Mystery of the Night

He woke from fitful sleep and terrible dreams. Sunlight streamed in through the window. He was in a soft feather bed, in a strange bedroom. But where? Why was he here? What could have happened? A young woman sat on a chair beside his bed. She turned to him as he groaned. She had long, soft auburn hair, a pretty freckled face and piercing green eyes. “Hello,” she said, her voice soft and soothing. “Welcome back. I’m so glad, you had me worried earlier.” She held a beaker of cool water to his lips and he sucked on it eagerly. He looked up at her. She was a slender girl, with a delicate kind of beauty. Close to, she looked tired. He supposed she must have been watching him all night.

“How did I get here?” he said hoarsely. “Why am I here?”

“I am so sorry, but you are not well,” she said softly. “I’m taking care of you.”

“But why can I remember nothing?” he asked, realising as he said it how absurd the question must sound. At that moment he became aware of a throbbing in his side. He reached down and felt a bandage there. He looked down and saw his abdomen was a mass of livid bruising. “I can’t even recall my name! That’s terrible, isn’t it?”

“I think you have been through something traumatic,” she said, a slight quiver to her voice. “But now you should focus on getting better.”

He complained of a cramping stomach, so she fetched a basin for him to vomit in. After that she brought him a bowl of hot porridge with dried apple, urging him to eat it slowly. Then she assisted him to the bathroom averting her eyes as he emptied his bladder in a steady stream. His manhood felt very sore. He winced. She escorted him back to bed.

“Did you bandage me up?” he asked.

“Yes, I’ve had all the right training,” she replied. “Look at me. Now can you remember your name? I feel that this would be the first step to finding yourself.”

“My name…” he mused. Then it came to him. “My name is Owen!” he said. “But I still don’t know why I am ill or why I am here. Did you bring me in? What is your name?”

“I am Kitty, Owen and yes I brought you in, you were injured,” she said. He could see tears shining in those emerald eyes of hers. “You had been assaulted.”

He felt strangely hollow inside. “I just don’t remember Kitty,” he said. “It’s like a piece of me is gone.”

She had grown visibly pale, her freckles really showing.

“You’ll get it back Owen, I promise,” she said.

What should he feel? He wondered this to himself over and over again. Would he want his memories back? His life returned? Would that really be for the best if he had been, as Kitty said, “assaulted?” What would the memory be like? Would he want it back?

Kitty was very kind to him and stayed with him the entire day. She read him stories to pass the time and at lunch time, brought him pork chop followed by ice cream. He had a hard time swallowing it, but now he could feel his strength returning.

That evening Kitty urged him to get some rest as she sat and dozed in her chair nearby, ready in case he needed her. As he lay back against the smooth pillows he pondered his situation. Should he be here? He had nowhere else to go. Kitty seemed so lovely, but shouldn’t he be in a hospital or something? And who could have assaulted him and left no memory of the attack? The room was decorated with a green wallpaper with a peculiar design, not at all agreeable to look at. He gazed at it despondently. If one tried hard enough one could probably see all kinds of weird shapes in that pattern. As he stared at the pattern he suddenly noticed a shape staring back at him. From the locked corridors of his memory an image came forth. A terrible face shrieking into his. He gave a cry. Kitty was at his side in a moment. “Owen, what’s the matter?” she asked, laying a hand on his arm.

“I remember something!” he told her. “So help me I remember something!”