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Chapter Text

              I plan on writing this out clearly later, but for now I simply intend on fleshing out the dream itself, with all its strange intricacies and dream logic.

1.

        I was twenty-one years old, riding down the highway on a road trip with my family. Or, at least, I would've been, if the car we'd packed had had enough space for the four of us. With all the assumed luggage spilling over the trunk storage space and onto the seats, it did not. So, instead, my dad and I took the convenient motorcycle that we also happened to have. It was raining, slightly, and I was sleepy from all the night time driving. I rested gently as we eased between cars and through traffic. Through the rain and condensation on the windows, I saw children in the backseat of their car waving at me. I smiled back.

        At last, we'd made it to the city we'd been heading toward all day. It had just stopped raining, and the walk atop the damp concrete paths was pleasant. I remember soft butterfly gardens between restaurants lit up by oil lamps and string-lights. The light from their glow caught on the dewdrops cradled between leaves. I had been taking a short break from dinner with my family--gone to the gardens overlooking the small, wooden city for a breath of fresh air. I searched for the petrichor with each inhale, and I felt at peace. 

        The restaurant was barely visible when I'd reached the tail-end of the garden--when the man had shown up. I saw him belatedly, catching his eyes as I scanned softly over to where the bridge I stood on had begun. My vision snapped back swiftly, to the willows and lazy streams--away from his gaze. The ease I had acquired from the scenery sapped out of me with each plod of his boots, coming closer, and closer, and closer.

        I stood there, frozen, feeling as if the wind was his breath on the nape of my neck. 

        Should I run?

        Should I scream?

        Should I try to push him over the bridge, or confront him?

        What if he's simply enjoying the view, like me?

        My lips remained shut, and I counted my breaths. I tried to recreate his face in my mind.

        Is his hair truly brown, or is it too dark already to tell? 

        Can you approximate his height? How much does the bridge curve upward?

        "It's a nice night out, isn't it?" He remarked.

        Relief passed through me briefly. He must be sitting on the bench a few feet to the right of me. I chanced a glance behind me, and his gaze was there, again. I nodded curtly, and fixed my sight on the running water yet again. I wondered for a moment how long it would take me to run back to the restaurant from here. Five minutes? Six? Would he be offended? Would he chase? It'd be hard to outrun anyone with the winding paths it took to get here, and I wasn't even sure I could remember the way back.

        The wind picked up again, and the silence became deafening. I couldn't tell where he was anymore. Would he think the nod was rude? The silence continued. I would say one thing to him, a pleasantry, and then walk away, safe. If he had any intentions, he would be placated then, I think.

        "The smell of the rain is nice," I say, with a half turn of my face so he could see that I was smiling (but not so much that I'd have to look in his eyes again) and then turned to step away.

        That was polite, I thought, conscious of keeping my steps even, and begun my descent off the bridge, but step, step, step-

        I turn, and he's there beside me, matching me step for step. My feet stutter, and he slows, looking down at me.

        I know it makes me look nervous, but I glance back quickly, to the fading light of the restaurant. I can't help it. He keeps looking at me, as if waiting for me to continue, or run, or do something. Evenly, I begin walking again, and he doesn't miss a beat.

        "Are you headed back to Enzo's?" He asks. He keeps his gaze forward, as if this was a casual walk between friends. The small privacy prompts me into replying.

        "Yes," I say, and then, a second later, "I'm eating there with my family. I said I wouldn't be gone too long." It occurs to me too late that my response was a bit on the nose, but he simply hums in response.

        "Their lamb ragú is my favorite. That and the Penne alle vodka."

        "I... actually just got the penne alle vodka," I say, surprised. "It was delicious."

        "Well, then you got the best thing on the menu. There's some secret ingredient in there, I'm sure of it."

        I laugh, and suddenly realize I've stopped counting my steps. "I'm pretty sure that's the vodka." I notice him smile, but he doesn't respond. We take a left, through a stone pathway. "Do you eat there often?" I ask. Out of habit, and now that he's next to me, I begin putting his face together in my mind. The shape of his ears, the curve of his nose, the angle at which his stubble slopes into his philtrum. His eyes are a deep brown, like his hair, and his lips are... moving. 

        "Sorry, you said you...?" I looked back at the path. My brows furrowed slightly, focused intently on listening to his response.

        "I said I go there when there's something delightful on the menu."

        "Like what?" I ask, shifting my gaze upwards, but then suddenly the world is spinning, my shoe caught on the stone below me, and I'm- caught. He's caught me from the fall, and without hesitation, he picks me up completely, cradling me in his arms. His hands are firm around my shoulder and knee, and his chest is so warm, I can't help but lean my head against him. I was so tired from the drive in--I felt my eyelids begin to droop closed. 

        "You know it's illegal in this city for girls like you to be out late without someone to look after you?" 

        I looked up at him. "Is... it?" My eyelids fluttered closed, and I felt him brush the hair from my face.

        "Don't worry. I'll get you home safe, baby."

