Chapter Three: Secrets and scars
1163 Words
CHAPTER THREE
I get discharged the next morning. The doctor said I was healing fast, that I only needed to come back for checkups every four days.
Fine by me. Anything was better than that hospital room with its beeping machines and that constant, heavy silence that made me feel like I was drowning _no_dying slowly.
Brandon drives me home in silence. Every time I try to ask him something—about the accident, about our life together—he’d brush my hair from my face and say softly, “Don’t strain yourself, baby. I'll tell you everything when we get home”.
The car ride feels like I'm sitting on needles. I can't seem to understand the biting urge to remember everything about myself.
Amnesia does that to you I guess.
When we arrive, the gates open automatically, and a long driveway stretches out in front of us, lined with trees and flowers too perfect to be real. I felt like I’d been dropped into someone else’s dream.
“This is… home?” I ask.
Brandon smiles, not looking at me. “Our home.”
Nothing in my life could’ve prepared me for Brandon’s house.
Our house.
No—scratch that. It wasn’t a house. It was a mansion.
The kind you see in magazines. Polished marble floors, sweeping staircases, chandeliers dripping from the ceiling like glass raindrops. Everything smelled like money and disinfectant.
He leads me upstairs, down a hall that could’ve fit three studio apartments , to a door painted a pale lilac.
“You mentioned lilac is your favourite colour”. Brandon says, walking beside me with his arms wrapped around me for support.
“I did?” I ask, with a weak smile.
“Yes, baby”.
Something about that colour bugged me the wrong way although I can't put my fingers around it.
He opens the door and said, “This is your room.”
I blinked. “My room?” I shut my mouth immediately, noticing how I sound stupid.
He nods, walking inside like it was normal. “We don’t share a room. Doctor’s orders—you still need space and rest.”
“Oh.” I try to sound casual, but it comes out small and uncertain. I thought married couples—”
“We’ll get back to that soon,” he cut in gently. “Right now, you need to heal.”
>>>>>>>
It’s a warm evening. The sky outside is a blur of pink, orange, and gold. We’re in the lounge—if you could even call it that. It looks like a page out of a luxury home catalog.
Everything in this house looks sterile.
Brandon’s sitting on the rug, massaging my feet while I sip coffee. We look like the perfect couple from the outside.
Except I still can’t remember loving him.
“I was thinking,” I say carefully, “maybe we could go see my parents.”
The room goes still. The maid that was cleaning behind Brandon freezes. Even the wind seems to have stopped blowing.
Brandon’s hands freeze mid-motion, fingers pressing into my ankle a little too hard.
"Ahh". I wince.
He relaxes, forcing a soft laugh. “Of course, baby. We will. As soon as you’re stronger.”
“But… shouldn’t they have come to see me already?” I frown. “I’ve been out of the coma for days. They must be worried sick.”
He moves closer, takes my hands gently in his. “They are. But I asked them to give us space. You’re still healing, remember? Too many people might overwhelm you.”
I nod slowly. It sounds reasonable. It should sound reasonable. But something feels… off.
“Okay,” I whisper. “But I’m feeling better now.”
“I know you are, baby,” he says softly, brushing his thumb across my cheek. “You’re the strongest woman I know.”
I smile faintly, my heart fluttering at the compliment.
“How about we go tomorrow? To my parent's instead, there's something I'll like to show you”.
I light up like a Christmas tree, almost jumping from the chair in happiness.
Anything is better than staying in this house.
“Okay,”I nod excitedly.
He leans in and kisses my forehead, then stands. “Dinner’s almost ready. I’ll have the chef make your favorite.”
“What’s that?” I ask, genuinely confused.
I feel tears welling in my eyes, I can't even remember my favourite food.
He stops at the door, turns with that perfect, calm smile. “Lasagna. You always ask for extra cheese.”
“Right,” I say quickly. “Of course.”
But I hate cheese. I know I do. My brain might be foggy, but that taste memory is still there—sharp, clear, disgusting.
During dinner, when he thought I wasn’t looking, I’d catch him watching me with this strange intensity—like he was memorizing me. Or testing something.
Still, I can’t deny how safe I felt around him. That made it all the more confusing. He felt so safe yet scary all at once.
After dinner, I wander around the mansion limping, touching things like they’ll whisper secrets to me.
Brandon retired to his library to work.
Every room is spotless. Every photo frame is perfectly aligned. But there are no wedding pictures of us. None.
No smiling bride. No groom in a tux. No memory of the day I apparently promised this man forever.
Something doesn't feel right. Right there I feel the beginning of an anxiety attack.
I slide down the wall to a sitting position with my head between my legs, and attempt to breathe through my nose till I feel it start to subside.
That night, as I lie in my too-perfect lilac room, I can’t sleep. The mansion feels alive—creaking, whispering. The walls hum like they’re breathing.
Then I hear footsteps. Slow. Careful. Coming from the hallway.
My heart races.
I close my eyes and pretend to sleep as the door handle turns.
A sliver of light spills across the floor.
Brandon stands there in the doorway, just watching me.
Minutes pass. Maybe hours. Then, finally, he whispers something so quietly I almost miss it.
“Bethany… I hope you're ready for the secrets you're about to uncover tomorrow. I know one thing, I won't let him or anyone hurt you ever again.”
Then the door closes and I’m left staring into the darkness.
Who hurt me? What is Brandon talking about?
Oh my God. Am I in danger?
How did I really get in the accident that led to my memory.
I hate this feeling of helplessness, this feeling of having to depend on someone else for everything.
I stare at the ceiling, my pulse hammering. Somewhere deep down, a faint memory flickers—a scream, screeching tires, and a man’s voice shouting my name.
- Writer
