I Will Follow You Into the Dark

CHAPTER16

.Oh, and welcome, Meri! Sorry you thought this was fluff fest..........not this fic......But thanks for reading anyway!

Derek woke up feeling exhausted. Well, lack of sleep and too much alcohol combined with exhausting memories and dreams did that for a person. He knew that all too well. So he wasn't surprised. He took a deep breath of what he prayed would be hope-filled, recharging air and dragged himself out of bed. After a quick shower, he dressed and went back to work.

When he passed the chief in the hallway, he thanked him for the time off. Webber viewed him carefully, thinking that his neurosurgeon did not look well or rested. "Are you sure you should be back, Derek?"

"Yeah. Just a little tired. I'm fine. It's good to be back," he lied.

In-between surgeries, Derek tried to nap. He couldn't fall asleep on the sofa in his office, so he tried random on-call rooms. Nothing worked. As exhausted as he was, he could not really rest. His mind was flooded with thoughts of his past. It was as if someone had broken the dam that held those horrid recollections at bay and now they were just overflowing.

Flashback:

He'd spent months in the hospital in Quito. Physically, he recovered quickly. But his memory was not yet intact. The doctors told him that he had amnesia. They weren't sure if it was his body's temporary defense mechanism or whether the head injuries he'd sustained had caused permanent damage. Nothing on his scans explained the problem. So all he could do was wait and hope that his memory returned. He was frightened, and he couldn't even compare this fear to others he'd experienced because he didn't remember other things he'd been afraid of. He was desperate and alone.

The hospital staff were kind to him. A few of them even tried to befriend the quiet man who had no idea who he was or from where he had come. But it was hard for him to bond with anyone else when he didn't even know who he was. He spoke English and Spanish. His English was better and he didn't have a British accent, so he assumed he was an American. He had no idea why he'd be in Ecuador. He had no wedding ring, so he assumed he wasn't married. He tried valiantly to remember any family, but he couldn't generate images of parents or siblings or cousins or children. He could not remember what sort of job he'd had. They estimated him to be around 23, so he might or might not have attended college.

Having no reason to keep him in the hospital any longer, the staff arranged for him to move out and live in a shelter that provided transitional housing. Many of the occupants were transitioning out of drug or alcohol problems or jail, so he figured that he had an easier road than they did. If he'd suffered from those problems, maybe it was a blessing he couldn't remember them. Most of the residents were nice enough, but most everyone kept to themselves except for meals. Needing some way to pay for his room and board, he took work on a plantation to make some money. He assumed that he had not been a manual laborer before because the work was even more unfamiliar to him than everything else, but it paid the rent.

He lived under an assumed name. The hospital staff had told him that he often yelled the name "Mark" in his dreams, so he used the name Mark Smith. He had shrugged when they mentioned the name to him. It meant nothing. It generated no emotion. Nothing did. Well, nothing except for two little things.

He guarded his only two personal possessions very carefully. They were two photos—one of a beautiful young woman and the other was one of him with his arms around the same woman. He stared at the photos for hours since they were his only link with his past, but he could not remember anything. He memorized every detail about her. He knew he'd recognize her anywhere. If only he knew what she meant to him and where to find her. No names or dates or locations were written on the photos--of course, he'd known that he'd remember them forever. Now he wished like hell he could.