet someone?
Was there a boyfriend?
A first kiss… or something more?
A sudden, stabbing pain seizes my temple, so fierce it makes me flinch and draw a hiss between my teeth. I squeeze my eyes shut, palms pressed to my head, as if I might will the agony away.
When I finally open my eyes, Octavia is watching me, concern written plainly across her face.
The doctor studies me in silence, her gaze intent. If she has questions, she keeps them to herself.
Instead, she schools her features into a polite smile, opens the chart in her hands, and addresses me directly.
“Let’s have a look at that head first. Any dizziness? Nausea? Blurred vision?”
“All of the above,” I murmur, trying to sit straighter.
“Mm.” She moves closer, flicking a small penlight across each of my pupils. “Follow the light for me. Good. Now press your tongue to the roof of your mouth…thank you.”
She steps back, gives a small nod, first to herself and then to the nurse I hadn’t even noticed slip into the room.
“Let’s have her booked for a CT,” she instructs evenly. “Given the blunt trauma to the head, we ought to rule out any bleeding or swelling.”
“I don’t remember anything,” I blurt, the words spilling before I can stop them. My own voice sounds unfamiliar, even to my ears. “Not for the past two years, or so I’ve gathered.”
The doctor regards me properly this time, but she doesn’t say anything. Her grey eyes narrowing, before she flicks a glance toward the nurse, who slips from the room without a word.
I’m eased back onto the bed, the paper beneath me rustling under my weight. The doctor leans in, her hands cool against my skin as she examines the cut at my hairline.
“This will need stitching,” she says, her tone brisk but not unkind. “It’s started to clot, but the skin’s split. We’ll clean it properly first, you’ll feel a bit of pressure.”
I incline my head in the faintest of nods, forcing myself to remain still.
When at last she finishes with my forehead, she sets the instruments aside and reaches for a roll of gauze.
“Are you experiencing any other pain, before we move on with the scan?” she asks.
