Capitolo II

When I woke up the following day, I was alone. The curtains were shut, the door closed and the lights were dim enough to make it comfortable. Being alone was a relief. I needed a moment alone to think—to try and remember.

The clock on the wall opposite my bed told me it's five in the morning. I was thirsty. And hungry. Really, really hungry. I've been trying to swallow saliva a few times to test whether or not my throat still hurts. This morning, it was bearable enough to talk. Although my voice is barely a whisper, I could do it nonetheless. Which means I could ask questions.

What's the last time you remember, Caterina? I asked myself. Think! Think!

Japan. Something with Japan. Yes! A Japanese man rained bullets in a museum in New York. My father and I talked about that over a meal.

My father...

Where is my father? Why isn't he here?

What happened after your meal, Caty? I barked at myself. Priority. But nothing came. It was just there. The rest were just hazy fragments and I didn't know when it was nor the entire picture. Like the talk I had. I had a talk at a university I cannot remember what.

BANG!

...I was on the floor. A man was hovering above me. I cannot move nor hear anything except for the chuckle of his voice and the hanging sound of disorientation. The man was familiar. I knew that crooked teeth and that sick smile anywhere. It's Freddy. I recognized him.

"Say your prayers, little Caterina," he said and he took the shot. I screamed from the pain as the bullet blazed through my skin...

"MARI!" a loud voice shook me off from the memory. I was shaking, lips trembling and eyes watering. I was pulled into a hug by someone I didn't know. But I gripped an arm so tightly I feared it would bruise. Then I was sobbing, warm tears ran down my cheek. "You're okay." The voice came again. It was him. The man from the back of the room. Lucas. My fiancé. "You were screaming. I heard you from the hall."

"I'm sorry miss, Santelli," the nurse who was picking up capsules on the floor. "The tray must've slipped."

I couldn't respond, I was too shaken up to comprehend anything that's going on around me. But Lucas held his ground, unmoving beside me, tightly but comfortably gripping me still. I see how his jaw tightens every now and then, and I can feel the drumming of his thumb on my arm. I was taken aback with the mild memory that followed. Lucas and I were at dinner with my father, I couldn't remember what was being said but Lucas looked like he was ticking. The way his index finger drums the table was the same as he was tapping me.

"Please leave us," Lucas commanded and the nurse nervously nodded and departed the room carrying with her the tray with scattering pills. When the nurse was gone, Lucas slowly let me go, giving me time to breathe and relax. He settled the paper bag he's holding onto the table beside me. Whatever it was, something that smelled good was inside. It made my stomach rumble. "Are you—"

"I remembered," I whispered, frowning as I gripped the memory once more and this time, the tears were unstoppable. "It was him—Freddy. He was holding a–a gun. And I was on the floor." A whimper escaped me and I brought my hands to my mouth to quiet it.

"Mari," Lucas soothed, sitting on the bed with me. He took my hand and I welcomed the warmth he offered. I could see the pain in his eyes as it stared into me and I couldn't ignore how a subtle growl escaped with his breath. "That was supposed to be me taking the bullets. Not you."

"But it was me on the floor," I stared at him through my wet lashes. He took a lock of my hair and tucked it behind my ears, smiling.

"It was you because you decided to take all the bullets that supposedly were for me."

"That's stupid," I frowned. From the looks of Lucas' physique, he can handle a bullet or two. Why did I use myself as a human shield?

"My thoughts exactly," he chuckled and I sniffed, smiling as well. There was something about him that I trust. It wasn't his smile nor his touch but it was something else. Whatever it was I knew I was safe with him and that no one would hurt me.

"When the tray fell, I remembered the gunshot," I admitted, fidgeting my fingers.

"Sigmund said it would be normal for you to suffer from PTSD," he pointed, standing from the bed and unpacked the paper bag. Like I suspected, it was food—mushroom soup. "He also said that you might be hungry. So I bought you this." He took out a styro-bowl and a plastic spoon out of the bag, and settled them onto the table, throwing away the packaging.

