Chapter Eighteen

JESSICA'S POV ~

An eerie silence seemed to spread through the air as if even the wind itself feared disturbing the dreadful stillness. The only sound audible was the steady ticking of a clock, each tick causing my ears to twitch. 

No matter how hard I tried to move my body, I felt as heavy as lead and struggled to awaken. My eyes refused to flutter open, so I resigned myself to lying on the bed, counting to ten before attempting again.

A chill slowly ran down my spine when I started to hear voices, making me realize I wasn't alone. My breath slowed as I focused on the sounds around me.

Someone was sobbing nearby. I couldn't immediately turn to see who it was because my body ached and was pretty much lifeless. But goddess, I was utterly curious about what was happening.

I tightened my eyes and listened in again. It was a woman's voice, and she sounded utterly anguished.

"I'm dying, Patrick," she cried. "I can't do this anymore. How can I live without our daughter? We had so many plans as a family!" Her voice broke into heavy sobs, causing my brows to furrow with concern and confusion.

I kept listening, trying to recognize the voice, yet it remained unfamiliar. The man she had mentioned only seemed to shush her but didn't speak. My thoughts began racing two miles as second as I wondered who they were and why they were here, wherever this was, with me.

The smell of antiseptics and the smell I hated the most–antibiotics began to fill the air and I cringed badly. But despite my efforts to move, I still couldn't, which left me confused and frustrated.

"It's all my fault, Patrick!" the woman continued. "I should have saved her in time. We should have paid more attention to our only child! I feel so guilty for not guiding her down the right path." Her sobs intensified, worsening the pounding in my head.

Why was she crying here, of all places? I wanted to groan and ask her to give me some privacy, but my lips refused to move, which felt very strange.

"Patrick, tell me, what are we going to do?" she asked, her voice trembling. "I read the suicide note she left in her hotel room, and my heart shattered into a million pieces. I've failed as a mother!"

I exhaled sharply, intrigued by the conversation I was overhearing. What a tragic situation!

"What did she write in it, dear?" the man finally spoke. I desperately wanted to sneak a peek at this couple, but my body still wouldn't cooperate. My heart skipped a beat as I considered the possibility that my bones had been broken into a million pieces in the fire accident. I couldn't even bear to imagine that possibility.

I found myself holding my breath, anticipating the man's response.

"She wrote that she took her life because of the leaked sex tapes and our failure as parents," the woman explained, her voice breaking as she spoke. "We didn't care about her." Her heart-wrenching cries sent a chill down my spine.

"Patrick, she's right," she continued, her voice filled with anguish. "I've never been a good mother to our daughter—"

"Shh, Lydia, don't say that!" the man interrupted. "We...you did everything a mother could do for a child... You--"

"No! It's the truth!" she countered. "How can I face the press conferences and announce the death of our daughter? I can't do this!"

As she uttered the last sentence, a strange sensation overcame me. A lump formed in my throat, my nose tingled, and my bones seemed to shift, rearranging themselves. It felt so strange because I could feel the blood pumping beneath my veins. every vessel, every artery. The headache I had been experiencing vanished, and I gasped loudly as I abruptly sat up, startled by the sudden change.

I winced as a sharp sensation coursed through my head. 

Turning to the couple, I realized they had stopped crying and were now staring at me like they had seen a ghost. But that wasn't my main concern.

How on earth was I here? I was certain I had died in that fire. I felt my body burning, and I screamed until life sucked out of me. I remembered rolling around on the hot ground, desperately trying to extinguish the flames that had engulfed my flesh, but it was all in vain. I had experienced a painful death.

Jessica Stone died.

So how could I be here?

"Oh my God!" the woman gasped, her voice sharp and shrill. She stood up so abruptly that her chair crashed to the floor. The man turned ashen, and I worried that these middle-aged people might suffer a heart attack.

I uttered my first word since waking up. ‘Water.’ The single word grated against my throat, and before I could say anything else, something gurgled at the back of my lungs. I’d just turned over to the side, right in time for a vile surge to escape my lips. A torrent of murky, foul-tasting water cascaded out, splattering the white tiles. Each heave expelled more of the tainted liquid, leaving a bitter, acrid taste clinging desperately to my tongue.

When it didn't seem like I would throw up my lungs, I weakly wiped the back of my palm over my mouth and stared up at the old couple. Noticing they hadn't moved an inch, I released a deep sigh. Were they shocked that I had overheard their conversation? Or had they perhaps entered the wrong ward?

"Water... Please," I repeated, my voice cracking. After a few seconds, the man finally moved, fetching a cup of water from the dispenser. He handed it to me, his hand trembling slightly.

I quickly gulped down the entire content of the cup, relieved to quench my thirst and expel the bitter taste.

Suddenly, the woman screeched, making me grimace. "You're alive? Sylvia? Oh my goodness, my baby, you're alive!"

I gave her a perplexed look. What on earth was she saying?

I shook my head, certain there must have been a mistake. "I'm... I'm..." I exhaled sharply, struggling to speak. My body felt uncooperative. I pointed to my throat and continued, "I'm... Not Sylvia. My name is Jessica."

The couple exchanged a confused look. The woman, Lydia, who had previously covered her mouth with her hands, stared at me in disbelief.

"What do you mean? Sylvia, are you alright?" she asked, concern etched on her face.

I was slowly growing annoyed. I'm not Sylvia! Were these people suffering from dementia?

"Patrick!" the woman exclaimed, shaking her husband's arm. "Something's wrong with Sylvia. She's scaring me!" She threw her husband a frightened look, which only fueled my frustration. Turning back to me, she placed a trembling hand on her chest. "Sylvia, you...you hurt yourself badly, and the doctors...they said they couldn't save you..." Her voice broke and a sob rose to her lips. "They said it was too late. But here you are. I'm so happy you're alive. It's okay; don't talk. Mommy understands. Just rest, honey." She attempted to soothe me.

I stared at them, my eyes narrowing in both confusion and anger. I couldn't make sense of anything anymore. Was I hallucinating?

Why the heck were they still calling me Sylvia?!