by Skye Turner
What race and what PR event is he talking about? My dream begins to fade away, and I’m trying really hard to ask him what’s going on, or who he is?
Unfortunately, I can’t get the words out of my mouth. I want to know his name, but he quickly fades away.
As I open my eyes, I notice it’s morning again, with the light coming in through my hospital room window and a new nurse is taking my blood pressure, which is what must have woken me up.
Now that I’m awake, I take the time to focus on trying to bring back some type of memory. When the nurse sees that I’m awake, she informs me that Bill came by early this morning while I was still sleeping and dropped off my stuff.
I turn my head and notice an iPad on the side table and I reach over and grab it. Wanting answers fast, I start to Google my name, “Abigail Adams.” Right away all kinds of articles and images come up.
According to the Internet, I’m not a world famous model, but I am in high demand in the states. Thanks to my current fiancé, slash agent and manager, I was on the way to becoming the most highly sought after model in recent history. Before my accident, I had wrapped up an interview and photo shoot with Vogue that was going to get me those international shoots I was working towards.
I was born in Seattle, but raised in the foster system. My mother died when I was twelve, leaving me to be raised by the state in different foster homes until I was discovered at the age of eighteen. I had begun with small photo shoots for a local agency that kept me financially above water for a couple of years, until I met Bill, making him my current agent and manager.
On the Internet there were a ton of pictures of me, some from different interviews, photo shoots, or pictures that must have been taken by paparazzi when I was out and about. There were so many, it’s almost like I wanted to be constantly photographed or spoken to, which feels a bit disturbing.
After reading a couple of articles and flipping through what seems like thousands of photos, I feel even more confused than when I started. The only thing it’s proven to me is that I was a shallow and conceited person who only cared about herself. For some reason this makes me feel like crap.
After sitting in my room for most of the day, I notice that I start to feel jittery and stressed. Eventually, I start twitching my leg, swinging my foot back and forth and feeling trapped like I want to get out and do something. It is driving me crazy.
I blame it on being immobile for so long.
On this second day since I’ve woken up, the doctor is in my room giving me my routine daily check-up. Bill showed up this morning, but most of the time he’s on the phone barking commands at someone about a deal that he’s trying to close. He’s been coming to visit me as often as he can, but I have a feeling that he’d rather be at his office than with me.
He claims that he is really busy at work, but that he misses me badly and wished that he could spend every waking hour with me, but I doubt it. It takes all of my willpower not to roll my eyes at his response. Even when he kissed me that first day, it didn’t feel right. There was no emotion in it on my part. As if to confirm that my body didn’t really know him. It had worried me, but I had made it a point to Bill that I just needed time and space, giving him an excuse to stay at a distance.
Before I could even allow him to think things were back to normal, I had to figure out what normal was.
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Find Gabbie S. Duran on her website at gabbiesduran.com, Faceboook, tsu, Twitter, and Goodreads.
