Fractured Fairy Tales: A SaSS Anthology

by Amy Marie

  "I can't go on like this," he whispered into the empty room. "Why can't I remember anything?"

  Sylvia's phone rang again. She'd never answered it before. Her boss would be worried. He thought about answering but the nausea won out. Patrick made no move to go to it. He just needed to sit for a bit then he could think about walking again.

  The fall through the door had scrambled him up more than he wanted to admit. Pain medicine would make him sleepy though and he wanted to be awake for everything that might help him remember himself.

  Sliding down the headboard he lay on his back. Every spring in the mattress seemed to press against his aching body. As he lay there, eyes closed, the water turned off in the bathroom. Sylvia's voice sounded through the door as she sang a song he didn't recognize. The off tune notes brought a smile to his lips.

  Sylvia stepped out of the bathroom, wearing jeans and a maroon sweater. Using a towel, she worked at drying her wavy hair. She walked over to the bed and looked down at him. "You okay?"

  "Aside from the fact that I am laying on a sheet of plywood filled with roofing nails, I'm as good as I can be."

  "My FBI contact will be here in about thirty minutes to do the cognitive interview."

  Patrick sat up, slowly, and leaned against the headboard again. "I don't get how another interview is going to make me remember who I am."

  Sylvia sat on the edge of the other bed. "It's a little different. The agent has techniques to help you get into your own head."

  "I don't want to be hypnotized."

  Sylvia laughed. "This isn't a traveling road show. No one is dangling a watch in front of you and making you bark like a dog when a bell rings."

  Patrick raised an eyebrow. "The oddest combination of a Bugs Bunny cartoon and Pavlov's dogs."

  She shrugged. "I didn't have a lot of friends as a kid. Cartoons and books were my entertainment." Standing up, Sylvia walked back into the bathroom and returned with a hair brush.

  "I find it hard to believe you weren't the home coming queen and student body president."

  Sylvia sat back down and started working the brush through her tangled hair. "What would make you think that?"

  He looked over at her, watching as she drew the brush through her hair. "You're incredibly self-confident. And you know you're gorgeous."

  "I know no such thing." Sylvia focused her attention on her hair brush as a deep flush slowly climbed the fair skin of her neck and colored her cheeks. "My confidence is hard won. Carrying a gun helps too."

  Patrick chuckled at her attempt to cover her embarrassment with a joke. The self-assured Marshal got embarrassed by a compliment.

  A knock sounded at the door. Sylvia dropped the brush on the bed and reached for the gun she'd set on the nightstand when she'd come out of the bathroom. Holding a finger to her lips instructing him to be quiet, she crossed the carpet quietly. Holding her gun ready, she leaned forward and peered through the peep hole on the door.

  Lowering her gun, Sylvia pulled the door open and motioned to the man outside to enter the room. He held his badge in his hand. Sylvia closed and bolted the door then extended her hand to the man that had just arrived. "It's nice to meet you, Agent Wright. Thank you for coming." She motioned toward Patrick. "This is our witness we hope you can help. He's quite frustrated."

  "I can only imagine. Losing your memory is a loss of identity. Hopefully I can help you with some of that." Agent Wright pulled the one chair in the room up to the side of the bed, next to him. "You have to relax though. I need you to trust me."

  Patrick nodded. "I'll do my best."

  "Close your eyes and think back to the very first thing you remember," Agent Wright spoke softly, his voice calm.

  "When I woke up in the alley with someone kicking me. Oh wait, I remember now. It was someone named Marshal Fairfax."

  Sylvia coughed. "Yeah, sorry about that."

  "You kicked an injured man?" Agent Wright asked.

  "I thought he was dead. I didn't kick hard, just nudged him with the toe of my boot."

  Agent Wright turned his attention back to Patrick. "So, after Sylvia kicked you, what else do you remember? A certain sound, or a smell maybe?"

  "I could definitely smell the garbage in the dumpster. And something else. Like smoke from a cigar mixed with rotting meat."