        I opened my mouth to respond. "I-" The words slipped from my mouth in a sigh. I frowned. "I... I'm..." I hummed the rest, hoping he'd understand. I'm not your baby.

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        The world came into view slowly, dimmed lights above me and white sheets around me. I toyed with the idea of falling back asleep, but the sudden twinge of a headache at the back of my head reminded me that I'd done that twice before already. Gingerly, I pushed myself up to a seated position, and let my feet dangle off the side of the bed. It was taller than I was used to, and, as the sleep still hadn't left my body, it took a bit of effort getting off of it. I noticed my feet then, covered by fuzzy white socks--smiley faces and whiskers facing up at me. Okay. Mom must've got those for me. Cute. I placed my hand on the cool doorknob when I suddenly realized: this was not a hotel.

        I looked down at the ground again, and was struck horrifically by the wooden flooring. The normal, round doorknob stared menacingly back at me, daring me to open it, to see what was on the other side. I stepped back, as evenly as I could, until I hit the bed. And then I turned around. The bed had frilly pillows on it, with hearts in the lace, and the blanket was the same. On the nightstand, a brown teddy bear sat propped against the dim nightlight, facing the bed. My stomach dropped. I walked over to it, and, with a breath, picked it up. It felt heavy. I turned it over and lifted its sweater, breath still. There it was. A zipper. My heart stopped. I wanted to cry. I opened it up to confirm anyway. I placed it face down on the bed and stalked back over to the door. I would need to be quick. My fingers were starting to shake, and I wouldn't be able to think once the panic set in. I didn't know who set up the nanny cam, but if they hadn't come in already, there was a good chance they weren't around, or, at least, couldn't see me. 

        I turned the handle slowly, then swung the door open. Two sets of eyes stared back at me from where they sat on a set of large, brown couches, but I was caught in the gaze of the man from the garden. He smiled at me, and I gasped, swinging the door shut as quickly as I'd opened it. I went to turn the lock, and, realizing it had none, ran to the bed to try and pull it against the door as some sort of barricade. Memories rushed into me as I used all my might to shift the bed: the day before at the garden, the way he looked at me, loomed around me, picked me up...

        The bed wouldn't budge, and I almost ran to get the nightstand when I heard those same, plodding footsteps again. Shit

        The doorhandle turned, but I was turning it back too, shoving my weight against its frame. 

        "Open the door, Lia." It was firm request--no, a demand. It wasn't my name, but I knew he was talking to me. I couldn't do it, though. Couldn't even think of doing it. If I opened the door, who's to say he wouldn't kill me?

        "Go away!" I yelled, and, for a moment, I was surprised by the high pitch of my voice. "You-" You kidnapped me! And drugged me!, I wanted to scream, but it felt useless. "Please go away. Leave me alone," I pleaded soft into the door.

        "I'm not here to hurt you, Lia." A pause. The door was silent, and the knob was motionless. "I'm going to open the door, now."

        No no no no no no no no.

        The handle began to turn again, and I pressed my all my weight against it. This time, though, weight pressed back, and my socks slipped from beneath me. I caught myself with my hands, but by the time I looked up, the man from the garden was there, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him.

        He extended his hand downward, as if I would take it, let him pick me up and completely terrify me all over again. Absolutely not. I pushed myself up, and walked backwards, over to the corner next to the bed, a safe distance from him. I had to take control of this. He was right there, looking right at me, and the fear could only be staved away for so long.

        "What are you doing here?" I asked, and then, "No, what am I doing here?"

        He sighed and stepped closer to me.

        Terrified, I jumped on the bed, grabbed the night light and waved it at him, threateningly. "I want an answer," I said, my voice wavering nervously.

        "Lia," he sighed, and climbed on the bed with me--too close, so I tossed the light at him, hitting him squarely on his jaw. He grit his teeth.

        I gasped, reflexively, hands over my mouth. Would he retaliate? I stumbled off the bed, and grabbed the next thing of substance. The nanny cam. "I said I want answers," I repeated, and held the teddy bear out in front of me like a shield.

        "Lilia," he deadpanned. 

        "I'm not Lilia," I growled out. I held my position, and, after a moment of staring, he relented and sat down on the bed.

        "Come sit with me," he said, patting the space beside him.

        "No way in Hell."

        "I'm only going to answer your questions when you calm down and come sit."

        "Calm down? Are you kidding me?" I stepped slowly backwards to the door, keeping the teddy bear up against his gaze the whole time. I reached behind me and turned the knob. It was locked. No. I dropped the bear and turned to use both hands, desperate to get it open. Please please please, please I need you to open. I can't stay here. A hand pressed against my shoulder, and I froze.

        "I locked it from the outside, Lia. I wasn't sure how you'd react."

        The hand drifted down my arm, clasping around my wrist, and he led me to the bed, picking me up and sitting me down beside him. I kept my eyes down. His legs were so much longer than mine, I noticed. His feet were planted firmly on the ground, while mine hung in the air. How tall was he?

        "Thank you for sitting down. I know this is hard." He set his hand on my back. I flinched.

