𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧

[2] 𝐔𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐲

–·•••·–

  When Isabella woke up the next morning, everything felt cold. Numb. Like someone had left her window open and her fan on all night long.

But, as soon as she blinked the sleepiness away from her eyes, her entire body warmed up. She let out a small sigh, basking in the sudden heat.

Confused and tired, Isabella slowly sat up and took in her surroundings. She looked around at her light blue walls, the pictures of her family and friends, her desk covered with books and random papers, and the white closet and bathroom doors.

She was in her room. She was in her room with no memory of how she got there.

No memory at all. No. Fucking. Clue.

Great.

And she knew, from the small ringing in her ears, the pounding in her head, and the numb feeling in her body, she'd had another blackout.

Her first blackout happened when she was four. She had been playing on the playground with some of her friends, tripped, and broke her arm when she tried to catch herself. When she woke up, she had no clue how she'd broken it.

Over the years, after visiting and getting poked and prodded by doctors, they were never quite sure why Isabella had these random episodes. So, the only thing they could do was give her medication and hope that they stopped. Spoiler alert: they didn't.

But these episodes were never a big deal to her; she could go about her day and hope she could beat her record of days without an episode.

The only exception, the only episode that she wished she could remember, was: The Hale Fire.

Six years ago, she woke up in a hospital bed surrounded by beeping heart monitors. That morning had been like any other day after an episode, except this time, Isabella woke up in a hospital.

And when she looked to her left, trying to find her parents, she was only met by the sight of her grieving father. She had been asked question after question to see if she had any sliver of memory of what had happened that night, but all she could do was stare back in confusion. All she could remember was blackness.

So, everything had to be explained to her: what happened to her, and why her parents weren't there when she woke up. She had the scars on her arms to prove it. Isabella had never hated having an episode more than she did that day.

She spent every waking hour for the next two months trying to remember even the smallest fragment—maybe even a sound. But each time was a failure. And each time, it broke her.

But after about two months, small fragments of those lost memories began to resurface. It started with a smell—her mother's perfume. That day, she remembered walking into what she assumed was the Hale house, holding her mother's hand, inhaling the familiar scent of vanilla.

Then more memories came back: the blast of heat in the car that burned her arm from wrist to elbow.

She didn't know why these memories had started to surface in random pieces, but when she told her father about them, he suggested that because she wasn't straining herself to remember, her mind was now allowing the memories to come back naturally.

Even after six years, though, she still hadn't recovered every piece of the puzzle. There were still black holes and unanswered questions, and it worried her that she might never remember everything.

And although it might seem like a blessing not being able to remember the most traumatic experience in her life, Isabella felt the need to remember. The need to know if she saw her mother one last time, or if she touched her, or spoke to her.