Authors: Yessi Smith
“Holly.” He cups my hand in his and squeezes.
I stare at him, unable to speak or make sense of the incoherent thoughts my brain is forming. I take my hand away from him, apologetic I cannot offer him the empathy he’s looking for.
I watch as his eyes go wide and he stares at his hand that seconds ago had held mine.
“Holly?” he asks me. “It’s me, you’re okay now.”
He looks to be in his eighties, worn thin from the malnutrition a lot of elderly people in his condition encounter. Growing old was a bitch, I thought, undecided if dying young was a better alternative.
I clear my throat, hoping the forced cough will also clear my head of the fogginess it is drowning in.
“I’m not Holly,” I tell him quietly, hoping his dementia or Alzheimer’s doesn’t make him aggressive.
He shoves his body off my bed with far more agility I thought he’d possess, and stares at the open door, his mouth wide with bewilderment. My brain goes crazy, signaling alarms of fear, pain, and the same confusion I find in this man’s face.
My hands and feet are restrained so I do the only thing I can do. I scream and hope I haven’t gone insane. I want to ask questions that would clear up the confusion, but my body is convulsing in fear, leaving me unable to do more than scream.
People in white coats run in and I have a vague sense of déjà vu as they stick me with a needle that takes me so quickly I don’t have time to explain the dangers that await me.
***
This time when I wake up, I finally understand where I am – a hospital. Why, I didn’t know. Where, is just as hidden to me. But hospitals are safe, I sigh, willing myself to believe it.
I see the same man sleeping awkwardly on the chair next to me and I start to wonder if I made him up so I wouldn’t feel so alone. I don’t know why, but that’s how I feel – alone. I watch him sleep, my breath matching his and I feel myself begin to relax. With each breath, I see my heart rate on the monitor slow down. Apparently, all forms of meditation are good for the body.
The man must have felt me stir, because when I look back at him, he is looking at me with too much hope in his eyes.
Still unsure if he is a figment of my imagination – hell, this all could be elusive fabrications to escape the real terrors that I feel are hidden inside of me – I lift my hand at him as much as the restraints allow me, to greet him. He nods his head at me, his eyes full of sorrow and I wish I could be his Holly for him. I almost tell him my name is Holly, just so I can cheer him up. But I don’t want to lie to him.
“Do you know where you are?” he asks me and I nod my head towards the various monitors methodically scattered all over my room.
“The hospital,” I respond.
“Do you know why you are here?”
I shake my head
no
at him, but don’t ask him if he has the answer, because I’m sure his mind is even more muddled than mine is.
“Holl, you’ve been missing for months,” he says slowly, making sure I understand what he is telling me. I don’t understand though. I don’t understand anything right now. “Some hunters found you in the woods by our house a few days ago. You don’t remember?”
I shake my head at him again. “Sir,” I say gently, wanting to reach for his hand to bring this kind stranger some comfort. “I think you’re confused. I think I was in an accident.” He forcefully shakes his head at me, telling me I’m wrong. “My name’s not Holly. I’m sorry.”
“What’s your name then?” he asks with so much worry seething through him, I can feel it.
“My name?” I think and come back empty. Such a simple question, but not one I can answer, because my brain has stopped functioning correctly. I decide to ignore his question and proceed with my own. “Do you know why I’m tied up?”
“You were hysterical when they brought you in and then when you woke up you got worse.” He walks towards my bed and, because I have decided to trust him, I scoot over, giving him room to sit. “It was bad, Ho –” he stops, faking a cough. “I begged ‘em not to put those things on you, but you kept hurting yourself and hitting them.”
I look at him, not sure if I believe him. None of it rings true, but here I am, shackled to the bed. Shackled, the word makes my brain tingle. Shackled.
Shackled.
I start to tremble, unable to stop. I scream at him, at anyone nearby to let me loose.
“Let me go!” I demand, again petering on the edges of insanity as I try to force my hands and feet free.