  He could hear Agent Wright tapping notes in to his phone before he asked his next question. "How did the ground feel?'

  Patrick shrugged. "Hard? Cold? How does ground usually feel."

  "Okay." Agent Wright jotted a few more notes into his phone. "Do you remember how you got there? On the ground, I mean."

  Patrick traveled back to the night in his mind. "I remember standing there."

  "Good!" Agent Wright patted his arm. "What could it be that had led you to that place?"

  Patrick went back to that cold, dark alley and the noise that had drawn him into it in his head. "I heard a noise. Someone—shouting? Crying, maybe? Yeah, crying. I definitely heard someone sobbing."

  "Was it a woman?"

  Patrick squeezed his eyes tight and willed his brain to remember something. "I'm not sure but I think it was a man. And I definitely heard a man's voice."

  "That would be the killer and our other witness who is now dead," Sylvia said.

  "That's very good. Do you remember hearing or seeing anything else?" Agent Wright asked.

  Just like someone had turned off the television, Patrick's mind went blank and he opened his eyes. "That's it. The rest is like when we were kids and we tried to catch sight of a boob on the porn channels that were staticky."

  Agent Wright laughed. "A true rite of passage for every teen boy in the eighties. Today's kids don't understand the trials we endured."

  Sylvia let out an exaggerated sigh. "Men. Just like boys only taller and balder."

  Agent Wright pretended to be offended as he ran his fingers through his thick salt and pepper hair. "I've got a full head of gorgeous hair."

  "Can we try again?" Sylvia asked. "Maybe try to figure out Patrick's identity?"

  Agent Wright shook his head. "I can come back tomorrow but I think we've done enough for today."

  Patrick sat up. "I want to go again."

  "You've got a head injury. I don't want to push your brain too hard."

  He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. "I'll be in the bathroom."

  "Patrick." Sylvia touched his arm as he passed and but he shrugged it off and kept on walking.

  "Let him go," he heard Agent Wright say. "He's got a lot to process."

  Patrick stepped into the bathroom and closed the door. Leaning on the sink, he stared at his reflection. "Why can't you remember your own damned name?"

  The tears he'd tried to hold back fell freely, making him even madder at himself.

  Through the door he could hear the others talking; too softly to make out the words they said. Eventually the motel room door opened and closed.

  Using his good hand, he splashed some cold water on his face and dried it with a towel. A quiet knock on the door caught his attention, followed by Sylvia's voice. "Patrick? Agent Wright is gone, if you want to come out now."

  "Leave me alone, please."

  "I want to help."

  He grabbed the door knob and flung the door open. "You want to help? You know what I think? You want to find your killer. That's what you want."

  Sylvia held her ground. "Of course, I do! It's my job to find him but it's also to protect you! And part of protecting you is helping you figure out who you are before the man that wants you dead does!"

  If someone asked him years later, he'd never be able to explain what he did next. Sylvia's untamed hair, half dry and half wet hanging loose around her shoulders and framing those passion filled emerald eyes became all he could focus on. He stepped forward, she stepped back, out of his reach. They played that cat and mouse game all the way across the room until her back was against the dented steel door to the room. Sylvia never broke eye contact and
with each step her passion for her job became replaced with something new. Desire? He told himself that's what it was, right before he crushed his mouth to hers for the second time that day. This time, she'd never be able to deny she'd wanted that kiss too. Sylvia melted against him, their bodies perfectly matched. All the anger, frustration and a million other emotions he couldn’t name consumed that kiss. Consumed him.

  Sylvia wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him in closer. Pain shot through his injured arm but he ignored it for the onslaught of fire building in his veins as he let his body take over for his common sense.

  Suddenly, Sylvia's arms were no longer wrapped around him. Instead they pushed at his chest as she turned away. The kiss ended as abruptly as it had begun.

  "It happened again." He touched her cheek lightly. "It was pretty amazing."

  She held up a hand. "It was—really good. But it really can't keep happening. We're both stressed and high-strung right now. With that much passion, something was bound to happen." She grabbed a key card off the table. "I'm going to hit the vending machine for some snacks and a water. You want anything?"