        "Please don't touch me," I breathed, heart pounding in my chest.

        The hand stilled, then dropped. "How much do you remember?"

        "I remember the garden. I remember you kidnapping me." I shifted my gaze to the wall beside me. Maybe there was some loose paneling I could pull off.

        "Lia, baby, I never kidnapped you. Your family gave you to me."

        "Sorry, they gave me to you?" I looked over at him. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" 

        He put on a concerned face. "You don't remember? I adopted you four years ago."
        "Ha!" I got up off the bed. "Oh that's funny. Whoever you are, you're not going to manipulate me into thinking you adopted me. I'm twenty-one. Legally, that doesn't even make any sense."

        He ran his hand down his face. "Lia, you're eleven years-old."

        I blinked. This man was insane. 

        "You just went through brain surgery. You were in a coma for three months, and then the doctors told me a new procedure had become available, I signed you up instantly." He looked at the teddy bear. "You were asleep for three months, Lia, and they told me there could be side effects, but I didn't know they would be so severe. I had to take the chance, though--to see you awake right now is incredible."    

        He was either insane, or he thought I was stupid. "I'm not an idiot," I told him slowly, intentionally.     

        He smiled softly. "Let me prove it to you. I have your documents in the living room, and your doctor is out in the hall right now. She's here to keep you safe. We both are."

        "The documents will be forged, whatever they are."

        "I have pictures of us, dating back four years. I promise you, I'm telling the truth."
        "The pictures will be doctored as well. I'm not fucking stupid."

        The man's brows fell sternly. "Lia, I've been patient with you, but we do not use that type of language in this house. Frankly, you've been extremely aggressive with me so far, and that's something I won't tolerate. You and I are going to go into the living room, and I'm going to get the documents. You can inspect them yourself, how about that?"

        I paused. I didn't want him angry, at least not while I was locked in a room with him. If we went into the living room, the other woman could be a psycho like him, but maybe she'd sympathize. Maybe she could get me out. I could play along for a minute. "Fine. Show me the documents."

        With a smile, he stood up, and held out his hand to me.

        Jesus Christ. I looked at him, silently asking if he was serious, and he gestured his hand toward me again. Just for a minute, I thought, and grabbed his hand as lightly as I could.     

        He tightened his grip around mine, crushing my fingers beneath his, and knocked at the door. "Dr. Gladwell, would you mind unlocking the door for us?"

        A click, and the door once more swung open, revealing the strange woman again. We stepped through slowly, and I tried to take in everything. The width of the room, the length, the rooms adjacent to us. Which hallway would logically lead toward the exit? The coffee table had a couple of coasters on it, damp from drinks that were no longer there. The side tables held up orange medication bottles proudly, and the purse next to it had a prescription pad sticking out from the zipper. She's either been bribed, or it's fake.

        The man led me to an open chair, a chaise lounge facing a television, and then left the room, presumably to get the documents. The woman stared at me, peering through her glasses. I didn't know what to say. I looked up at the TV. The scene depicted a set of three lines, converging into one, like the inside of a cube, or the top of a pyramid. The scene didn't move, but the image seemed live nonetheless; flickers of slight color aberrations kept the picture different every few seconds. I recognized it. It was the nanny cam footage, I realized. I tilted my head back toward the woman. She'd just been watching me inside the room. They saw me sleep. She must've heard everything, too. 

        "How are you feeling, hon? You've been out for a long time, now," the woman asked. I ignored the question.

        I glanced at the prescription pad in her purse. "You're a doctor, right?"

        "I am, dear." She cocked her head. "Are you having any symptoms other than the amnesia? We've been so worried about you."

        "No." I sat back, brow crinkled. "No, I don't have any symptoms because I haven't even been in surgery." I looked at the hallway. The man from the garden would be back soon. I lowered my voice. "Look, I know he's probably promised you money or, or something, for keeping all this quiet, but it won't be worth it. My family doesn't have anything. I don't know who you are, but you are going to get caught if you go through with this. You're going to go to jail, and you're not even going to make any money. Please, there's not a lot of time. Just let me go. I won't say a word."

        She just stared at me. She clicked her pen, and wrote something down on a white notepad. She wasn't going to let me go. I need to leave. 

        The man was back, then, carrying a banker's box in his arms. Gently, he set it down on the coffee table in front of me, and then leaned over to talk to the doctor woman. Dr. "Gladwell." Stupid name. I reached over and lifted the box's top. Documents were on the top, showing a birth certificate under the name "Lilia Lane", as well as foster documents and adoption paperwork. I'd been so stupid. I needed to run, now. Everyone here was insane. It doesn't even matter if the documents were forged when it wasn't even under my real name. I just needed to wait for an opportunity, and then book it.

        The man stood up and walked around the coffee table to where I sat. He placed himself next to me. He stared. I picked up another stack of papers to fiddle with.    

        "Do you see, now? The documents are all under your name," The man spoke, leaning forward to catch my ear.

