by V. F. Mason
You could say I was bitter.
“Someone is in a bad mood.” A cheery voice from the doorway pulled my attention from my sad life, and my mouth lifted in a smile as Ciara entered the room, holding a bag with donuts and two Starbucks cups.
“I’m bored out of my mind.” She rolled her eyes, placed the food on the table, and extended her hand with a cup to me, while leaning down to give me a peck on the cheek.
“Let’s not be grumpy, shall we?” She sat on the nearby chair, putting one leg over the other. Her foot adorned with a red stiletto swayed back and forth. Overall, little sister had a great sense of style.
Ciara was the second person I saw after Oliver, and she claimed to be my sister. She never left my side, making sure I stayed occupied, and unlike Oliver, she didn't try to bombard me with memories or demands in the hope of me remembering. She interacted with me as me now, and I couldn't be more grateful.
But one thing bothered me. Never once in all the pictures I was shown by her or our parents were we together.
“Wouldn’t you if you were me?”
She pretended to think about it, but then nodded with a laugh. “True. So… how did the visit with the doc go?” Shrugging, I took a tentative sip of the green tea with mint she’d brought and almost groaned in pleasure. Nothing was better for the stomach and taste buds than that! The only thing that made my mornings bearable.
“Fine, I guess. Three more procedures to go, and then we can think about plastic surgery.”
She worried her lower lip for a second. “Don’t worry, Vito knows some hot-ass surgeon. He’ll fix everything,” she said with conviction, while I cringed inwardly at her mentioning my uncle’s name.
The fierce mafia boss showed up here a few days ago with all his bodyguards and counselor to check up on me. After all, no part of the familia should suffer, and he would see that I was as comfortable as I could be.
Needless to say, I was too shocked with all the information to even react. “I’m not sure I want his help.”
Ciara sighed heavily, knowing my feelings on the matter. I didn't exactly hesitate to share them with her shortly after Vito left.
“Babe, he isn't so bad.”
Raising my brow, I gave her a look that spoke, Are you fucking kidding me?
And she giggled. “Okay, okay. But seriously, he would never hurt you. You were his favorite. You were everyone’s favorite actually.” Her voice held a meaning I couldn’t catch. I didn't like it or the tone she used when she spoke about the past. Was I a bitch to her or something? Opening my mouth, I wanted to ask her about our relationship, when a nurse interrupted us.
“Angelica Rossi?” The nurse was a young girl, wearing a pink uniform, probably an intern by the nervous glances she kept giving the expensive room I was in. It had a flat-screen TV, beige painted walls, a brown leather couch and chair, a table with a vase of red roses, and finally the electronic bed with various functions. Not to mention the huge-ass bathroom with a shower and a bathtub. Why a patient needed all this was beyond me, but Vito insisted on the best. The girl was someone new, and only by the shaking of her hands did I notice she held a box making sounds as objects moved inside. “They had this at reception and wanted me to bring it to you. These things were found with you at the scene of the car accident. The police brought it after the investigation.” Blinking in surprise, I patted the empty space on the bed, and she placed it there. She tugged on her ponytail. “Would you like anything else?”
Shaking my head as Ciara waved her off, I opened the lid of the box with blossoming hope in my chest. Maybe it was like a magic box that held all the answers to my secrets or the key to those doors my mind couldn't open.
I sure as hell didn't expect to find only one thing in it, a cross with a heavy chain made out of steel too rough for a woman’s skin.
Wrapping it in my palm, I raised it to have a closer look, and a deep longing settled inside me. Ciara whistled loudly. “You became religious all of a sudden in the States?”
Still rubbing my thumb over the thing, I asked, “I wasn't before?”