  He shook his head. "Nah. I don't have much of an appetite at the moment."

  "I'll be right back."

  Sylvia walked out, letting the door slam shut behind her. Patrick picked up a pillow off the bed and threw it across the room, landing it in the trash can in the corner. "Nice work, idiot. You just pissed off the one person on this planet that actually knows you exist."

  Chapter 5

  Even with the sun shining, the air felt brisk. Sylvia jogged down to the main lobby where she'd seen some vending machines. They definitely needed to order some real food for dinner but she could get by on snacks for the moment.

  Dropping some coins in the machine, she chose some chips, a chocolate bar and a drink and then headed back to the room.

  Sliding the key in to the reader, she pushed the door open. "Hey, Patrick, we should really think about having a pizza delivered or something."

  Both beds were empty. The door to the bathroom stood closed so she walked over there and spoke again. "You hear me in there? I'm starving and these chips aren't going to even take the edge off. What do you want on a pizza? The agency is treating."

  No reply.

  In fact, the entire room felt eerily quiet. Reaching out, she turned the knob slightly. Not locked. She shoved it open. "Patrick? You in there?"

  Of course, she could see immediately that the tiny room stood empty. Panic moved in quick. How could she have lost a second witness in less than a week. Turning around slowly, she searched the room for signs of a struggle. Nothing looked out of place.

  "Where did you go?" Sylvia asked the empty room.

  Grabbing her key card again, she bolted from the room. Patrick couldn't have gotten far. She'd only been gone a couple of minutes. Unless someone had taken him. And had a really fast car. Then he could be anywhere.

  Praying that wasn't what happened, she first searched all around the motel with no success.

  "Okay, if I were a confused man with no memory of who I was, where would I go?"

  The sound of waves crashing against the shore caught her attention. Taking off at a sprint, she ran the length of the path set up between the motel property and the sand. When she made it to the end, she stopped running and looked around. The wind whipped grains of sand against her face making it nearly impossible to see anything.

  "Patrick!" The wind carried her voice away. Walking with her head down, Sylvia followed the dunes toward the fishing pier. "Patrick? Are you out here?"

  Still nothing. The waves crashed steadily against the sand, worrying her that maybe Patrick had done something stupid. As she stumbled under the pier and used a wood piling to block the wind, she saw what she'd been looking for. Patrick, sitting on the sand, his back against one of the wood pilings. He cradled his injured arm against his chest, his head leaned back and eyes closed.

  Sylvia trudged through the sand and dropped down beside him. "What are you doing out here?"

  Patrick shrugged. "I needed some air."

  She leaned over and bumped him lightly with her shoulder. "Usually, when one is in protective custody, they don't disappear like this. You really scared me."

  "Sorry about that," he said the words but they were empty.

  "Yeah, well, I'd appreciate it if you didn't do it again."

  He rolled his head to the side and opened one eye to look at her. "Why do you even care?"

  "You're my witness and—"

  He slapped a hand to his thigh. "I can't even remember! And let's not forget about the way I practically attacked you. Twice."

  Sylvia reached over and threaded her fingers with his. Squeezing his hand lightly, she tugged him closer to her so she could rest her head on his shoulder. "We were both completely willing participants in that kiss."

  "We were?" He turned to look down at her.

  "Absolutely. I only stopped it because of my job. And, because we have no idea if you are married, engaged, or whatever. I can't be the other woman. Been there, done that, and have the t-shirt. I will never do it again."

  The wind kicked up an icy gust that made her shiver. Patrick let go of his hand and wrapped his arm around her, pulling her in close. "I'm sorry I scared you. I'm just so confused and overwhelmed. I thought that FBI guy would fix me."

  "It's a process. You remembered more than you did before the interview. Maybe tomorrow will bring it all back. The doctor said it would be quick and unexpected."

  Patrick laughed, with no humor. "I don't know for sure, but I'm pretty sure I am not a patient person."

