Stolen

Have you ever had one of those dreaded Mozzie bites?
Those that once you notice, you can't seem to ignore? The ones where it itches and taunts you with it's crimson, swelled up bump to which your fingers would creep closer and closer and scratch just one, two, three times and you bask in the wash of relief that floods through you from feeling satiated -- that is, temporarily satiated.
And then it comes back again, stronger and itchier than ever. You try to fight it because somewhere inside you, you know where and what it would lead to, but you still cave and scratch at it aggressively until your skin had enough and it runs out of layers to stop you from desperately trying to penetrate into it, so it swells and breaks and bleed, till the pleasure turns into pain and the sighs turn into hisses, and you wonder why you couldn't keep your fingers to yourself and had to open something you realised and subconsciously knew you shouldn't have implored into in the first place but it's too late -- the damage is done.

Well, that's my life with a million times the severity of the mosquito bite.

---
Aisleigh Stanford woke up in a hospital room confused, curious, clueless and caught in an unnecessarily cliche condition -- none other than sweet ol' memory loss, or like the people in scrubs walking around say Post-Traumatic Retrograde Amnesia. When she thought her life description couldn't get anymore words that start with 'C's, life has a nice way of incorporating more for her -- complicated, catastrophic and chaotic, just to name a few.

It's not everyday you found out your memories weren't the only things that were stolen, but this time you are the thief.