Replay: Amnesia | BOOK 1

Chapter 1

A white light wakes you from your sleep, a pounding raging through your skull. Your eyes adjust to the sudden light and you realize you're in a room. Four walls, two doors, and sunlight streaming through the open window. A warm breeze fills your senses and you sit up, a sense of fear washing through you. You don't recall what happened last night, nor any of the nights before.

Amnesia has fallen upon you.

Female. You can feel that's what you are as you clutch at your sternum to grasp air. You can't recall your name.

Swinging your legs over the plain, gray-sheeted bed, you run your fingers through your hair, which is apparently medium-length and a deep shade of brown. Wavy. Tangled, like it hasn't been brushed for a week.

You listen for voices, for footsteps, but you hear none. Are you in a house or an apartment? What city? What town?

Rubbing your temples, you stand and look around, trying to be as quiet and cautious as possible. There's a vanity across from the bed, the wood painted a light white. The mirror reflects your face and you find yourself staring at it for a good moment. Not even your own face seems familiar to you. You admit you're pretty... but not drop-dead gorgeous like you used to want to be.

You take a sudden breath at the thought. Did you just have an inkling of remembrance?

On the vanity, there is a piece of notebook paper, looking like it was ripped from a notebook in haste. In quickly scrawled words, you struggle to read the handwriting. A smear of something dark on the paper sends a chill down your spine.

Blood?

You're in danger, the note reads. This is not your house. This is not your home. Get out. Go to the address below. Help him however you can, but whatever you do... don't fall in love with him.

The strange message ends with an address scrawled at the bottom, the pen strokes darting off the paper. You tentatively touch the place on the vanity where the ink stains the white painted wood. A sinking feeling fills your gut and you feel queasy, lightheaded. Could you trust this note?

A door slams somewhere. Steps. You're in a house. Someone's entered.

Your eyes dart to the window after a quick sweep of the room to see if there's anything that could assist you with navigation. On the nightstand next to the headboard is a phone.

Blood stains surround it.

You swipe it from the table, keeping your stomach down, just as the heavy footsteps approach the door and something begins to jangle. Keys.

You had been locked in this room.

"Time to clean up the mess," a voice outside the door says. A second person chuckles and sighs.

A hand flies to your mouth as you stifle a sob, fear overtaking your senses. You slip out the window and try not to slip on the shingles beneath your bare feet. You try to keep your hemorrhaged breathing silent as you slowly crab-walk downward, making your way to the drain pipe. If you can open the phone somehow, you could pull up GPS and find the address. Even better, you could call the police.

You hold down the power button to turn the phone on as you make your getaway.

You grip onto the gutter then drop to the ground, pain shooting through your body. Sitting there for a moment to catch your breath, you realize they aren't running after you. If you were locked in the room, wouldn't they chase you if they realized you weren't there?

You lean against the house and press a hand to your chest, your labored breathing slowing down. You need to get away from this house. Whether or not you remember anything, you definitely know this is a bad place.