        I didn't respond. They're all under the same name, sure. Just a name that isn't mine. I picked up the adoption papers. Lilia Lane and... Victor Santos. I wonder if his name is fake as well.

        Victor set down a box with a red bow on it in front of me. "You should look through these. It might help more than the documents."

        I set down the papers, picked up the satin box top, and reached inside. Pictures. Pictures of a little girl in a field of blue flowers. Pictures of a girl sitting atop Victor's shoulders, smiling. Pictures of a little girl who very obviously wasn't me. 

        I swallowed. The rest of the pictures were the same--all of them. Happy, smiling faces, at the zoo, at the waterpark, at the museum, and the two of them were still looking at me. What did they expect me to say?

        "Do you see, now, baby? That's you, and that's me. We're a family." He said it so cloyingly, so lovingly, and then his hand was back on my shoulder, rubbing.

        I jumped, up, away from his touch, eyes on the pictures as I backed up through to behind the couches, and then on them, Victor standing up menacingly, the woman turning to get up as well. "I just-" Victor was stalking closer, and then Dr. Gladwell was walking towards me, too. "I just- I just need to-," I inched backwards toward the hall. I just need to get out.

        "Lia, come sit down." Victor was getting closer, and closer, and- I turned. I ran.

        Down the carpeted halls, taking turns on split second decisions. Right, then left, then left again. Footsteps were close, thundering behind me. I ran--faster and faster, straight into... a dead end. There was one door, just in front of me. It didn't matter that it wasn't the front door. It just needed to have a lock and a window. Hope bloomed beneath my chest, I sprinted towards it, bolting inside just as Victor behind me turned the corner.

        I fumbled with the knob, and found exactly what I was looking for. A lock. I was going to be okay. I was going to make it out. I turned. There had to be an escape somewhere. The room was lit up softly by a small, palm tree night light, casting a faint, green glow around the room.

        "Lilia, open the door."

        It was a small, half bathroom. There was a thin window beside the toilet.

        "Lilia." 

        If I could break it, I might be able to squeeze through. The doorknob rattled. I flicked on the light switch and opened the cabinets below the sink. There were only towels and an extra bottle of soap. "Come on..."

        "Lia, I know you're scared, but you need to open the door."

        I jumped up, grabbing the soap dispenser next to the mirror. It was glass but maybe- I stopped, frozen.

        "I'm serious, Lia. Either you open it, or I'll open it myself."

        I couldn't move. I thought I heard more rattling from the doorknob, but everything was so fuzzy. I stared at myself, blinking slowly. I barely registered Victor entering the bathroom with me. My eyes were green, and my chin--it was softer, somehow. Smaller. My nose, too, a small button between my lashes. My hair, wrapped around my neck from the chase--it was a deep black. I'd had brown hair before, and brown eyes. My eyes are brown. But the person staring back at me was the girl from the photos, blinking in perfect synch with me.

        "I don't understand." My words fell from her lips.

        Victor crouched beside me, leveling his head with mine. "I've been telling you all along." His hand brushed the hair from my face, just like in the garden. "Your name is Lilia. You're my little Lia."

        I held back a sob. "My name isn't Lia. It isn't. I-"

        "What is your name, then, honey?" Dr. Gladwell asked, stepping into the doorframe. She looked down at me, curiously. They were all so tall.

        "It's..." I looked at her. "I- My name is..." My brow furrowed, and a tear fell from my eye. Why couldn't I remember my own name?

        "You're foggy from the surgery. Your name is Lia, dear. It's always been Lia." She turned to face Victor. "It appears she's having more trouble adjusting than we'd thought. I suggest starting her up with Dr. Phillips, as well. She's going to need a lot of support through this."

        "What did you do to me?" I breathed. I caught my eye in the mirror again. She was crying, too.

        "Of course. I'll call him immediately." Victor caught my arm, shaking the limp appendage. "Lia, baby." I turned, slowly. "I'm gonna help you through this, okay? We all are. I'm here for you." 

        He pulled me into his arms, and I let him, unable to fight back anymore. Dr. Gladwell locked eyes with me, and she smiled. I just stared. The smile never quite met her eyes.

        They led me back to the room, then, and I drifted down the hall with them. They murmured to each other by the door, glancing at me intermittently. I kept my eyes down, staring at my hands. The woman left the room after a moment, closing the door behind her. Victor came toward me.

        "I know it's a lot to take in, baby." He sat down beside me. "Your memory shouldn't be so scrambled up like this."

        I could almost see my reflection in the polished wood below.

        "Hey," he said, his hand guiding my chin toward him. I let him turn me. I pressed down on the pads of my fingers. "Hey. Tomorrow, I'm going to make us breakfast, and then we can talk about anything you want. You can ask questions, you can tell me about the dreams you had while you were out--anything. How does that sound?"

        His finger stayed pressed against my chin, rubbing softly. I nodded, and let my head fall back to my fingers again.

        "What do you say, Lia?"

        The blood behind my fingernail rushed out as I pressed down. "Okay." I had never felt so small.

        "Good girl." He went over to the door, looking back briefly as he shut off the lights. "Good night, Lia," and he was gone, the door locking behind him.

