Unremembered |H.S|

3.0 - Accesories

I wake up in the morning feeling drowsy. The drugs linger in my system. My arms and legs are heavy. My throat is dry. My vision is blurred. It takes a few moments for it to clear.
Kiyana enters. She smiles upon seeing me. "Well, look who's awake."
I push the button on the small box next to me. The back of the bed rises until I'm sitting upright.
Kiyana retreats to the hallway and returns a few seconds later with a tray. "I brought you some breakfast. Do you wanna try eatin' some real food?"
I look at the items on her tray. I can't identify a single one. "No."
She laughs. "Can't say I blame you. That's hospital food for you."
She takes the tray back out to the hallway and returns, writing things down on her clipboard. "Vitals are good," she says with a wink. "Like always." Her fingertip does a tap tap tap on the screen of the heart monitor next to my bed. "A good strong heart you've got there."
The machines.
The chord.
There was a boy in my room.
I reach up and touch my face. The tube in my nose is intact. I glance down at my arm. The IV has been reinserted. I peer around the room. It's empty except for Kiyana.
But he was here. I heard him. I saw him.
Who was he? Did I know him? He said I did.
I feel the warmth in my stomach again. Hope on the rise. "Kiyana?" I say, my voice inexplicably wobbly. "Yes, love?" She flicks her pen against the bag filled with clear liquid that's attached to my IV. I swallow dry air. "Has anyone..." My lip starts to quiver. I bite it quickly before trying again. "Did anyone come in here last night? Like a visitor?" Her face scrunches up as she flips a page on her clipboard. Then she slowly shakes her head. "No, love. Jus' the night nurse. When you knocked out your IV in your sleep." "What?" My throat constricts but I push past it. "I did that?"
She nods. "I don't think you took well to the drugs." I feel my face fall. "Oh." But the image of the boy is so clear in my memory now. I can see his eyes. And the way his hair fell into them as he leaned over me.
"But listen," Kiyana says pointedly, her gaze darting discreetly toward the open door, then back to me. A cunning grin erupts on her face as she bends down and whispers, "I did hear some good news this mornin'." I peer up at her. "They started interviewin' some people who claim to be your family."
"Really?" I sit up straighter.
"Yeah," she confirms with a pat pat pat on my blanketed leg.
"Hundreds of people have been callin' after that newscast yesterday. The police have been interviewin' them all night." She steals another glance at the hallway. "But I'm not supposed to tell you that so don't be getting me in any trouble."
        "Hundreds?" I ask, suddenly confused. "But how could there be hundreds?" Her voice is back to a whisper. "So far, they've all been impostors. Media-hungry fakes."
        "You mean people have been lying about knowing me?" The boy's face instantly dissolves. Just like the warm touch of his hand on my skin. She shakes her head in obvious disapproval. "Well, I'll tell you. I blame that news coverage. You've become a celebrity overnight. People can be so desperate for attention."
        "Why?" "Now that's a question that needs a whole heap of an explanation, love. One that I don't know if I can give you. But I'm sure that one of those calls will prove to be the real thing."
        I feel my shoulders sink and my body slouch. Like my spine has given out on me.
        Impostors.
        Liars.
        Fakes.
        Was that really what the boy was? Someone trying to meet the famous survivor of flight 121? The thought fills me with a surge of emotion. The idea that he was able to make me feel a sliver of hope—false hope—leaves me feeling foolish. And furious. But then again, maybe he was never here at all. The drugs could have caused me to hallucinate. Invent things. Invent people.
        I fall back against my pillow, deflated. I reach for the remote control and turn on the television. My photograph is still on the screen, although it's been resized and placed in the top right corner. A new female reporter is standing in front of the same Los Angeles International Airport sign.
        "Once again," she is saying, "anyone with information about this girl's identity is encouraged to call the number on the screen." A long string of digits appears below the woman's chest. The same ones as yesterday. And I'm struck with a thought. "Kiyana?"
        She's writing something on her clipboard and pauses to look up at me. "What's that, love?" "How do they know the callers are impostors?" She glances back down at her clipboard and continues scribbling notes, answering my question distractedly. "Because none of them know about the locket."
        My gaze whips toward her. "What locket?" She still doesn't look up, oblivious to the alarm in my voice. "The one you had on when they found you." Her voice slows as she comes to the end of her sentence and notices the ghastly expression on my face. Something she clearly wasn't expecting to see.
        Her hand goes to her mouth, as though to recapture the words that she has inadvertently set free.
        But it's too late. They're already imprinted on my barren brain.
        I feel my teeth clench and my eyes narrow as I turn my glaring expression on her and seethe, "No one told me anything about a locket."