The windows were covered by heavy, wine-red curtains, painting the room the same color as the sun shown through it. A floor mirror stood near the bed, with a shirt drooped over it. The bed had a soft, comfortable mattress and the sheets and covers smelled of lavender. She reached her arm from out of the covers and felt the chill of the morning quickly the warmth from her skin. In her head there was a dull pain.
Despite the comforts and the refuge from the cold air, she looked around the master bedroom and asked herself, "Where am I?"
As she tried to get up, she realized how weak she felt. She was drowsy, as if she hadn't slept at all. She was about to step out of bed when the bedroom door opened.
A man holding a wooden bed tray with breakfast and a smile on his face walked in, pushing the door open with his left shoulder. He had dark brown hair with just little streaks of grey in it and acne scars on his face. He was wearing a freshly cleaned, bone white bathrobe, though no matter how many times it was washed, a big coffee stain refused to part from the fabric.
"Morning, sweetheart." He said. The tray he placed on her lap, as if to lock her in between the legs of trey. On the wood, was a plate of steamy hot pancakes with blueberries baked into them, with a glistening film of maple syrup over the stack. A tall glass of orange juice, half-way full was provided to wash it down.
"Is there something wrong, hon?" He asked with a concerned tone. She realized she was just staring at the food, but now she looked this strange man in the eye.
"Who are you?" She asked him, as politely as she could.
He gave a little chuckle. She could see it was a sad one, but it seemed that he was prepared for such a response, as if he had heard this question a hundred times.
"Oh dear," he began, "It's me, Rodney, your husband." His hand caressed her hair, then brushed a lock out of her eye. She did not know this man. At this moment, she could not remember a lot. Her home address, her age, her parents' faces. Nothing.
"My husband? I'm married?" she asked slowly. Anything was possible at this point; she could be the president's daughter for all she knew. Yet, judging by this simple bedroom, that probably was unlikely.
"Yes, Leslie. We've been married for six years. I know it's a lot to take in, but let me explain." He encouraged her to eat, and she did.
Wanting to clear up any confusion, perhaps for the hundredth time, he explained to her why she can't remember anything.
"There was an accident. A car accident. You were driving home from work in the rain when a drunk driver rammed into you." Rodney tried to hold back his tears, and he continued, "The doctors said, from now on, you will have memory problems."
He put a hand on her thigh, and squeezed lightly, the tears fighting their way out of his eyes.
"Oh." Leslie said, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry this has been difficult for you." She really did not know this man. She could not love someone she did not know.
"It hasn't been easy, but I still love you. I'll never leave you."
"I love you, too." She said weakly and awkwardly. She couldn't make herself believe it, but she did feel sorry for him. He needed to hear it, she knew, he's probably done this way too many times.
She ate her breakfast quietly, while Rodney sat on the bed.
"Do you need anything else, hon?" He asked.
"My head. It hurts a little." The pain in her head had gotten slightly worse.
"Maybe you just need to drink something." He nodded toward the orange juice.
She lifted the glass to her lips and took a sip, all while Rodney was staring at her, as if she was about to drop it. He noticed she noticed, so he smiled thinly and looked away.
"Sorry," he atoned "you just look so beautiful. Can't keep my eyes off you."
The juice had a strange after taste to it.
The door bell rang, and following it, knocking. Rodney's head whipped back and he muttered something.
"Something wrong? Uh... Rodney?" She asked, suddenly feeling dizzy.
"Oh, it's nothing. Nothing."
Rodney just sat there in his thoughts.
"Well, are you going to answer?" suspicion nestled its way between the pain and dizziness in her head.
"Yes. Yeah. Sorry." Were the three words chanted hastily as he got up from the bed and out of the room.
Suspicion turned to fear. As weak as she was, she dragged herself out of bed. She tried to place her hand on the bedside table to steady her self, but her hand found the knob of the drawer instead. She fell, accidentally pulling the drawer out, as well.
Within was a snub-nose revolver, small empty vials with grey lids, some rubber bands, a lighter. There was a photograph, too. Rodney was standing next to a woman. She looked into the mirror and back at the image. The woman looked like her, but it wasn't her. This isn't me, she thought to herself, I do not know this man. She got up and walked out. She moved like a tightrope walker, trying hard to keep her balance. She kept two hands on the handrail and descended the steps.
To her left, at the bottom of the stairs, was the kitchen. An empty vial sat next to a carton of orange juice. The front door was wide open and she could hear voices from outside. Feeling her strength fading, she pushed herself out, falling to her knees on the porch. The last thing she saw was Rodney talking to a cop. There were others, too, behind them, closer to the sidewalk.
"Amanda!" called one voice. Her eyelids weighed a thousand pounds. Footsteps rushed to meet her. An authoritative voice barked commands, while several other voices shouted at her. Who's Amanda? Was the last thought she had before the world went dark and silent.
She awoke in a bed not as comfortable as the one in that house. In the hospital, she was surrounded by strangers, but as the stuff Rodney was giving her cleared from her system, she knew they weren't strangers, rather the ones she knew and loved truly.
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