Amnesia Gone Wrong

Just my luck I got hit by a car, right?

That's something a different version of me might've said.

God, I'm disgusting. Is another thing that I might've said, at some point in time. At the sound of approaching footsteps, I swipe my fingers along my hairline and put on my best welcoming smile one could muster in this situation, though who's to say people in hospital beds can't smile in the face of adversity?

"Hi sweetheart. How are you feeling.?"

"Empty-headed." The man that's come to visit me everyday for goodness knows how long smiles at my reply, or just because he gets to see me- I'm not sure which it is; he always smiles when he visits. That's what I like about him.

I'm certain in my previous life, the one I'm apparently not remembering, I wouldn't be as fond of him as I am now, I reckon. Not that there's anything wrong with him, on the contrary. 

He's a man, a few inches above average height for a man. He walks in with an authority similar to a police officer, but with the compassion of a child carer. Absolutely nothing he wears flatters his lightly chiselled physique. I've theorised he either doesn't have abs and if he does, they're poorly defined, but I like him that way regardless. A short, well-groomed beard with specks of silver amongst prominent black hairs compliments his roundish face. A week ago he kissed me on the cheek and I was pleasantly surprised to feel the hairs were a little rough against my face- not at all soft like I had presumed. they'd be.

I've been doing this for weeks. Keeping track of all the things I can remember about him. I wonder: is he someone from my past? Because I would like to put my past behind me, if I'm allowed to. Though, I'm open to making him an exception if he is from my past. After all, he's been the one person who has visited me the most, surely that means something? But I might as well stop this charade; I like him. I may even love him.

"Open up." My eyes zoom in on a spoonful of fruit covered in sugary gel being gestured near my mouth. They then focus on his eyes and I crook my neck to the side in curiosity.

"Why do you keep feeding me? I've lost my memory, not physical capability."

"Well, I..." he trails off, but he eventually finds the words, "...like feeding you, okay?" His eyes fell to a particular part of my face, my lips. I had a feeling they would as they usually do. This always happens when he stays long.

"Okay." I rolled my eyes internally at the nervous quill I have in my voice. I'm sure he wouldn't mind if I said no, but I'll let him spoon-feed me. If he likes it, I like it too. My lips part for him, or rather the fruit from the hospital and my tongue extends a little bit when he offers the spoon to my mouth and despite the overpowering sugary, artificial taste I would recoil at on any other occasion, I eat it in his presence. However, I do wince.

He puts the little plastic pot and spoon down on the bedside table. Ink-black eyes gaze back at me, inquisitive. 

"Do you still not remember anything? Anything at all?"

"No." He slumps ever so slightly in his seat and I peer at him, staying focused on his eyes. "But does it really matter? That I've forgotten my life or whatever I mean."

"I thought it would matter to you." The heightened volume in his voice is evident. He's surprised. Very surprised.

"Sorry to burst your bubble but it doesn't. Why does it matter to you, anyway? Did you know me from before?" His lap becomes his only view as he averts his eyes from me. His hands are balled into iron-strong fists that rest on his lap. "You're someone from my past aren't you? Now that I think of it, why would the nurses and doctors let you in if you weren't? Unless, you're a nobody. You could be just anybody off the street-

"Stop." At his own digression, he leans forward. We touch where our words have escaped us, seeped into us, and soothed us since I was brought here. My eyes shut wide open on their own accord as we kissed. His hand connected with the back of my neck, strands of my hair rubbing against it. The other accompanied his arm to wrap itself around my waist, keeping me in position. Our movements are in perfect sync, but there's something inherently cautious about how we kiss. We're trembling. Our kiss overflows with intentional passion, yet it feels as though we're going too fast for ourselves to keep up. But I'm startled when he pulls away suddenly, as if I have morphed into an alien.

"Why did you stop?"

"There's no, I, well...". He stands up and encloses his chin with his hand, thinking. "There's too many reasons for me to explain right now sweetheart. Hopefully, some day, I'll grow the balls to tell you."

A peak on the cheek and the ruffle of his belongings is the last thing I hear before he leaves the room.

In an attempt to calm my heart that might just give me a real reason to be in the hospital, I brush my fingers against my cheek.

Wow. That's never happened between us before. Or has it? The kiss was hesitant, but it felt so familiar. For all the time I've been sitting in this hospital bed, this is the first time I desperately want to know my past. For real. No more fantasising about the man that comes to visit me most days, I want the truth.

"Can I come in?" The faint voice of one of the nurses peaks through the gaps of the door.

"I don't have much of a choice." She walks in, mistakenly smiling at my comment that was more sarcastic than anything else. "Can I ask: who is that? You know, the man that's been visiting me all this time?"

"Oh! The others will be so happy to hear you ask that! He's your father." I blink.

"What?"

"He's your father."