Hallucinations (rewriting post-physical publication)

Chapter 34 - (Part 1) - Nina

I was born on June 8th, 1901, in Minneapolis, Minnesota.

I survived the Spanish Flu.

So did my mom.

My dad was unlucky.

He passed away the day I traveled to 2018.

That's one lie.

Originally, I had said that he passed away when I was quite young.

That was just to cover up the dirty truth.

I wasn't emotionally ready or physically as well as mentally capable to spit it out.

So now you know.

I am from 1918.

Not the 21st century.

Pretty spiteful for me, the main character of my own story covers up a whole entire section of my life, huh?

Not to me.

I had my reasons, as well as every right to keep my privacy as confidential information.

Hate me if you want. I don't care.

I've already ruined my entire life and reputation.

You cannot do any worse deeds to complicate it further than it has already been ripped apart and completely destroyed.

It's not my opinion.

It's just a fact. 

(Part 2)

"Nini, I love you, please come back to me. Wake up. Nini, I love you, please come back to me. Wake up".

5.

"Nini, I love you, please come back to me. Wake up. Nini, I love you, please come back to me. Wake up".

4.

"Nini, I love you, please come back to me. Wake up. Nini, I love you, please come back to me. Wake up".

3.

"Nini, I love you, please come back to me. Wake up. Nini, I love you, please come back to me. Wake up".

2.

"Nini, I love you, please come back to me. Wake up. Nini, I love you, please come back to me. Wake up".

1.

"Nini, I love you, please come back to me. Wake up. Nini, I love you, please come back to me. Wake up".

I jerk once and I can see, hear, feel, touch, taste, and move again.

My senses are back.

I am alive.

My eyes scan my surroundings and land on Dr. Lisa.

She takes my hand in hers and says; "Welcome back, Nina".

Then she looks quickly away.

I try to speak, but all that comes out is a scratching sound.

She hushes me and gently pats my hand saying; "Don't speak. You haven't talked in a while so you have to get used to using your vocal cords again, little bit by little bit".

I slump back against the pillow and see my letter I wrote on my birthday crumpled on the floor.

I turn to look at her and use my hand that is not being held by her own to point accusingly at it.

"No, it wasn't me," she says, and I dig through my brain, trying to seeth out who it could have been. Finding nothing I look back at her and narrow my eyes as if saying; "So, who was it then"?