Page 1 of Forgotten
Chapter 1
2024 – Ashford
Some days I’m not even awake yet and I just know: I’m going to have a huge headache. Days when, before fully opening my eyes, there is a thumping against my temples and I just feel it. The moment I get up, it will all go to shit. I will need at least two or three painkillers to chase this away. From morning to dawn, every breath will shake with the ache behind my eye sockets. Great.
Unfortunately for me, I am no stranger to migraines. I’m familiar with this feeling, in the same way I’m familiar with the anxiety building up at the centre of my chest. Migraine days are the worst. But there is something else today. I try to focus on my senses, the usual magic trick whenever I get overwhelmed, but the effort of concentrating is excruciating.
I must have forgotten to draw the curtains last night, because the room feels bright—too bright. There’s darkness and there’s this brightness and I cannot really see anything. Off to a great start. Feeling is easy: pain,pain, pain.
A siren in the distance, getting louder and louder, the sound reverberating in my head and almost impossible to shut out. Somewhere, someone is speaking in a deep husky voice. I try to listen to what they’re saying, but my brain does not cooperate and keeps spreading messages of agony to every nerve. Next I would move on smell but before I can, a cold hand closes around my wrist and a searing jolt tears through my skull. Fuck, this is really bad. I try keeping my body perfectly still, frozen in the fear that a single movement will bring worse pain.
Something new settles at the pit of my stomach and yes, I was wondering when the nausea was going to join this grim party. A little late, mate. My head is spinning now and I can almost taste it. I can almost smell the toilet water when I will have to rush to the bathroom and let it out—let the headache crush me.
It doesn’t come. Instead, my breathing evens and I grow tired again. I take an inhale and there is a pressure in my chest. The cold hand travels up my forearm and somebody whispers my name.
“Ashford?”
This doesn’t feel like a normal migraine.
Maybe I’m hungover? I really should stop drinking. But wait, actually, did I even drink? I have no idea what I did last night at all. With each question, my body gets heavier. How did I get home? Where was I in the first place? I must have been at the pub, but with whom? And what the fuck did I do that is now making me feel like there is a knife lodged in my brain, twisting with every breath I take?
I try to breathe; try to remember; try to open my eyes. But I’m really, really tired.
I don’t remember much, apart from this pain.
???
The next time I’m conscious, the pain is still there. For a second I hoped it would be gone. Those are the blessed days, the ones where going back to sleep for a couple of hours is the solution and the cure to the migraine.
Not today.
Today the room feels even brighter and it must be summer, right? The sun is shining directly into my window, into my face. Why can I not remember what season it is? It must be summer. The sun is up and it’s hot and there’s a stickiness to my skin that I usually associate with the months of June through August. It makes me ill. I want to open my eyes to confirm my theory, but they feel stuck together.
And then, the image of blood spilling from my best friend’s forehead flashes in my mind, and Ineedto make sure he is fine. I need to open my eyes. But I can’t. Still can’t. Was that a nightmare? What happened yesterday? Am I alright? Everything but the here and now is a blur in my brain and it feels like one of those late November mornings when I’m driving to work and there is a wall of fog in front of me and I can barely see where I am going. I just know I need to keep driving. Keep breathing. Maybe it isn’t summer after all.
I try to wiggle my toes but I can’t really feel my legs, so I move up to my arms. The tips of my left fingersrespond to my command, but my dominant side is silent. Everything around me is silent, until I notice it actually isn’t. There is something in the background: a constant, static noise that reminds me of ice cream and the smell of sunscreen. My mind aches with the effort of locating the correct name for what I’m thinking of: a ventilator. The sound is a ventilator. I want to sigh in relief, knowing that yes, it is summer. There is a ventilator in my room and its regularity reminds me that time is floating; that I’m alive and awake; that I am okay.
Then how come I cannot move my fingers? Nor feel my feet? Why can I not remember what happened last night, where I was, where I am right now? I focus on the way the ventilator moves the air around and suddenly, I’m underwater. I’m not sure how I have fallen into a deep pool, but I keep diving lower into darker waters. Darkness extends around me as I drift and it is hard to breathe. This cannot be a pool, it is too deep to be a pool. I must be in the sea, in the ocean. Why would I ever be in the ocean? The light above me gets further away and I need to swim. I must swim upwards, save the little oxygen I have left, but I keep sinking and the water dims around me. I paddle with my left arm until out of nowhere, I’m swimming through a labyrinth. There are endless walls of water I can’t cut through, so I let myself flow with the stream. My body rides on a non-existent current but there is no exit. The labyrinth gets more complex the further I swim and my breathing gets more laboured and I’m drowning. I’m suffocating.
???
When I finally wake up, it’s in a hospital bed.
And to be quite honest, I’m not really sure how I got here. The headache is still there. The ventilator is gone, and I have to blink a couple of times before the images of the water maze are gone.
A beeping sound, in the distance. Muffled voices from a busy corridor, but I can’t see past my nose, and my neck is somehow locked in an uncomfortable position. I want to move it, sit up, swallow.
There’s something in my throat and I can’t really breathe. I can’t really speak either. It makes me gag, my tongue uncomfortably stiff in my mouth. So I wiggle. I try waving my right arm but pain shoots through me, ending by the shoulder.
I blink as saliva keeps pooling in my mouth, I jerk my head and then: a warm grasp on my hand.
“Ashford.”
The voice is firm; familiar; worried. I look away from the white ceiling and concentrate on the voice as dark spots appear in my sight.
“Ford?”
I know this voice. I know it like I know my own name, my own voice. But there is blood everywhere and there is glass shattering and people screaming and I’m choking. I need to move my legs. Have I dreamt I could not move them? My left hand, I need to focus on my hand. I try lifting it but there is a knife going through my palm and I want to scream my pain but my throat is blocked.
