CHRISTOPHER'S POV
The first thing I registered was the throbbing in my head. It was a dull, persistent ache that seemed to pulse in time with the rhythmic beeping of a machine nearby. I opened my eyes, wincing against the harsh glare of the overhead lights. White. Everything was white. White ceiling, white walls, white sheets pulled up to my chest.
I was in a hospital room. That much was obvious. But where? And why?
Panic began to bubble in my chest. I tried to sit up, but my body felt heavy, unresponsive. A tube snaked into my throat, and a web of wires was taped to my chest. I was tethered to this bed, trapped in a body that felt alien and unfamiliar.
My throat was dry and scratchy. I tried to swallow trying to moisten it, but i couldnt. I needed water. I needed answers.
The door to the room swung inward, and a woman entered. She was dressed in a tailored pantsuit, expensive but understated. Her hair, a rich auburn, was pulled back in a sleek bun. She looked to be in her early fifties, but there were lines of worry etched around her eyes and mouth. Eyes that were red-rimmed, as if she had been crying recently.
She stopped just inside the doorway, her hand flying to her throat. Her eyes widened, and for a moment, she simply stared at me.
"Christopher?" she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.
Christopher. The name echoed in my mind, a faint whisper in the darkness. Was that me? It felt…detached. Like a label that had been applied to someone else.
She rushed to my side, her hand reaching out to touch my arm, then hesitating. She seemed unsure, as if she was afraid of startling me.
"Oh, Christopher," she said, her voice cracking. "You're awake. Thank God, you're awake."
I looked at her, trying to place her, to find some spark of recognition. But there was nothing. Her face was a blank canvas, devoid of any familiar landmarks.
Unease coiled in my gut. Whowas she? And whywasshecrying? The intensity of her reaction hinted at a deep connection, but my mind remained a frustrating blank.
Mymother? I wondered, a faint flicker of recognition in the darkness.
The door opened again, the room suddenly filled with people. Two doctors in white coats, a nurse with a clipboard, a man in a suit who looked like he was trying to stay out of the way.
They bustled around me, checking my pulse, taking my blood pressure, shining a penlight into my eyes. The woman – stepped back, her face a mixture of relief and anxiety.
"Can you hear me, Mr. Luther?" he asked, his voice calm and professional.. I frowned 'Luther. ChristopherLuther. Wasthatreallymyname?Itstillfelt alien, detached'. before nodding.
"Good, that's wonderful," he said, expertly removing the tube and some of the wires attached to my chest.
With the help of the woman, I sat up slowly, each muscle protesting with a dull ache. But I didn't care. The feeling of being horizontal, of being trapped, was unbearable.
She enveloped me in a hug, her warmth a stark contrast to the cold sterility of the room. "My dear boy… I knew you would wake up eventually," she murmured, her tears warm against my neck. Instinctively, I wrapped my arm around her, patting her back gently.
Even without memory, I felt a profound connection to her, a deep-seated familiarity that transcended the amnesia.
The door opened again, admitting more visitors: two men in their fifties, impeccably dressed, their expressions a mixture of relief and something akin to suppressed grief. Behind them were two younger men—one aloof, his features almost impassive, yet with an unexpected softness in his eyes when he looked at me; the other, a blond man, his joy uncontainable.
The woman gently released me, her eyes filled with a love so profound it made my heart ache. "Eve is on her way," she said, settling into a chair beside the bed.
"Eve?" The name hung in the air, a whisper of something significant, yet it triggered nothing within me.
The man with streaks of grey hair rushed to my side, engulfing me in a hug that spoke volumes. "My darling boy, thank you," he choked out, his voice cracking with emotion. "Thank you for waking up. Thank you for not letting me die without seeing my son again."
The puzzle pieces fell into place. Myfather.
I held him, letting him grieve, letting him pour out his love. He was my father, and in that moment, the missing pieces of my life felt less important than the love that surrounded me.
He pulled away gently, a bright smile gracing his face despite the tears in his eyes. He was a handsome man, I noted absently.
"Thank you for your work, Dr. Viraj," I heard the other man who had arrived with my father say to the head doctor, shaking his hand.
"Welcome back, Christopher," the man said, turning to pat me on the back. All I could manage was a polite smile. I didn't know what to say to these people who clearly believed I knew them.
