CHAPTER 9
1912 Words
Torn Between the Shadows in Her Mind
“Beep… beep…beep”
Catherina awoke to an impossibly heavy silence.
The sterile sting of antiseptic, which invaded her lungs with every weak breath, was the first sensation she noticed.
At that moment, she became aware of the dull yet persistent pain that was pulsing rhythmically through her skull. Her palm lifted instinctively, rubbing against rough bandages that were tightly wound around her forehead.
Her expression hardened. Her lips parted, but no sound emerged.
“Where am I?”, she questioned.
The steady beep of the heart monitor next to her was drowned out by the question that roared inside her ears.
Desperate for context, she scanned the room with her eyes. She saw— walls that are a light shade of blue. Raindrops trickled down the glass of a little window. On the floor rested a vase of flowers abandoned, their petals browned at the edges. Softly, machines hummed. Her arm was laced with tubes. Footsteps, hurried, deliberate, and the faint squeak of a rolling trolley joined the rhythm somewhere in the hall beyond.
A hospital. That much was clear. But why?
Her thoughts searched for an explanation, reaching into the darkness.
Panic rose. She strained against the bed, attempting to sit up. She gasped and collapsed back into the mattress as pain pierced her ribs like a sword.
“Easy, miss.” One of the Nurse said.
The voice was soothing and steadying.
Wincing, she turned her head. A nurse was standing in the doorway, holding a clipboard, and as soon as they looked at each other, her countenance softened. With the ease of routine, she rushed over and adjusted the IV.
"You're awake," the nurse replied, relieved. "That is good. You had us worried."
Catherina’s throat felt raw, her voice a rasp. “What… happened?” She asked.
The nurse paused, contemplating her words. "You were involved in an accident. A lucky one. But you're safe now. You have been unconscious for three days.” She said.
"Three days" . The phrase echoed like a gavel hitting a stone in her head.
“Do you remember anything?” the nurse asked cautiously.
Catherina closed her eyes, searching for something substantial, something to hold her together. Laughter on the verge of memory. A promise was whispered under fading light. However, when she attempted to catch them, they vanished like smoke.
"I…I don't know," she muttered, her voice filled with guilt and terror.
The nurse's grin wavered, but her tone remained kind. "That is okay. Memory loss can occur following head trauma. Sometimes it returns fast, sometimes it takes a while. "Do not force it." She said.
How could she not? The idea of not knowing who she was—of becoming a stranger in her own life—was more horrifying than the disaster itself.
Time blurred.
Doctors came and went, their chats punctuated with clinical terms like "concussion," "retrograde amnesia," and "temporary impairment." They told her to rest and be patient. But patience was a luxury she lacked.
Nights were the worst. Alone beneath the sterile brightness of the ceiling, her heart raced with unanswered questions. Did she have parents? Siblings? Friends that were scared about being sick? Had someone been waiting outside, pacing, hoping to see her eyelids open?
However, in the frail world of dreams, shadows stirred.
She had a dream about music—warm, longing tunes strummed on the guitar. Fingers dance across strings. A boy's laughter traveled across the night air. A promise, uttered among the stars.
When she awoke, the facts faded, but the feeling stayed. A profound pain and longing. And time, while brushing her hair in front of the small hospital mirror, she unintentionally said a name.
She whispered the name "Bruno".
The sound surprised her. It had emerged unexpectedly, from somewhere deeper than recollection. The phrases felt warm, smooth, and achingly familiar.
She looked at herself in the mirror, her voice still reverberating. “Who is Bruno?”.
The first visitors arrived within the week.
Harvard classmates filled her room with discussion and bouquets, their laughter resonating too loudly against the immaculate walls. They talked about games, seminars, etc. She couldn't read their stories; they were blanks on a page.
Every handshake and hug intensified the loneliness she felt.
And then he came.
A tall figure occupied the entryway. He is strikingly attractive with strong cheekbones and eyes that shine like polished steel. His suit fit him precisely, with each detail expensive and purposeful.
"Catherina," he said warmly, as if the name belonged to him. "Thank God you're awake."
She blinked. “Do… do I know you?”
He chuckled softly, as if indulging a joke. “Of course you do. I’m Junior. Rafael Cortez Jr.”
The name rang feeling empty and yet his confidence indicated that it should have meant something.
"We're close. Very close," he added, settling into the chair beside the bed. "I've been here every day waiting. You terrified me."
"Close?". She said, her heart racing. She searched his face for a flash of recognition, but her mind went blank. Nonetheless, his presence exuded confidence, a firmness she desired. She didn't move away as his palm covered hers, even though she felt uneasy beneath her ribs.
In the days that followed, Junior was a continuous presence. He brought gifts—roses, books, chocolates and casually shared anecdotes during dinners, study sessions, and long walks. He painted a history she couldn't recall, and even if the threads didn't exactly connect, she clung to him because he provided something tangible in the fog.