The nurses come back in, with that God-awful shot that will drag me into an abyss again and I scream at her, begging her not to inject me again, swearing I’ll behave. I see the needle inch its way closer to my skin so I close my eyes tight and start to cry, knowing I have no way of fighting her off. But the needle never makes contact. The man, this stranger who hasn’t left me, saves me.
“Leave her be,” he tells the nurse gently, but with an air of authority that demands to be heard.
I want to thank him, but am having a difficult time catching my breath between the sobs that rock me to my core. I close my eyes, confident that no one will poke me while they are shut and I try to listen to the man’s breathing like I did before. I need to hear a slower paced rhythm than my own erratic heartbeat in my ears so that I can match it. I open my eyes and look at him, silently begging him to sit next to me again. I’m not sure how he hears me, but he does so I close my eyes again and listen. In and out, I match my breath to his, until my panic subsides.
“You should rest,” he tells me and I nod my head even though I disagree.
I don’t want to sleep. I want to know why I’m here.
Shackled
, I think and my brain again sends little prickles down my spine. I am reminded that danger is close by. But what danger? I don’t think this old man is dangerous so I ignore myself.
“Why do you call me Holly?” I ask him, confused, but with a strong desire to make him understand I am not who he thinks I am.
He sits down on the chair next to my bed and stares at his lap for a long time before he answers me. “That’s your name,” he says simply, looking at me with clear brown eyes that do not show any signs of confusion. He could be telling me the truth.
Holly
, I think but don’t feel a connection to the name. It’s a pretty name, though. And much better than not having a name at all.
“What’s your name?” I ask him.
“Ed,” he tells me, and I catch him wiping away a stray tear. “Your Poppa.”
I feel bad that I have caused him pain, but don’t know why or how to avoid it. He’s hurting for a Holly that probably doesn’t exist. So I nod my head at him as if what he said makes perfect sense.
I had woken up about an hour ago in a hospital, with an old man sitting next to me who claims my name is Holly and that he’s my grandfather. What the hell kind of accident would strip me of my memories but still allow me to speak. And hopefully walk. To experiment, I wiggle my toes and am grateful when they respond.
No, not an accident. Something else. Somewhere my mind remembers what that something was and sends my blood curdling.
Chapter 2
Holly
Like a good grandfather, Ed hasn’t left my side and I have rewarded him by calling him Poppa. It feels weird to call a man I just met Poppa but it makes him happy, so I do my best to remember. Poppa. I want him to be my Poppa so I can be his Holly. At least then I’d know a part of who I am.
A couple of days ago, I made the mistake of wondering out loud where my parents were and was met with the heartbreaking grief of a father whose daughter and son-in-law were killed. Killed, how? I don’t know. I don’t have it in me to ask him; this man has already lost too much, including a granddaughter he sees every day.
I still don’t know much of what happened to me. I disappeared six months ago and reappeared nine days ago, wandering the woods by my grandfather’s house. I was emaciated, bruised and battered, which led the police to believe I was held captive somewhere. I’m not sure how the police made such a leap considering I was only missing for six months and was found beaten near death. But I figure these Texan cops must be geniuses. I’m sure they’ll catch my captor any day.
Poppa tells me I’ve always been a bit of a smart ass, so I cling to my sarcasm since it’s the only thing I know is truly me. He also says I swear a lot – must be the hill billy in me – but swearing in front of an elderly man with such sad eyes seems disrespectful so I keep my swearing properly contained in my brain.
And my brain. I saw pictures of it. I’m not sure what the normal size of a brain is, but the doctors told me there was quite a bit of swelling. The police think my elusive captor is to blame for the damage – geniuses, I tell ya’. Damn geniuses, all of them.
There was, and still is, plenty of damage throughout my body. My ribs are separated, with one break, but thankfully the pain has abated and only hurts when I breathe. My feet are raw, probably from the aimless running I did in the woods. Or not aimless, somewhere in my mind I must have known where I was going since I was so close to Poppa’s house. I came up with that idea on my own, without local law enforcement’s logic.