Then he sat back on the bed, taking off the lid and slowly mixing the soup with the spoon as the satisfying steam from the bottom clouds. He took a spoonful, slid the spoon on the side to avoid it from dripping, and blew like a fucking mother.

"I can manage—"

"No," he shook his head as he carried the spoon to me. I frowned but kept my mouth closed. "Always defying, Mari."

"I might be on a hospital bed, Lucas, but last time I checked, my limbs are working just fine." I crossed my hands over my chest and I stared at him, waiting for what he would do. And he does the same.

"Look," he sighed, putting the spoon back in the soup container. "You can starve to death if you want, but there is only one way to get food into your stomach. This way or nothing." He gave me a challenging look and shrugged. "I heard soup is better when it's hot."

"Fine," I said, giving up. I was hungry after all. And I could lower my pride just this time for a full stomach. Lucas smiled, satisfied, and brought the spoon back to my mouth. I took it without even caring that it's hot. I swallowed the soup, at first my throat was sore, but after a while, I got through it.

"Attagirl, Mari," Lucas cooed when the bowl was empty. I felt so little at that moment, like I was seven—a child, with the way Lucas was treating me.

"Why do you call me that?" I asked when he jumped off the bed and cleaned the table. I noticed how he keeps everything in order. How he neatly disposed of the trash, how he fixed his shirt every time he stood and how he hand-irons the sheet when he fidgets.

"What?" he frowned, walking towards the corner table and pours water on a glass.

"Mari," I pointed. "Why do you call me Mari?"

He returned beside me again, handing me a glass of water. "It's your name."

"Nobody calls me that," I said before drinking the water in half. "Most people call me Caty."

"I wouldn't be special if I called you Caty," he pointed, taking the glass and setting it back on the table.

"And you think calling me Mari will?"

"I don't know," he shrugged, smirking. "But it's not about what I'm feeling. It's about how you feel when I'm the only one calling you that. Mari."

I stared at him, completely taken aback. It did feel different, weird even, that he calls me Mari. But I couldn't deny the fact that something in me tingles when he calls me by my second name. It was like a personal endearment.

"And what do I call you?"

"To you I go by many names," he chuckled. "Fucker, shit, jerk, asshole. But I prefer it when you call me Lucas. It's not special or anything but I like the way your tongue moves when you say it." I felt my cheeks turn red and Lucas threw his head back laughing. "God, you're adorable."

If only our names were the problem, I would've laughed with him. But the fact that I don't remember what happened a few days prior and that I'm suffering from PTSD is slowly vacuuming the joy out of everything.

"Hey," Lucas called when he noticed the change in my expression. "What is it?" I saw his jaw twitch again. Whatever was happening here, he doesn't like it as much as I do.

"It's strange," I started, frowning at Lucas. "That I have no recognition of anything from the last few days yet here I am trusting you." I saw how Lucas suddenly froze from my words.

"If it's the memory you're worried about, Mari, don't. Sigmund said it will all come back. Not at once but fragments." The light mood was gone. I can now feel the tension rising in the air. "And you shouldn't doubt me. If I wanted to hurt you, I wouldn't be bringing you fucking soup and watching over you day and night. It’s not really on my bucket list.”

"I'm not saying I don't trust you, Lucas," I pointed. "I'm wondering why I trust you. I'm sure you don't know but I don't trust anyone that easily. Chase is the only person I let in. I even doubt my own father. So don't take it personally."

He sighs in frustration. "Mari, I'm telling you only once and I'm saying it now, I don't trust anyone that easily either. I don't even fucking trust that you're telling the truth about forgetting the last week. But I'm still here. It's what good fiancés do. And it's the least I could do after you stupidly put yourself between me and a damn gun."

"You have ways of making me mad without purposely doing it, Lucas." I narrowed my eyes, examining how and why a tense conversation like this almost felt...normal. And a shard of memory flashed. Lucas and I bantered inside a boxing ring. He was sweating, his hand gestures for me to come closer and I ran towards him, punching him in the face. Then the memory fades. I decided not to tell Lucas something was playing inside my mind until I could see the finished puzzle.

"The feeling's mutual," he smirks.