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Chapter Text

  2

         He woke me up early the next morning. It was 7:52, going by the clock by the dining room table. It was large, and a dark wood. There were chairs enough for sixteen, it looked like. It was excessive. The whole house was excessive. Modern paintings lined the walls, and the furniture scattered around looked like something out of a catalogue. 

        "Are you ready for pancakes, Lia?" Victor asked, coming around the corner of the kitchen island with a plate stacked with them in his hand. I sat quietly, patiently, as he set everything up. He smiled at me. He kept on doing that all morning. Smiling, being cheery. Compensating.

        He placed a pancake on my plate and drizzled syrup on top. Another smile, and he sat down, reaching for the tray himself. I bit into the treat. It was perfect, blueberries at the bottom and syrup coating my tongue.

        "I have a scar on my scalp."

        He looked at me, chewing.

        "I found it last night. It's big."

        He swallowed. "It won't be there for long. The doctor sent us home with an ointment that should help it fade in a few months." He poured some more syrup on his pancakes.

        He was being polite. Letting me lead the conversation. I didn't like it. "Was it the same doctor from last night?"

        "Yes." He cut another piece. "Her name's Dr. Gladwell. She oversaw your entire operation."

        "What procedure did I get?"

        "You had a craniotomy. You'd had a tumor in your brain for quite a while now, but we'd never realized until you fell into coma."

        "I was under for three months?" I asked.

        "Around that. They found the tumor as soon as you went under, but its location was dangerous. Dr. Gladwell helped us with that. She saved your life."

        I looked at him, then. "What's the date?"

        He paused for a second, then pulled out his phone to show to me. October. Six months from when I'd been in the garden. Or dreamed of the garden. It was hard to tell, now. I'd barely slept the night before. I'd stayed up, searching for memories to cling on to. My name, my date of birth, the faces of my parents... Everything felt nebulous, slipping from my grasp when I'd thought I'd found something. I saw... a woman's frown. Her neck. Black hair tied back in a knot. I saw my fingers, the same as now, only in my mind I'd had scarring on my first two digits. I remembered someone's laugh, but not the face to go along with it. Everything was slipping. "Why can't I remember anything?" I said it quietly, feeling as if I had said it louder, even more of my memory would fade.

        "Lia... The tumor was in your hippocampus. That's where-"

        "Where the memories are stored. I know."

        He tilted his head. "Dr. Gladwell was cautious, but they had to cut some of the surrounding area to remove the tumor completely." He reached over, placing his hand above mine. I flinched and pulled it out of his grasp.

        "You were out a long time. It's not unusual for things to be... hazy, sometimes. I'll help you through it."

        I paused. "How?"

        "Your brain should heal some, over time, and memories will come back slowly. In the meantime, I have a surprise for you." He gestured with his fork and a sly smile slid onto his face. "Finish your breakfast, and I'll show you."

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        With our bellies full, Victor guided us back to the living room. I sat on the chaise, and he sat on the square lounge beside it. He spent a moment fiddling with his phone--scrolling with brows knitted, searching. He smiled, and looked at me. "This should help."

        The screen in front of us washed black, and then faded into shaky footage of a kitchen--the kitchen we were just in. A woman was behind the camera, shushing people. "Victor, hurry up!" She said, and the camera panned to him, the man sitting next to me--the man I'd seen in a garden. He looked the same in the video, only he was clean-shaven here. The camera zoomed in to watch as he lit the last couple of candles on a cake with a fancy lighter. 

        Happy Birthday Lia!, it said in beautiful blue calligraphy. The lights flicked off, and we followed behind as Victor brought the glowing cake through the dining room to the little girl sitting at the seat of honor... me. She was younger, here, body smaller and pigtailed hair beneath a fuzzy, pink princess tiara. She smiled brightly, and her eyes gleamed behind the fire shining before her. Kids her age huddled around her. A couple of unrecognizable adults hung in the corner of the frame taking pictures. They sang happy birthday, and then a few lines of las mañanitas till the words trailed off, off-key and happy. There was a hush. The camera zoomed in. The girl squinted her eyes, scrunched up her button-nose, and blew. 

        Cheers rang out around the room as the lights flashed on again, "Happy birthday!" The people exclaimed. Victor hugged the girl tightly, and she hugged him back. He nuzzled his face into her neck. She giggled, her eyes looking up as he whispered something into her ear. His hand was on the back of her head, and then, he pushed her! Her face pressed firmly into the cake. She squealed happily, "Daddy!", she cried, my voice ringing out. She licked her lips as she came up, and vengefully swiped a dollop of icing onto the man's cheek. The room dissolved into a peal of laughter. 

        They cut the cake then, and I tore my vision away. My eyes shut, and flavor swam through the black. I... remember. The icing was vanilla, and soft upon my tongue. I remember waking up the next morning to find a strand of hair caked in it. I licked it clean, in secret, till it tasted like hair again.

        "Do you remember, baby?" His gaze was intent upon me.    