"I know someone who will be over the moon to see you alive and awake," the aloof man said, walking towards me, his hands tucked into his pockets. "Welcome back, Chris," he said, a flicker of warmth briefly softening his cool exterior.
"Welcome back, Christopher!" the blond man exclaimed, pulling me into a hug and patting me firmly on the back – not with the gentle hesitancy of the others.
"Thank God I can start going home on time and sleeping peacefully now that you're back. These two months have been hell for me. I don't know how you do it, honestly, managing such gigantic conglomerates… phew!" he said, feigning exhaustion, earning a chuckle from the others.
Oh, I'm the CEO of a conglomerate, I mused inwardly. And this guy is maybe my assistant or secretary, but a close friend, judging by his informal way of addressing me. And I've been in a coma for two months.
The pieces of the puzzle were slowly being revealed, but the picture remained stubbornly out of focus.
"Why isn't he saying anything?" the aloof man asked, drawing everyone's attention back to me.
"He hasn't said a word since I got here. Did he develop a speech impediment after the surgery?" he continued.
"No, I doubt that. The bullet didn't touch that part of his brain at all," the head doctor said, stepping forward.
'Bullet? I was shot in the head? The information sent a shiver down my spine. What had happened that led to this?
"What is your name?" the doctor asked, looking directly at me.
Shit. It was time to come clean. I needed to know who I was, what had happened.
"Christopher Luther," I said simply. A collective sigh of relief swept through the room, confirming that I could speak. But I was certain none of them were prepared for what I was about to say next.
"I know that's my name because that's what everyone here has been calling me. But, to be honest, when I woke up, I couldn't remember my name, why I was in the hospital, or even recognize any of you. I don't remember anything," I confessed.
Silence descended, heavy and absolute. Everyone stared at each other, speechless.
"What do you mean you can't remember anyone?" a soft voice asked from behind.
I couldn't see who it was; the people in front of me blocked my view. But her voice…it stirred something within me, a faint echo of recognition, a feeling of warmth and longing.
Who was she? I wondered, eager to see her face.
"Eve!" the woman who I thought was my mother called out, concern etching her face as she stood and went to her. The group in front of me parted, making way for her to pass.
And then I saw her. She looked like something out of a fairytale. Breathtakingly stunning.
A single tear traced a path down her cheek. Her brow was furrowed with worry, her eyes shadowed with sadness and exhaustion. Seeing her like that constricted my heart.
She walked slowly towards me and sat beside me on the bed, taking my hands in hers. Hers were warm and small against my own. The contact sent a jolt of electricity down my spine, and I knew, with a certainty that defied logic, that she must have been very special to me.
"I'm not religious, but I went to church and prayed every day. More than I've ever prayed in my life," she whispered, her tears falling freely. "And God answered me. You're awake." Instinctively, I reached out, cupping her face, wiping away the tears. She leaned into my touch, her eyes pleading. "Do you…do you not remember me either?" Her voice barely a whisper.
"I can try," I said, nodding, the urge to remember her overwhelming. I needed to remember her.
I closed my eyes, focusing inward, searching for fragments of our past. But all I found was a void, a pitch-black emptiness. Then, a sharp, throbbing pain exploded behind my eyes. I gritted my teeth, pushing through it, trying again, but the pain intensified, a searing wave of agony.
"That's enough, Mr. Luther. You need to stop. You're bleeding," the doctor's voice cut through the darkness. I opened my eyes to find Eve's worried gaze upon me, her eyes filled with a heartbreaking sadness.
She reached into her bag, producing a handkerchief. Gently, she dabbed at the blood flowing from my nose, her other hand cradling my face. The touch was feather-light, yet strangely grounding.
"Did you remember anything?" the doctor asked. I shook my head.
"We'll run more tests to see what we're dealing with, but at the moment, it appears you're suffering from amnesia," the doctor announced.
"So I can't get my memories back?" I asked, a knot of despair tightening in my chest.
"Unfortunately, that's a possibility. We'll have to wait for the test results," he replied.
"I need to get some air," Eve said, rising to her feet. She swayed, her legs unsteady, about to fall, before I instinctively reached out, catching her.
"What's wrong with her?" Panic clawed at my throat.