“Nope. One of the reasons you had a fight about your study abroad program with Dad. He was livid that his Catholic, virgin daughter went on a cruise alone. That’s where you met Oliver,” she murmured, leaned forward to study the cross with me, and then frowned. “This is an Orthodox cross though.” Her voice sounded confused, and she rested her chin on her open palm. “Of all things, don’t let Dad see this. He’ll flip.” Despite her warning, I couldn't resist pulling it over my head. As it rested on my collarbone, a sense of peace overpowered me, as if a little bit of my soul was back, and I could breathe freer. Taking a deep breath, I covered it with my palm, pressing it deeper into my skin until it hurt, and a bubble of laughter escaped my mouth.
Maybe someday it would help me remember what the hell happened to me; until then, the cross wasn't going anywhere.
Charlotte, North Carolina
May 2017
“Angelica, the time has come,” Doctor Kit said softly, as his hands gently removed the bandage wrapped around my face. Layer by layer it came off, allowing the breeze to caress my skin and provide cooling sensations, which almost made me smile. “Are you ready?” he asked, and my hazel eyes clashed with his gentle blue ones as I nodded. Although truth be told, I was scared out of my freaking mind and kept wiping my sweaty palms on the sheet.
Kit and the local psychologist, Nia, had refused to give me any kind of mirror and had covered the existing ones in the room. Dealing with many such cases, they believed I had no business sitting and studying my imperfections. Only by my father’s disgusted snorts and Mom's worried looks, I understood that it looked really bad.
Clearing my throat, I finally replied, “Si.”
He chuckled, as we both had discovered I spoke in my native language only when I was nervous. I preferred English, and although my parents kept giving me speeches about my heritage, Ciara managed to shut them up quickly.
I seriously had no idea what I would have done without her during the last three months in this hospital.
Cutting one last piece of white gauze with scissors, Kit peeled it off, leaned back, and blinked a few times in confusion. He frowned, as if trying to place my face or something but coming up blank. Then he shook his head, smiled, and pointed with his index finger to the hand mirror on my lap. Exhaling a heavy breath, I summoned all my determination and raised it right to my face at the same time I heard Ciara and Oliver gasp.
However, I didn’t pay attention to them as all my focus was on my reflection.
Stunning was one word to describe me.
Long mocha hair fell down my shoulders, curling at the end. My smooth skin glowed and went well with my hazel eyes covered in dark, lush lashes that didn't seem to need any mascara. High cheekbones and full lips with no sign of ever having been touched by the fire.
That was until my gaze shifted lower to my neck and collarbone, and I couldn't hold in the horrified gasp in my mouth.
Ragged, puckered, red, untreated skin on my collarbone and neck contrasted with my smooth skin as the pale color stood out in the overall image. The doctors refused to do anything about it in my already weakened state, because they feared complications. They had promised that in a year with me properly healed, we could fix all the ‘imperfections,’ as they called them. My fingers trailed the damaged skin, which was as soft as rose petals to the touch.
“She is… different,” Mom whispered, studying me carefully.
“As if another person. Similar, but someone else,” Father said, furiously sipping his coffee.
Casting my eyes down, I admitted there was truth in their words as the photo of Angelica before the accident was right in front of me. The picture was of Oliver and me after our engagement. He held me in his arms, while I displayed my beautiful diamond ring to the camera. The woman there had the same high cheekbones, black hair, and hazel eyes, but we looked more like fraternal twins than the same person.
�
��The injuries were severe. We tried to match her appearance to what you showed me… and this is the best result. Sometimes, it’s almost 100 percent accurate, but sometimes, there are important differences,” Kit said carefully, all the while measuring my reaction to the news.
“I see.”
Oliver and Ciara stayed quiet, but I could see the devastation in their gazes. Clearly, they weren't happy with not finding that woman from the pictures in the hospital bed.
And suddenly, all this became too much for me. Why were they all here during my important moment?
Removing the blanket swiftly, I placed my feet onto the white carpet, curling my toes into it for a second, and then dashed toward the bathroom. I managed to lock the door before anyone had the time to reach me. Resting my head against the wooden door, I closed my eyes, breathing heavily.
