Dirty Little Secret

I was at peace; mind-numbing peace that consisted of... nothing. Nothing except comforting darkness, as ironic as that sounds.I didn't know anything, anyone, not even my own name. Did I even have a name? I tried to move, but found that I couldn't. It took me a moment to realize that my eyes were closed and I couldn't open them, meaning I was deprived of my most vital sense organs. I tried to speak, but my tongue seemed to have turned to lead. I felt even more isolated when I realized I couldn't hear a sound.

 My brain seemed to have lost control over my body, and I felt a shard of panic break that cool barrier of peace. The calm that cocooned me earlier began to feel more like the calm before the storm. I don't like storms.

I struggled with the invisible, unknown force that held me back from the real world, the one which was vivid with color, chaos and comfort. It was working, because in a few moments, I felt my eyelids fluttering, and streaks of light seemed to be breaking the darkness in my vision. Sweat was dribbling down my forehead, my fists were clenched, and I distinctly felt something holding my arm. Skin.. no, a hand, warm and sturdy, had gently encased my quivering hand. It was firm yet gentle, unknown but comforting, and I wanted to know whose hand it was. I doubled my efforts, focusing on that warmth.

-'-'-'-'-'-'-'-'-'-'-'-'-'-

I sat up with a gasp, heart hammering in my chest, my eyes showing me a very clean, very white; very bright room, my temples reminded me as they started to pound with the sudden strain. I looked to my left, where my arm should have been covered in a warm hand that had seemed very familiar, like it belonged there, but the visitor's chair next to mine was empty. No, not empty, a folded piece of paper sat there rather primly. I picked it up and saw something which made me smile: a heart scrawled messily, and an 'S' in beautiful cursive. A woman... 'nurse', my recovering intelligence supplied, came hurrying into the room from a door on the right, a clipboard in one hand and a bunch of bottles and tubes in another. She dumped all of it unceremoniously onto a nearby stand, and  I winced at the volume of the clatter.

"Sorry!" She gave me an apologetic look while retrieving a roll of bandage, gauze and some cotton. I took the opportunity to dump the paper behind the side table while her back was turned. She came up to my side and began unwinding a wrapping on my head that I didn't realize I had until then. "I'm Gia, by the way," she said. "Do you remember your name yet, or has the last drug shot delayed that particular recall?"

I took a moment, then stuck my hand out to her with a smile. " I'm Victoria de Lyle, but please, call me Torie." I was glad my aristocratic manners chose that moment to kick in, because my grandmother stepped in, looking as stern as ever and exclaimed in her harsh, sinewy voice,"Victoria, my dear child, so glad to see you're alright!" I admit I was a little shocked at her concern, which seemed genuine enough. "I would hate to disappoint the Walters this evening," she continued, and I inwardly rolled my eyes. That's my Grandma alright. 

Celeste de Lyle was the widowed wife of late Lord Denver de Lyle, mother of late Lord Fredrick de Lyle, my dear father and the bane of my existence. Apparently, she hated my mother, Vanessa de Lyle for not giving her poor Fred a son, a real heir, that she made them separate after just five years of marriage. Many wonder why they simply didn't have another child. The reason was that my mom suffered from a chronic disease which rendered her barren after her first child. It was incurable, and not her fault she had it, but the elder Lady de Lyle felt she was an unworthy wife for a lord of the reputable noble line our family descends from, and kicked her out. Dad was bound by custom, duty and respect for his mother which outweighed his love, but he managed to persuade Grandma to keep me. My mother agreed, and with great reluctance so did Grandma. But as fate would have it, my mother passed away the following year, and ridden with guilt and grief, my father followed her shortly thereafter.