Beep… Beep… Beep…
My eyes flicker open at the sound beside me. A white ceiling comes into view. Blinking a few times, I scan my surroundings. The room is unfamiliar—pristine, elegant, and far too luxurious. The crisp white sheets, the soft hum of machines, the faint scent of antiseptic in the air—this is a hospital.
But not just any hospital room. This place screams money.
My chest tightens as I struggle to grasp onto a memory—any memory. Who am I and why am I here?
My head feels foggy, like a thick mist is blocking my thoughts.
Before I can make sense of anything, the door swings open. A man enters, dressed in a white coat, I'm assuming he's a doctor.
"You're awake," he says, adjusting the IV attached to my hand.
I watch him in silence as he runs a few physical tests. My lips part, but no words come out. My throat feels dry, like sandpaper.
"Open your mouth," he instructs and I obey.
"Can you talk?"
I try, forcing out a sound—anything. But only a hoarse whisper escapes.
"Don't stress yourself," he says. "You'll be okay soon."
He lingers for a while, making notes and checking machines before finally exiting the room.
I have so many questions, and yet no answers.
I don't remember who I am. I don't know why I'm here. I can't even speak properly. My throat burns, scratchy and raw.
The door creaks open again, drawing my attention back to the present. A nurse walks in, carrying a tray with a cup of water and several sachets.
She sets it down beside me, rips open a packet, and pours its contents into the cup. Stirring it with a spoon, she hands it to me.
I take a hesitant sip. The warmth soothes my throat, its mild sweetness lingering.
"It'll help your voice," she says, taking the cup back.
She offers me a small smile. "Your guardian will be here soon."
My guardian? Finally. Maybe I'll get some answers.
I nod, acknowledging her words, though my mind is already racing. If I have a guardian, does that mean I have no parents? Or do they just not care enough to be here?
I push the thought away and wait.
Minutes pass. Then hours. Or at least it feels that way.
At last, the door opens again. This time, it isn't a nurse or doctor. An older man—probably in his early sixties—walks in. He wears a gentle smile as he approaches.
"Hello," he says, studying me carefully. "Do you know who I am?"
I stare at him. How would I know who he is when I don't even know who I am?
I shake my head.
He exhales softly, as if he expected that answer. "Do you remember anything? Your name, perhaps?"
Another shake of my head.
Frustration bubbles inside me. Shouldn't he be the one telling me these things? Why is he asking me the questions I should be asking him?
"Try to remember something," he encourages.
I sigh. "Who are you?" My voice is still weak, but at least I can speak now.
He hesitates before answering. "I am your guardian."
That tells me nothing.
"What role do you play in my life?" I press. "Are you my grandfather? My uncle? My father?" I pause. "What is my name?"
"Chill, little girl. No need to rush," he chuckles awkwardly.
I grit my teeth. My patience is wearing thin.
"One question at a time," he says. "Firstly, your name is Beatrice."
Beatrice.
I roll the name around in my mind, hoping it might trigger something.
Nothing.
"Beatrice… what?" I ask.
"Beatrice Campbell."
Still nothing.
"Do you know who Brittany is? He asks
Brittany?
Brittany…
Brittany! The moment I say it, my head spins. The name stirs something inside me. A flicker of recognition. Before I knew it blackness took over me.
…
When I open my eyes again, I'm no longer in the hospital, I'm in a bedroom. My bedroom?
The soft pink walls, the neatly arranged furniture, the scent of lavender in the air—hmm, feminine touch, must be my room.
I sit up slowly, my body still weak. Across the room, there's a door. I push myself off the bed and make my way toward it.
The handle turns easily, and when I step out, I'm faced with a long hallway. Beside my room, there's an elevator.
Am I in a hotel?
"Miss, you shouldn't be walking barefoot," a voice calls out.
I glance down. I hadn't even realized.
A woman—probably in her forties—stands nearby, watching me with concern.
"Where is he?" I ask.
"The man." She nods, understanding. "He's around. Put on some slippers, and I'll take you to him."
I hurry back into the room, slipping on a pair of soft, fluffy slippers.
"I'm ready," I tell her.
She leads me into the elevator, pressing the down button.
When the doors slide open, I step out into a vast, luxurious living area.
The chandeliers, the plush leather couches, the massive windows—how rich is this man?
"Beatrice."
I turn toward the voice.
The old man—my so-called guardian—sits in a chair, watching me.
I walk over, standing before him.
"Mister…"
"How do you feel?" he asks before I can say more.
"Good."
"Call me Mike," he says.
Just Mike? I frown in confusion. He's too old to be my father but too young to be my grandfather.
Seeing my expression, he adds, "Your grandfather was my friend. In time, you'll learn more. I don't want to overwhelm you while you're still recovering."
Was? As in… past tense? I push the thought aside. There's something else I need to know.
"Do you know who Brittany is?" I ask.
Mike's brows furrow. "No, I don't. I was going to ask you the same thing. What do you know about her?"
I hesitate, then speak.
"I don't really know her," I admit. "But that day… I was there. I saw her. When… when she…"
The words catch in my throat. My hands tremble.
I don't remember why I was on that rooftop, but I remember her.
I remember the neon spray paint on the floor.
"Brittany was here."
I remember the way she stood on the edge, remember the screaming before fainting.
Where is Brittany? I hope she's okay.