Chapter 80 Flashes

Chapter 80 Flashes

~ Anyssa's Pov ~

My bed felt wet, and I could feel hands crawling…latching onto my neck. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move. I tried to open my mouth to scream, but all that came out was a whispered cry.

Suddenly, images flashed through my memories: blood…tears…me, crying. Dead bodies and swift flashes again. I moved my legs, trying as hard as I could to escape my own head. What the fuck was even happening to me?

I tried to cry for help—maybe then I would wake up from this dream. When it felt like I was swimming in a bottomless pit, I awoke. Heat spread across my chest; my bed was soaked. My heart raced, thumping inside my chest as I breathed heavily.

The room was dark, the air conditioning on, but I still felt too heated. I switched on the night lamp beside the bed, trying to count my breaths.

What was that about? And what were those flashes? Could they truly be my memories?

I tried to steady my breaths, got out of bed, and left my room. A cold glass of water would help right now. I passed Ronan's room and then stopped.

I was…scared.

I don't usually do this, and I don't usually think this way, but I was scared and needed someone by my side. I was scared of the memories—they were dark.

Could it be that I murdered someone? Could that be why Ronan refused to tell me anything?

My heart quickened, and suddenly I saw myself standing in front of his door, knocking. I didn't expect him to respond so quickly, but he did. He looked wide awake and a little worried.

“Hi,” I said.

“Are you okay? What happened? Can't sleep?”

“Yeah, I can't.”

“What's wrong?” he asked after observing how unstable I was.

“And you're sweating a lot. I had the air conditioning on.”

“I know you did… I just. I had a bad dream, and now I don't know if it's my memories or if I'm just overthinking things.”

“Want to come inside?” he suggested.

“No. I'm sorry to decline, but I really need some fresh air, and I don't want to be alone right now.”

“Okay,” he responded, stepping out of the room and closing the door behind him.

“I can make you a cup of hot chocolate. It should help you relax, maybe with some cake left in the fridge?”

“Yeah, that'll be amazing.”

Like he said, he made a neat cup of hot chocolate for me, along with the best chocolate cake I had ever had. I've always had a thing for sweet things. Some could say I have a sweet tooth. And it felt like he knew that side of me—the fridge was packed with sweets, from cakes to pies to ice cream.

It felt like it was already arranged. So did this house. It felt too… clean. Like a lot of other things had been removed, things that would help me regain my memories.

We sat down in front of the TV with Grey's Anatomy on. I had never seen Ronan so engrossed before.

“Why won't you tell me?” I asked, breaking the heavy silence between us. His attention shifted back to me, his full focus now on me.

“What?”

“I've been having these dreams lately. Nightmares, I could call them. I only see violent things: blood, accidents, me crying, but never a full image. They're like flashes, and every time I try so hard to concentrate, they hurt my brain.”

“You know you're not supposed to force your memories back.”

“You don't understand. I have to.”

“No, you don't.”

“Yes, I do!” I set my cup and saucer on the center table and turned to face him. “You don't know what it feels like to be in a situation like mine. I feel empty. I feel useless. I don't feel whole. I feel like I'm missing a greater part of my life, and the only way to get these memories back isn't possible. And my husband, who claims he loves me and would do anything for me, isn't helping. What do you expect me to do, Ronan?”

The last part came out like a silent plea.

“You need to tell me. Tell me why you aren't saying anything.”

His eyes were down, clearly avoiding mine.

“Look at me and tell me what the fuck happened three years ago! I deserve to know. Don't make me suffer like this.”

“If you find out, you would hate me. So forgive me for wanting to spend some more time with you.”

What?

I moved closer, touching him, but he pulled back. It was as if my touch was repulsive. That hurt—it made my chest ache.

“Why do you keep running away from me? If I am your wife and you are my husband, why do you keep running away from me?”

“I'm not running away from you,” he barely said.

I was so done!

“Yes, you are. You don't even sleep in the same room as me, so there's that. You avoid me at all costs except when I demand your attention. What's wrong? What have I done? If I did anything—”

“You didn't…I just. I just don't want to hurt you.”

“Why would you hurt me?”

He didn't answer.

I didn't see Ronan as a man who would hit a woman. He just wasn't that kind of person, I believed. He was distant for a reason, and I would find out what it was myself. I needed to get to the bottom of this and regain my memories.

And so I let us watch the show together—no more questions, no more pleading. When morning came, I did what I should have done all along: I took my bags to his room. When he walked out of the shower, towel hanging low on his waist, I didn't know what to focus on.

Was it the impulsive action I had taken, or the drool that unconsciously slipped from the corner of my lips as I eyed the built body of my fifty-year-old husband?

“What are you doing with a bag?” he asked, worry etched in his tone.

“I've moved in,” I answered. “Now I'll be sleeping in the same bed as my husband.”