        "The cake was vanilla, wasn't it?"

        "It was! Oh, my little Lia." He clasped his hands around mine. "How much do you remember?"

        "Not much... Just the flavor, and the feeling." I thought. "I don't remember their faces, or any voices at all."

        "That's all right, baby. It's a good start. We can work with this. You're doing so good, baby."

        I placed a soft smile on my face, and looked up at him through my lashes. How much did I have wrong? He brought my hands to his lips and kissed them. 

        We spent the next couple of hours going through photos. He barely had any of me on his phone, only a couple of me sleeping on the hospital bed from the coma, so we mainly rifled through the box photos from before. 

        "I don't like being on my phone much," he'd said. "It's not good for you. It's better to be present, like we are now."

        There was a story behind each photo. I couldn't remember the specifics of any of them, but every now and then, I'd remember the feeling. I'd close my eyes, and a half transparent hammerhead would stare back at me, just like in the aquarium photo. I'd been there. It felt like a fact. I felt the giftshop-cup's ribbed straw vibrate between my teeth. I frowned. Twenty-one felt like a fact too, though. 

        The doorbell rang suddenly. "That'll be Dr. Phillips. He's going to help clear everything up." Victor began sorting the photos back into the box, taking his time.

        "Are you going to get the door?"

        "And leave you here? Of course not, silly. One of the maids will show him the way."
        "You have maids?"

        "How else would I keep this place spotless?"

        I looked around. It was a big house. I hadn't even seen all of it. Hadn't even seen the front door. A man appeared in the hall, then, tall, in a spotless suit. A woman in a black and white dress nodded her head demurely, and then turned to leave just as quick as she'd appeared. I hadn't even been able to see her face.

        "Hello Mr. Santos," he said. He shook Victor's hand, and then turned to me, extending his right hand. "Well hello there! You must be little Lilia. I'm Dr. Phillips. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."  

        I didn't want to shake his hand, and I didn't like his condescending tone, but it felt wrong to ignore it. I'd be out of place. More than I was already. He waited. I grabbed his hand, light, and shook it once.

        Dr. Philips laughed and turned to Victor. "She's a little shy right now, isn't she?" His voice was lilting. Light. "That's alright." He sat down before me, facing me, now. "I can work with shy."

        My face flushed hot with indignation. "I'm not shy," I stated. The claim soured instantly on my tongue. It felt infantile somehow, like my words further proved his assertion. 

        "Be polite," Victor warned.

        "He's being condescending."

        "Lilia." Victor pressed his hand on my shoulder, and then suddenly I wasn't looking for my memories anymore, calm and serene, I was angry. He was trying to keep me in check? He wasn't anything to me. Not even a memory. I glared up at him, hovering above my shoulder. 

        Victor stared back.

        The doctor pursed his lips.

        "You'll have to excuse her. She's been having a hard time with her memory. She thought I kidnapped her yesterday."

        The doctor's eyebrows raised. "Did you?" He asked.

        "I-" My eyes danced left. "I remember it."

        "Is that so... And how did your daddy kidnap you?"

        My vision shot back at him, mouth open to retort.

        "Did he shove you in a trunk, or tie you up?"

        My mouth shut. "No. He... picked me up." Dr. Phillips sat silent for a minute.

        "Did you scream? Did you try to hit him?"

        "No." Then, "I couldn't."

        "And why is that?" He asked, pronouncing the "wh" with an extra gust of wind.

        "He'd drugged me."

        "He drugged you? Are you sure?" The doctor pulled out a pen and a notepad. "What reaction did the drugs have on you?"

        I glanced at the pen, hovering above the page. "They made me tired."

         He scribbled something half-heartedly.

        "Abnormally tired," I revised. "I couldn't speak. It felt like sleep paralysis, kind of."

        He peered up at me, tapping the tip of his pen to the page disinterestedly. "So, you think your daddy kidnapped you because he picked you up, and you fell asleep in his arms."

        He wasn't getting it. "I-"

        "You said it yourself that it felt like a dream-state."

        "Sleep paralysis," I interjected.

        "I know it must've felt scary, little Lia. But you can't go around claiming silly things like this. You were in a coma for three months--that's an awful long time for a dream to run wild. I think it's highly likely that the good memories of your daddy holding you in his arms, and the bad memories of your previous families... intertwined somehow. That's how dreams work, Lia. They take from what's real, and make something new. Sometimes, that something new is scary."

        "I know how dreams work. It felt real, though."
        He tilted his head. "Sleep paralysis feels real, too, doesn't it? You can feel the pressure, firm against your chest, weighing you down. Or maybe a hand on your throat, choking the air right out of you. What has your experience been like?"

        "It was-" I swallowed, and looked down. I felt the twines crawl around my collarbone. "It's rope." It's always rope.

        He hummed. "And can you feel the coarse hairs of it on your skin?"

        I nodded, slightly.

        "Where does it touch you?"

        I felt the ghost of it snake around me, down my torso, creeping up my neck. "My arms. My legs. My neck. It holds me down."