  "How about we head back to the motel, order some dinner, and watch stupid television for a while."

  He squeezed her shoulders lightly in a hug. "I have a better idea."

  "Oh?"

  Patrick pulled away from her and got to his feet. "Let's go back to the alley where the guy shot me and see if that triggers anything."

  Sylvia stood up as well, brushing sand from her jeans. She hugged herself against another gust of wind. "I'm not so sure that's such a good idea." Sylvia started walking back toward the motel.

  Patrick followed her. "Why not?"

  "What if someone else recognizes you?"

  He frowned. "Wouldn't that be a good thing?"

  Sylvia shook her head. "Depends on who it is." She rubbed her hands up and down her arms trying to keep warm. The look on Patrick's face nearly crushed her heart. "You know what? If you want to go, I'll take you. Maybe it will help. I just need to grab my coat from the room."

  "Thank you, Marshal Fairfax."

  She laughed. "I'm pretty sure we've gotten past the formalities. Just call me Sylvia."

  Patrick laughed too and reached for her hand. "Okay, Sylvia."

  Knowing full well she shouldn't encourage any more contact with him, Sylvia ignored the little voice of her conscience and moved in close to him. She told herself it was for warmth but she definitely didn't believe herself.

  Ten minutes later, they were driving down Atlantic Avenue. Sylvia pulled into a parking space about two blocks from where they'd found Patrick and they walked the rest of the way.

  "So, this is it?" Patrick stood next to her at the end of the alley where he'd been left for dead.

  Sylvia pulled one hand out of a pocket and pointed to the green dumpster about halfway down the narrow space. "You were right there, on the ground by that trash can."

  "And the other guy?" Patrick asked.

  "All the way at the end." She motioned to a dark corner of the alley. "According to the investigation, no one heard a thing."

  Patrick walked over to the dumpster and looked down. There was a dark spot on the pavement. "Is that my blood?"

  Sylvia joined him by the stain. "Yeah. I'm sorry you had to see that."

  "I'm not." He turned and faced the building opposite of where they stood. "This is the bit I remembered today. Standing here, hearing the other man begging for his life, a gun pointed
at me." Patrick closed his eyes. "That’s it though. That's where it ends."

  "Nothing's coming back to you about how you ended up here?"

  Patrick shook his head. "Not a thing."

  She could hear the frustration in his voice. Not knowing who you are or where you're from had to be a heavy load to carry.

  She rubbed a hand on his back. "Let's head back to the motel now."

  "Yeah, okay."

  Patrick stayed quiet during the ride back. When they got inside the room, he headed straight to the bathroom. Sylvia grabbed a shirt to sleep in out of her bag and headed in to the bathroom when Patrick was done. By the time she got out, he was in bed and sound asleep. Sylvia took the chair and jammed it under the doorknob, then placed her gun on the table next to her bed.

  Crawling into bed, she turned off the bedside light and opened her favorite word game on her phone. At some point she fell asleep, the phone hitting her on the nose as she dropped it and waking her enough to set it on the table next to her gun before she fell back asleep again.

  "Please! You don't have to do this! I won't say anything to anyone. I promise!"

  The man with the gun stepped in close. Close enough that Patrick could see down the barrel of the gun.

  "No!" He sat up, his heart racing and sweat pouring down his face and neck. The darkness felt the same but the sounds and smells were different.

  "Patrick? Are you okay?" A sleepy, familiar voice called out to him. And then he realized where he was and that the whole thing had just been a dream.

  "I'm sorry I woke you, Sylvia. I had a bit of a bad dream."

  She got out of bed and came over to sit beside him. He could smell the floral scent of her shampoo and it had an interesting calming effect on him. She wrapped an arm around his shoulders. "Were you dreaming about it?"

  "I guess." Just having her close had already begun to calm his racing pulse. "I'm sorry I woke you. It won't happen again."

  She smiled. "Don't go making promises you can't keep. I don’t mind if you do wake me up again. I've had my fair share of memories haunt me in the dark of night. It's those wee hours of the morning that can be the worst."