I woke up in a sterile hospital room, my head throbbing with a dull, persistent ache. Disorientation washed over me as I tried to focus my blurry vision on the unfamiliar surroundings. Panic clawed at my throat as I realized I couldn’t remember anything – not my name, not where I was, not even what day it was. A kind-faced doctor entered the room and gently explained that I had been in an accident and was suffering from amnesia. He assured me that my memory might return with time and rest, but for now, I was essentially a blank slate. Shortly after, a man named Derek came into the room, his expression a mixture of relief and concern. He introduced himself as my husband. I stared at him, searching my mind for any flicker of recognition, but there was nothing. He was a stranger, yet he spoke of our life together with such familiarity and warmth that I couldn’t help but feel a sliver of hope that maybe, just maybe, this was all a terrible misunderstanding and my memories would eventually resurface. Despite my inner turmoil, I tried to appear calm and collected, nodding along as he recounted anecdotes about our shared past, stories that felt foreign and distant.
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The doctors discharged me the following day, advising me to rest and avoid stressful situations. Derek helped me into his car, and we drove to what he called our home. As we pulled into the driveway, I felt a strange unease settle over me. The house was nice enough, but it didn’t feel like *my* home. As soon as we stepped inside, our dog, Otis, a normally placid golden retriever, began barking hysterically, his tail tucked between his legs, cowering away from Derek. [ “OTIS’S REACTION WAS EXTREME” ], unlike anything I had ever seen, even though I couldn’t remember ever seeing him before.
Derek, seemingly unfazed by Otis’s outburst, calmly stated, “Oh, we always keep him in the backyard. He gets a little too excited inside.” He then proceeded to roughly shove Otis out the back door, ignoring the dog’s whimpers and desperate attempts to stay inside. Something about that action sent a shiver down my spine. Even without my memories, I *knew* that Otis was never an outdoor dog. He was always a cherished member of the family, allowed to roam freely throughout the house.
Later that evening, as Derek was in the shower, I decided to try and reach out to someone, anyone, who might be able to shed some light on my past. I grabbed my phone and scrolled through the contacts, finally landing on a name: Sarah, labeled “Best Friend.” I hesitated for a moment, unsure if I should trust my instincts, but the overwhelming feeling that something was terribly wrong pushed me forward. As soon as the call connected, Derek burst out of the bathroom, his eyes blazing with anger. [ “HE SNATCHED THE PHONE” ] from my hand, abruptly ending the call.
“Who were you calling?” he demanded, his voice laced with suspicion. I stammered, trying to explain that I was simply trying to connect with someone who might help me remember, but he didn’t seem to believe me. He accused me of being secretive and untrustworthy, his words like daggers piercing my already fragile state. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned, my mind racing with unanswered questions and a growing sense of dread. I knew, deep down, that Derek wasn’t telling me the whole truth.
The next morning, I pretended to be asleep while Derek got ready for work. After he left, I crept towards the front door and peeked through the peephole. I saw Derek talking to a shady-looking man, their voices hushed and conspiratorial. I strained to hear their conversation, and what I overheard sent a wave of ice-cold fear through my veins. Derek was saying, [ “SHE DOESN’T REMEMBER ANYTHING, BUT I THINK SHE’S STARTING TO SUSPECT.” ] He then added, in a chillingly calm voice, “I need you to take care of something… permanently.” That’s when I knew. My “husband” wasn’t who he claimed to be, and my life was in grave danger.