Knocking furiously, Ciara and Oliver tried their best to reason with me, but it was pointless. “Angelica, please let us in.” Shaking my head, even though they couldn't see it, I furiously wiped at the tears sliding down my cheeks and immediately hissed in pain as my rough palms touched sensitive skin. “Baby, you are beautiful,” Oliver whispered, as if his words were supposed to make it better. Ignoring their pleading, I walked to the sink, resting my palms on the cold porcelain as I willed myself to look at my reflection in the mirror.
“Come on, cara,” Ciara shouted, frustration evident in her voice.
One would think I was depressed to find all the imperfections on my body or not having my old face, so to speak, back.
However, the truth that really devastated me was that even watching myself like this didn't bring up any memories.
Nothing.
Blank fucking canvas.
Shouldn't it have awakened some kind of trigger? I didn't know that much about other victims like me with temporary memory loss, but I had been in this place three months with no results. Could temporary be measured in years?
And why, God, why had having this face felt like having more of my identity back as it did with the cross resting on my collarbone?
On the Way to Rome, Italy
June 2017
The clacking of ice cubes inside the glass drew my attention from studying the white-as-cotton clouds through the window on the private plane, and I turned toward the source of the sound.
White cotton clouds? Why would I use such a description? It sounded oddly familiar.
Ciara paused right in the middle of putting one more ice cube into her martini and shrugged guiltily. “Sorry, cara. Didn't mean to disturb you.” Tugging on the woolen blanket, I covered my frozen knees as I curled my legs under me on the seat. Such a relief to remove those heels.
“You didn’t.”
Rolling her eyes, she settled on the seat next to me. “Vito must really love you. He never gave his plane to anyone in the familia before.” A ghost of a smile touched her lips. “He isn't so bad after all.”
Deciding not to continue the subject of our uncle, because the man frightened me, and his weekly visits to me in the hospital did nothing to change my mind about him, I said, “True. Are we going to Florence?”
Ciara breathed inside the straw, creating bubbles in her drink, and snorted.
“Ciara!”
She huffed in annoyance, giving me a dirty look. “Chill, sis. Where else? After all, you guys have a wedding in a few months.” Her voice halted on those last words, and she cleared her throat as if something was stuck there.
Everything inside me froze as panic surged in, leaving me cold and with goose bumps in its wake. “Wedding?”
She nodded, flipping her phone and opening it up to click on the pictures. “See? Here is the schedule. Mom still plans to add more people to the invitation list. I swear, it’s like she is trying to please all of Tuscany.”
Fisting my shaking hands, I stated, “But… no one told me about it.”
Her eyes travelled up from the device to me, and she frowned. “They were supposed to tell you. You guys planned it a year ago.”
My mind screamed for me to cry out in frustration, but I couldn't, since Ciara had nothing to do with it. “How could they think I still want it? I don’t even remember loving him.”
Anytime he showed up, I was uneasy and couldn't wait for someone to come in. His touch repulsed me, and I felt guilty. Oliver was wonderful and supportive and… so freaking annoying. I couldn't help but feel angry with him for reminiscing the past constantly along with bringing photos or videos of us together. He thought it would trigger a memory.
All it did was leave me miserable.
Ciara placed her drink on the floor and wrapped her arms around me as we rested our heads on each other. “I can’t even imagine how hard it is for you, cara. I’m sorry they are insensitive jerks.” We joked quite a lot about it. Her chest rose and fell, as she continued, “But maybe it’s for the best. You will have a sense of normalcy, and if the doctors are right, you could gain your memory back soon.” She kissed me on the cheek lightly. “And then you would thank us for the quick wedding with the man of your dreams,” she finished, and for some reason, this last piece of information depressed both of us… if her heavy exhale was anything to go by.
Closing my eyes, I wished with all my heart that what she said was the truth.
But how could I, when I dreamed of a man with a husky voice who put my body on electrifying alert?
Florence, Italy
July 2017
“Come on,” I chanted, while my fingers carefully tried to create small stars with the brown clay as the music blasted from my phone, exceptionally loud since the studio had echoing walls. It could almost make me forget all my hectic thoughts or how fucked up my life had become.