        He sat with that for a moment, pondering. "Do you still think your daddy kidnapped you?"

        The imaginary rope fell. I brushed my palms over my arms. "No. I don't think so. I don't know." I glanced up. He waited for me to continue. "There's just so much evidence against it. Nothing makes sense. Nothing feels right, here. I can't remember him, but I also can't even remember my own face. There are pictures of me that match what I look like in the mirror, though, videos with my same voice. They're exact."

        "You can't remember your daddy?" The doctor clarified.

        Would it be rude to call him Victor? 

        I shook my head, my eyes kept down.

        "That's alright. That just means you have the unique opportunity to reacquaint yourselves with one another." He paused. "You know your daddy loves you, right? You wouldn't be sitting here with us today if he didn't."

        I sat still, rubbing my wrist.

        Dr. Philips sighed. "Do you know that he loves you?"

        I felt Victor shift his weight on the cushion behind me. "I know," I said, curt.

        "You know what, little Lia? Use your words."

        I wasn't going to say that. "I know he loves me."

        He hummed, and scribbled something else on his notepad. "Good. Now, I think this is also a wonderful time for you to get reacquainted with yourself. It sounds like you're dealing with quite a bit of body dysmorphia and derealization. There's a full-length mirror down the hall. I think it'll be a good idea if we go over there together. I want you to sketch yourself. Solidify what's real. How does that sound?"

        I didn't like the idea of spending much more time alone with him, but the promise of drawing made my fingers tingle.

        "Okay."

        ---------------------------------------------------------------------------

        "Now tell me: what do you see, Lilia?"

        I stared at myself. I really stared. I'd only seen my face before in the bathroom mirror, but a full-length like this... I could see everything. My figure was small. I looked young. Eleven, they'd said. I crouched and leaned close enough to fog up the glass. My eyes were big, surrounded by thick, black lashes. 

        "I see my eyes."

        Dr. Phillips watched from my periphery as I studied the yellow flecks scattered throughout my green irises. 

        "What color are your eyes, Lilia?"

        "They're green. Green and yellow."

        "Good, good." He scratched ambiently in his notepad. "What else do you see?"

         I leaned back away from the mirror and took in my whole face. "I see my lips, and my nose." I peered at myself closer. "My ears are pierced."

        "That's right." There was a slight smile on his face. "And what else?" 

        I brought my hands to my face and pressed at my cheeks. The soft peach fuzz underneath tickled my fingertips. I watched myself run my fingers up to my scalp and through my dark hair. The texture was familiar. Everything felt familiar. If I closed my eyes, it all felt right. But somehow, when I opened them back up, everything felt foreign. I turned to look at Dr. Phillips. "How is this supposed to help anything?"

        He smiled. "The point of this exercise is to reacquaint yourself with your body and your physical form. With how many months you were in a coma for, it's no surprise that you've had a little trouble with feeling like you're not quite in the right body. You've been dreaming for so long, having any sort of body would feel weird. All of this is normal, Lia--all of it." 

        I turned to sway in front of the mirror. My hair ticked left and right pendulously. Everything was so new. I could turn around in a circle once and see thirty things I'd never seen before. Knick-knacks lined the shelves, along with boxes and photos of me and him. Tiny dolls and floating rocks loomed above me, too high for me to reach. Metallic thingamabobs stood behind me at the beginning and ends of the hall The ceiling felt miles away, and yet constricting all the  same. There was so much I couldn't identify--just here in this one hall. Was that normal? 

        "How much of my memory did I lose?" I asked, turning to face him again.

        He sighed. "Unfortunately, dear, that's something that we're going to have to figure out together. The surgery was quite invasive. Along with your obvious familial memory loss, it's quite likely that your practical memory has been impacted as well. It's going to be difficult to return to the place that you used to be at, but you mustn't feel ashamed to ask those around you questions. I imagine it might be quite difficult for you to adjust to this magnitude of change, but you can be a big girl for us, can't you? I want you to promise me you'll ask someone for help whenever things feel a little too hazy for your brain to process." 

        My fingers fidgeted restlessly against my thighs. "Sure."

        He looked at me for a moment, and then smiled. "Good. Very good. Now let's keep going shall we?" Dr. Phillips reached into his briefcase and pulled out a sketchbook and pencil for me to use. "I'd like you to begin drawing yourself now."

        I took the offered items and nodded, holding the pencil comfortably in my grip. This felt right. I leaned in closer, and began to examine myself again--only this time, I looked for the angles on the planes of my face, not for any recognition. My forehead was about a third of my face, and the creases of my lips began at the exact same point as where my tear ducts hit. I sketched a ghost of a circle on the page and began to plot the points. 

        It felt natural, as I continued on, and I picked up a rhythm as I went. Look up, compare angles, look down, and sketch. Look up, look down, erase, look up, look down, and draw. It was meditative. By the time I'd begun hatching in value tones, I'd almost forgotten Dr. Phillips was there.

        "You're quite the artist, aren't you Lia?" He asked, leaning over to look at the page.