I looked at my face for the first time yesterday. Not for the first time ever, I’m sure. I mean, one can’t get to twenty four years of age without looking at themselves periodically. But as far as I can remember, it was a first for me. My dreams of being a dark haired, blue eyed Goddess quickly dissipated, and I was only slightly disappointed when my grandfather’s familiar brown eyes looked back at me. My dark brown hair is cut long, but is matted and chopped rather than layered in a way that does’'t make much sense. I desperately need a stylist to properly cut my hair.
I have cuts along my face, which, if I have good genes, will fade with time. I have high cheek bones, with the left one sporting the remnants of what used to be a bruise. I’m grateful I have no recollection of how it happened. I’m sure it hurt. My arms and legs have dark circular bruises everywhere, but already they are turning an angry purple and red. They will soon be gone, leaving me with nothing to help me remember.
I’m skinny; Poppa tells me it’s a natural skinny. You know, the envious kind, because I can eat whatever I want without gaining an ounce. And I’m short – like 4’11” short. In other words, I’m not the athletic type and I’m very small – the perfect victim.
That would change. As soon as I left the hospital, I’d lift, run, and learn how to fight. I will never be a victim again.
My psychologist, Ann, walks in after I force Poppa to call a hair stylist, because seriously, I can’t continue looking like this. She greets me with a formal nod of her head that I reciprocate. She’s professional to a fault, but I like her because she managed to convince the doctors to untie my hands and feet before she started our first session. God bless this woman.
Poppa gets up from his chair, patting me on the shoulder before he leaves to give us some privacy. She asks me how I’m doing and I shrug my shoulders, not sure how to respond.
Still confused
, I want to shout and accuse her of not helping me.
Still can’t remember shit
.
The first time we met she suggested I try a technique in which I recall everything that I know to be true, but I couldn’t do that. I didn’t know what was real and what wasn’t.
“You know your name,” she had told me.
Holly Grace Fischer.
“You know you are alive,” she had continued, but I shook my head at her.
I hadn’t known then if I was in fact alive. What if I was stuck in some sort of purgatory for sins I couldn’t even remember I committed?
But I have made progress. I know that I’m alive. I’m not sure why I survived what I went through, but the beating of my heart tells me I’m here. But, here’s the thing I won’t tell anyone: I’m not sure I want to be alive.
“Do you still hurt?” Ann asks.
“Some, but it’s getting better.” I can’t remember how I used to talk, but since I woke up my voice has taken on a tone completely devoid of emotion. I hope at one point in my life, my voice sang with the carefree innocence of youth.
“Good.” She doesn’t look up from the notebook she is writing on. I want to take it away from her so I can see what she’s written about me. Mainly I want an answer to the biggest question that keeps me awake – Am I curable?
“The police came by again this morning,” I supply.
“Oh.” She continues to write and I find the urge to rip the pen out of her hand unbearable.
“Yeah, they think they found the guy who did this to me.” That caught her attention and I quickly feel guilty for my lie. “Not really.” I shake my head at her, unable to hide a smile that has forced its way onto my lips.
“Do you want them to?” she asks, looking straight into my eyes. I’m not sure if she knows how intimidating her stare is, but I don’t waiver and return her stare as if my chest isn’t about to collapse onto itself. I let out a barely audible sigh when she finally looks away.
Do I want them to? It seems like a silly question, but the truth is I don’t really care. I only remember broken up pieces that I may or may not have imagined. The only truth I know is that he – is it a he? – must have kept me in the dark because the dark terrifies me. A debilitating terror that leaves me frozen, without the strength or ability to move a single limb. And I don’t like being held down. Or held, really. I need the freedom to move, without any form of restraints or pressure. In fact, I nearly lost my mind entirely when a nurse was helping me walk for the first time. Logically, I know he was helping me stay upright, but I couldn’t handle the pressure of his hands supporting my back.