Wrapping my hand around the almost-finished vase while the machine kept spinning around and around, the cry of victory was about to leave my lips, when it all imploded and once again became a gooey blob on the wheel.
Hitting the table with my palms until they hurt didn't help my frustration, and I breathed heavily, wiping away the sweat dripping from my forehead. The break allowed me once again to see the studio, and ask myself for the hundredth time, What is so appealing about the whole art thing?
Angelica Rossi apparently had a thing for sculpting ceramic vases and figurines, and her business was quite successful, if ten thousand likes on Facebook and a backlog of orders was anything to go by. The studio had a bathroom, supplies like clay and paint, and a huge-ass window from which bright light poured in, creating a warm atmosphere while the large space’s air conditioning produced a light breeze that cooled the skin and preserved the ceramics.
Too bad I had no clue who Angelica was, even five months after waking up in the hospital. I had photos, stories, videos, and people who claimed to know me and my preferences, but I still hadn’t found the girl inside myself.
Grabbing a bottle from the small fridge on the counter, I questioned my sanity and if all those hours spent in the freaking place was worth it.
The artistic talent clearly wasn't coming back anytime soon, unless I found some shaman who had the magical ability to cure me. I giggled, almost choking on the water, then tensed when the door opened and the little feng shui thing rang loudly, indicating I had a guest.
“Angelica?” Oliver called, and I winced, as the man refused to leave me alone even during the day. Was he always this clingy? What did I see in him in the first place? “Here you are.” His mouth widened in a smile, giving him a boyish look as he winked at me and placed a delicious-smelling bag on the small, round, plastic table. “I brought lunch. You probably skipped breakfast.” Frowning, I put the bottle back and folded my arms.
“Why do you keep saying that?” He paused in the middle of taking out some steaming pasta plates and gave me a questioning look. So I added, “About the whole breakfast thing. I eat healthy. I had waffles and tea this morning”—glancing at the clock, which showed twelve o’clock—“around three hours ago.”
Something akin to anger passed in his eyes
, but he quickly masked it with softness, and I wondered for a second if maybe my vision was playing tricks on me. “It must be a new development. Before the accident, all you could tolerate was coffee, and then you hid in your studio.” The longing in his voice couldn't be ignored, and that was one of the reasons I hated being in his company.
The ever-present guilt from his pain didn't sit well with me. I knew he didn't mean to, but sometimes it felt like he blamed me for not remembering our love.
Or my complete refusal to let him touch him.
Suddenly, he stood right in front of me, caging me within his arms as he rested his hands on the counter behind me. His breath fanned my hair while he breathed me in. “How I miss touching you,” he whispered, running his nose on the side of my neck, creating goose bumps… and not the good kind. My hands fisted, but I willed myself to endure it and hoped it could get better.
I owed my fiancé that much.
His lips moved dangerously close to mine as his piercing blue eyes looked into mine. He closed the distance between us, mashing our mouths together, and it was as if cold water was spilled on my head.
Pushing him away, I breathed heavily while my body trembled in fear. I couldn't help but swallow as nausea hit me hard. “Shh,” he whispered again, scared this time. “I won’t do it again.” He hugged me close, when everything inside me screamed for him to let go.
How the hell was I supposed to find my identity if I despised my work, the constant nagging of my family, and Italy didn't feel like home?
And more importantly, how could I marry Oliver in three months, when every piece of my body revolted at the idea?
Running far, far away seemed like the best solution with each day that passed.
Rome, Italy
August 2017
“Krasavica,” he whispered into my ear, as his stubble grazed my jaw and his hand moved lower, squeezing my hip possessively. My back arched into his touch, seeking the comfort only he could provide.
He gently nipped my chin, trailing his soft lips to my neck as he breathed me in. “Krasavica,” he groaned, as a moan escaped my lips, and I laced my fingers in his hair, enjoying the silky strands under them.
