I felt pain. My chest was burning, my body felt heavy, and something inside me was screaming that something was wrong. The light above my head shone like a hostile sun, and machines were beeping in my ears. Opening my eyes felt harder than anything I had ever done before.
In front of me, I saw the silhouette of my mother. Her eyes were red and watery, her face swollen. I could feel her fear and helplessness. I wanted to say her name, but the tube in my mouth wouldn't let me make a single sound. I gently lifted my hand, but she didn't notice. With pain, I let out a weak noise.
"Maya… sweetheart…" she rushed to the bed and squeezed my hand so tightly I could feel every ounce of her fear. "Don't say anything, the doctor will be here in a moment," she shown, her voice breaking with tears.
I tried to ask her what had happened, why I was here, but the words wouldn't come.
"Maya, welcome back," the doctor said, his eyes meeting mine in the glare of the lights above the bed. "We had to intubate you. Your lungs were weakened, and you were without oxygen for a long time. First, we'll run all the necessary tests, and then we'll see what we can do next. I brought you a board—do you think you can write on it?"
My heart started beating faster as confusion and pain blended together. I felt my mother's hand again. I nodded at him with my eyes. He placed the board on my stomach. I tried to lift my hands, but it was difficult, as if they didn't belong to me. My mother helped hold the board in place. I couldn't feel her touch. What happened to me?!
The marker trembled in my hand. I wanted to write, but my fingers wouldn't obey.
"Sweetheart, you don't have to force yourself. If it doesn't work, we'll find another way," my mother whispered.
I took a deep breath, swallowed the pain, and forced my hand to move. I clumsily wrote on the board: "What ha—"
The doctor noticed before I could finish the question.
"You were shot, Maya," he said calmly, though his voice carried the weight of the words. "The bullet missed your heart by only a few centimeters. You lost a massive amount of blood. Your lungs were without oxygen for an extended period, but the paramedics managed to revive you. The surgery lasted eight hours. It was demanding and complicated. After the surgery, you fell unconscious—most likely so your body could properly regenerate."
I didn't understand.
Shot?
What shooting?
Who shot me?
How long was I out?
How is it possible that I'm even alive?
"Sweetheart… what do you remember last?" my mother asked. Her eyes were full of tears, but her face was stone.
Something was wrong. I knew that expression. That look… and I didn't like it at all.
They weren't telling me everything. They were hiding something from me. Where is Dad? He should be here. Why isn't he with Mom? Why did he leave her alone? But what do I actually remember?
I closed my eyes.
Fragmented memory: I see my best friend Sarah laughing. I hear crowds of people, music, laughter, the clinking of slot machines. The air is saturated with the smell of frying oil and hot dogs. Around us, silhouettes of school mascots flash by.
We were at a university festival.
I tried to write on the board: "Festi—"
I noticed my mother's expression. Horrified. Her gaze quickly shifted to the doctor and back to me.
"Maya, sweetheart," she said softly. "I'm going to step outside with the doctor to discuss your treatment plan. Rest." She leaned down and kissed my forehead.
Fragmented memory: I smell a man's cologne. I see his neck and a silver chain around it. His breathing is fast, restless.
I feel his body close to mine, his hands around my waist.
His lips touch my forehead… and I move my lips from his neck to his mouth.
Suddenly—just light.
I jerk my eyes open, my heart pounding.
What was that? A memory? A dream? Did I pass out again? How long was I gone? Who was that man? It felt too real to be a dream. Too vivid. It had to be a memory. But why this one?
The door opened. My mother entered with the doctor. Their faces were hard as stone, but in their eyes burned curiosity… and something else. Something they didn't want to tell me. What the hell is going on?
"Maya," the doctor said calmly, "your mother told me that the last thing you remember is the day you were at the festival with your friend. Is that correct?"
Why is he asking that? I looked at my mother, then back at him. I wrote a short yes on the board. My mother immediately looked at the doctor. I saw her lips part slightly—she wanted to say something. Something important. But the doctor— "All right," he nodded. "I'll arrange further tests. The nurses will come for you shortly."
I looked at my mother. She wasn't crying anymore. That was worse. In her eyes was pure, raw fear—the kind that cannot be hidden. I wanted to ask her so many things. Where is Dad? How did this happen? What really happened? How long was I unconscious? The questions roared in my head like a waterfall, but I couldn't speak them.
They wheeled me away for tests. The lights above the hallway passed over me, voices of nurses and doctors blending into noise. I didn't register what they were saying. My mind was elsewhere, trying to remember. The only things that came back were flashes—blue and red sirens, voices of paramedics begging me not to close my eyes. To stay awake. To hold on.
Exhaustion crashed over me like a wave.
Fragmented memory: "Maya, let's get out of here," Sarah says, pulling me away from the alcohol stand. My head feels light, my thoughts blurred.
"But come on, Sarah," I laugh, my voice drunk. "The festival only happens once a year."
"Maya, you've had enough, ple—"
Before she can finish, I press a cup of vodka to her lips. I smile at her. She smiles back. She drinks. Laughing, we run toward the rides.*
I don't know how long I slept. Long enough for most of the tubes to be removed from my body. Breathing is still difficult, but cleaner. Fresher. I feel a little better.
And at the same time, I feel like the worst is still ahead of me.
"Mom," I whispered. She heard me immediately. She rushed to me, grabbed my hand. And from the other side of the bed, I saw him. Dad. Oh… Dad. Where were you?
"Dad," I said quietly. He just smiled at me. His eyes didn't have tears like Mom's. He was never as emotional as she was—always stronger, colder. But now… now it felt strange. I was shot. So why don't I see pain in his eyes?
Fear returned to their faces again. Not the same fear.
Different kinds. What is happening between them?!
"Sweetheart," Mom spoke gently, "how are you feeling?"
I looked at Dad. "Where were you?" I blurted out. He stepped closer to the bed.
"I had to take care of something," he said calmly. Too calmly. "But now you're what matters. How do you feel?"
"Better," I said. "But… will you finally explain what happened?" Mom and Dad exchanged a quick glance.
"The doctor will be here soon," Mom said quickly. "He'll explain everything."
Again.
The same thing.
Delaying. Avoiding the truth.
Memory: *Maya… it wasn't me… it wasn't me," someone's voice cries desperately. "I would never hurt you. You know that. It was him…"
I see the sky moving above me. I'm lying on a stretcher. Everything is shaking. The lights blur. I want to respond. I want to say something.
But the blood in my mouth is stronger than I am.*
Was it him?
Who is "him"?
"What are you saying, sweetheart?" my mother asked.