        I glanced at him through the mirror, but didn't respond. The side of my nose needed a highlight. I flipped the pencil over in my hands. 

        He continued to watch as I fiddled with the values, and the air suddenly felt very hot. I could hear his inhales between pencil strokes. "I remember drawing... before."

        Another inhale. "What did you draw?"

        I paused, looking at the eyes on the page. The rims of the irises needed another pass. "People, I think. Definitely people."

        "Did you draw anyone in particular?"

        "No one that I can remember. I remember drawing, and I remember being good at it, but..." I closed my eyes. "I can't remember what any of them looked like."

        "Hm. Well maybe this exercise will be better for you than I originally thought. You'll create new memories, soon. I'm sure you'll have lots of doodles of you and your daddy hugging on your refrigerator in no time."

        "I don't..."

        "Here, let me get this for you," He said, and ripped the drawing off the notebook. "Why don't we give this to your daddy? I'm sure it will make him very happy to see the progress you've made already. You can keep the notebook. I'd love to see some more sketches in it the next time I come by."

        "...Okay," I said.

        Together, we walked back to the living room. Victor was sitting there, waiting for us.

        "Thank you so much for coming by today Dr. Phillips! Little Lia here needs someone like you around after her surgery."

        "Oh it was no trouble at all, Vic. In fact, Little Lia here was quite cooperative today. She did such a good job. In fact, she has something she'd like to show you."

        His hand pressed down on my shoulder, pushing me forward toward Victor.

        I looked back briefly, then, with a frown, took the drawing back from Dr. Phillips. It was just a drawing. I looked at it--me--and stepped forward towards Victor. It was just a stupid drawing. I handed it to him.

        He inspected it close, and slowly, a smile broke out onto his face. He caught my gaze from above the edge of the page, and then suddenly, he shot up off the couch, picked me up, and spun me around in the tightest hug I'd ever felt. "Lia, this is incredible! This is really fantastic!" Dr. Phillips caught my eye between spins. He had a slight smile on his face. Victor let me down gently, but held my hands still. "Thank you for being a good girl today. It means a lot to me. It means a lot to the both of us," he said, looking up at the psychiatrist. He pressed his hand to my cheek. "Can you thank Dr. Phillips for helping us today?" He asked, fingers still resting on my chin. 

        Thank him? I turned. "Thanks for the notebook."

        Dr Phillips' lips pressed together as he looked toward Victor. He nodded, and then smiled. "Of course, Little Lia, dear. I hope to see you very soon."

As he turned to leave, his tall frame gliding down the halls, Victor piped up behind me. "Come on, Lia, I know the perfect place to put this!"

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Chapter Text

3

The days passed fluidly.

    "Good Morning, Lia. Come out to eat, won't you? I made breakfast!"

Formlessly.

    He'd pulled out my seat for me before I'd even sat down. My plate was full, and a glass of cool lemon water dripped condensation onto a carved coaster.

Visions of gardens faded into hues of juniper and sage,

    The corners of photographs pricked my fingers as I rifled through once more. It was my third pass that day. I wondered how many more passes it would take to wear them down to a soft, rounded curve. A click, and then a soft hum filled the air. I fiddled with the edge of this one, tracing my own face with my eyes. I angled the page upwards to catch the light on my fingerprints scattered across the photo, obscuring the faces staring back.

until all I could recall was his warmth, anymore--

    Footsteps padded behind me, and then everything went dark. I jumped, up against the weight of the attack, but then-

    "Shhhh.

    "Shh."

    Thick, woven fabric fell from my face, and Victor came into view, smiling. He wrapped me up tight inside the blanket, cocooning me, stroking the weave gently.

holding me,

    A blast of cool air hit my face, and I looked up, feeling it winnowing through my curls.

close enough to feel his heartbeat

plod

    "The air turns this chaise into an Antarctic habitat if you're not prepared.

plod

    "I didn't startle you, did I?"

plod.

     I smiled slight, and shook my head. "No."

I'd been dutiful with my sketching, although my pages had begun to fill up with more than drawings. Scribbled approximations of words filled the gaps between half-rendered eyes and legs, along with notes of whatever context I could recall.

    "When you're a bit better, would you like to go see _____?"

    "I'll need to leave the house next week during the day to _____. Do you think you'll be fine on your own?"

At night, when the door was shut and I was just a thing inside a blanket again, I would try to remember how many words were just slightly out of reach.

     "_____ and _____. Come on, would you like to help  _____?"

Some days, I would fall asleep before I could finish.

    "Do you remember, Lia?" He handed me the palm tree night-light. "We put this in here together when you moved in. You were so afraid of the dark."

It was still so new. All of it. None of it was home, but,

    The tv droned on somewhere far beyond my consciousness, filtering through me in waves. "...do. Kiddo," his voice came, crashing just below the surface of sentience. "You falling asleep already?" Soft warms hands pulled me towards him, and there, again, I felt the gentle pounding of his heartbeat. "C'mere."

there, half asleep in his arms, I thought, maybe it could be.