But at night, when the ward was silent and she went to sleep, the boy from her dreams reappeared. Not Junior. Someone else. Someone's presence made her heart ache. A guitar. A promise.
And always, the name — Bruno.
One morning, unable to contain herself, she whispered the name aloud.
Junior's eyes hardened. For a brief while, the warmth evaporated, replaced with jealousy.
"Dreams don't matter," he replied calmly, kissing her hand. "What matters is here. Now. Us."
But deep down she knew he was wrong. The dreams mattered. They felt more authentic than any story he delivered.
On the fourth day, following another series of testing, the nurse came with a more relaxed expression.
“Catherina, there are some people here to see you,” she said gently. “Your parents.”
It was a thunderclap of a word. Parents. Her chest grew constricted. Her stomach churned with fear when she should have felt relief and familiarity.
Moments later, a middle-aged couple entered. The woman's eyes welled with tears when she saw her daughter's face. The man's jaw twitched as he struggled to remain calm.
"Cat," her mother said, hurrying to her bedside. She grabbed her daughter's cheeks, as if terrified she would disappear. "Thank God, sweetheart. Thank God you're alive."
Catherina looked at her blankly, her heart pounding. The woman's touch was warm, gentle, but unfamiliar. The man leaned closer, his voice full with emotion. "Honey, this is us. Mom and Dad”, he said.
Her lips parted, but no words emerged. Shame burned in her throat.
Then she finally spoke; "I… I apologize. I don't—" Her voice cracked. "I don't remember." Catherina said, trying not to hurt their feelings while remaining sincere.
Her mother's tears pierced the air. She drew back, clutching her face with quivering hands. Her father wrapped his arm around her, his eyes watering, yet he nodded to the physicians, as if to steady himself.
The doctors softly explained: "trauma, concussion, and amnesia." They discussed patience, healing, and the potential that memories would resurface. Her parents clutched to those words like lifelines, but the anguish on their faces betrayed them.
Catherina stared at them, torn. She urgently wanted to feel something—to sense the connection they so clearly had, but all she felt was detachment, as if she was watching strangers perform parts she should know by heart.
It was that same afternoon Junior arrived, holding flowers while walking confidently in a sharp suit. Her parents turned in shock as soon as he entered the room. He didn't falter.
“Mr. and Mrs. Holland,” Junior said smoothly, extending his hand with polished charm. “I’m Junior. Cortez Jr. I’m… Catherina’s boyfriend.”
The word landed heavily. Both parents froze, exchanging quick glances.
“Boyfriend?” her father repeated, brows furrowed. “She never mentioned—”, he said.
Junior grinned disarmingly as he said, "I understand. Cat is quite private about certain things. However, we've been close since her first semester. I have been by her side every day since the accident. The nurses can testify."
The nurse nodded lightly, verifying that he had actually visited.
Catherina's parents, perplexed but desperate for any feeling of stability for their daughter, reluctantly accepted it. If this young man had been her rock at school, he might be telling the truth.
Catherina sat quietly through it all, her fingers twitching in the blanket. The word "boyfriend" didn't feel right, but she couldn't deny it. And seeing her parents' frail relief, she lacked the resolve to argue.
Junior wrapped his arm around her shoulder, planting a chaste kiss to her forehead as if to seal the deal. Her mother smiled weakly through tears, while her father's eyes flashed with hidden uncertainty.
Following that, her parents paid her visits on a daily basis, always bringing home-cooked meals and telling her about her little brother, childhood birthdays, vacations, and family pets. They spoke tenderly, reminding her of her passion for books, discussion, and fairness.
But no matter how hard she tried, the memories would not return. Their stories depicted a life she couldn't experience. She watched her mother cry quietly in the corner at night as her father pretended to be occupied with paperwork, and guilt overtook her.
Junior strengthened his hold. When her parents inquired about her daily life at Harvard, he would calmly respond on her behalf—where she studied, what she enjoyed, and how he "always looked after her." Her parents eventually came to trust him, thanking him for "being there" when they couldn't.
But in the stillness of night, after her parents had left and Junior had gone out for coffee, the dreams reappeared.
The guitar. The melody. The laughing of a boy whose face she couldn't remember but whose mere presence made her heart skipped a beat.
Her parents wanted to take her home when the doctors finally cleared her. "Family will help you heal, sweetheart," they encouraged.
But Junior spoke first. “With all due respect, Mr. and Mrs. Holland, Cat’s life is here now. Her classes, her routines, her friends. Taking her away might only disorient her further. Please allow me help her adjust.” He said.
Her parents paused, caught between the authority Junior radiated and their natural need to protect. After all, he had been present when the accident occurred. As if he knew her best, he spoke.
Catherina, weak and hesitant, gave a timid nod. "I think..." I should stay. Maybe it will help me remember." She said.
Her parents buried their sorrows. They promised to call her every day as they said her farewell to New York with a kiss. Her mother said, "We'll wait as long as it takes, Cat," as they departed. “You will eventually find your way back to us”. They said.
- Writer
