The Dark Empty

I wake up to a rhythmic, persistent beeping that makes me miss the silence of slumber, but I don’t remember falling asleep. I don’t remember anything.

My eyes shoot open as consciousness takes hold. Pain settles into my body, and I groan, trying to think beyond the throbbing in my head. I’m in a hospital; that much is clear. The beeping is coming from a nearby monitor that I realize is connected to a pulsometer on my finger. There’s also a catheter in my arm attached to an IV solution which is dripping steadily. I hate needles. I hate hospitals. How did I even get here? My brain feels like it’s going to explode, and the machine starts beeping erratically as I try to sit up.

“Hey, she’s up!” someone calls out, and the sound is far too loud.

This feels like the world’s worst hangover multiplied by a million, and I take in my surroundings through squinted eyes.

“What happened?” I mumble, and my voice sounds scratchy and strained. It’s foreign in my ears.

A nurse rushes to my side, pressing me back against the pillow. It doesn’t take much effort on her part to hold me down, and something about that upsets me.

“Jane, you need to lie down. You’re still too weak. Please, use this,” she says, handing me a small black remote. Reluctantly, I take it from her and press on the arrows. The hospital bed whirs softly as it lifts, propping me up until I’m more or less sitting upright. A stupid, childish part of my mind is amused by this, and I resist the urge to fiddle with the different settings of the bed the way a child might entertain themselves by rolling a car window up and down with the press of a button. Focus.

“What happened?” I ask again, this time a bit more forcefully.

Several technicians and two doctors walk into the room, and my eyes dart between them. I want answers.

“I regret to inform you that there was a terrible accident, Ms. Silver,” says one of the doctors.

No shit. I may be confused out of my wits and dizzy beyond reason, but even I could have figured that out. I stare at him blankly, waiting for further explanation. The doctor only turns to one of the monitors, checking my vitals. The other one pulls out a small flashlight and shines it in my face.

“Look here, please,” he says, blinding me.

I grimace, grudgingly allowing them to examine me.

“What kind of accident?” I press, growing impatient.

“A plane crash,” says the first nurse. “How much do you remember?”

The question makes my heartbeat quicken, and the monitors beep again. I feel like my skull is being split in two.

“Hey, it’s okay. Take it easy. Your body’s suffered a tremendous amount of damage: bruised ribs, severe hypothermia, blood loss, fractured bones, and the mother of all concussions. You’re lucky to be alive. Don’t push yourself too much, all right?”

One of the doctors clears his throat, shooting a warning glance at the nurse.

I run the words through my foggy mind. A plane crash. Hypothermia. ‘The mother of all concussions’ is probably not the correct medical terminology, but something about the nurse’s crooked glasses and kind smile makes me relax a bit.

“I’m okay,” I say with a slight nod, although it’s becoming increasingly apparent that I’m not.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” asks the nurse.

I frown, trying to focus. I remember… I remember…

“I don’t know,” I say with a frustrated grunt. “I can’t think straight. My head—”

I lift one hand to my temple, where pain drums behind my eyes. My fingers graze against uneven skin, and I wince.

“Careful,” cautions the doctor.

I ignore his warning. Thanks to werewolf healing, I’m not bleeding anymore, but I can still feel the places where my skull cracked open. The gash runs from my upper left temple up along my forehead, vanishing past my hairline.

Well, that would explain the concussion. It’s going to leave one heck of a scar. Maybe I’ll grow bangs to cover it. Wait, what does my hair look like now?

I stare down at my shoulders at my long, silky hair, somewhere between golden blonde and platinum. Why couldn’t I remember my hair? My thoughts are coming in slow and muddled like my mind is moving underwater.

“It healed nicely. We’ll be able to take the stitches out tomorrow,” says a doctor.

“Already? How long has it been?” I ask, staring at him in surprise.

The nurse offers me a small, reassuring smile.

“Honey, you’ve been in a coma for several weeks. Even with accelerated healing, it’s going to take some time for your body to recover.”

She must notice the panic in my expression because she steps forward and rests her hand on the edge of my bed.

“But you’re going to be okay. They brought you in in time to save your life. Focus on that, okay? You’re alive. You’re a miracle.”

A miracle.

I don’t feel miraculous. But something about her words tugs at my memory.

A silhouette against the sunlight. Ice clinging to my lashes. Warm skin against my cheek and a pounding heart.

“Where is…?” I can’t think of a name. Why is thinking so hard? How am I supposed to remember anything?

The doctors exchange a curious look, and I feel an anxious lump form in my throat.

“I’m so sorry, Jane,” says the nurse, reaching for my hand. “You’re the only one who survived the plane crash. Your parents didn’t make it. I know it’s probably not what you want to hear, but you’ve got guardian angels watching over you.”

She’s right. That’s not what I want to hear. Something stings in my eyes, and before I even realize it, tears stream down my cheeks, but there’s a hollowness inside me that’s more terrifying than the sorrow of loss.

My parents. Why can’t I remember their names? Their faces? My thoughts are becoming clearer, and as the fog parts, I find myself faced with a horrifying blankness in its place. My senses are back, reason and logic kicking into place as well. But my memories… where are my memories? I understand the meaning of things. Concepts and ideas make sense, but it’s like they’re just words. My mind can identify them, but it can’t string them together into a sentence.

I know it’s been years since humans and werewolves have been coexisting in peace, but I can’t remember why that’s important. I can list different countries in my head, but I have no idea which one I’m in. I know what parents are, but I can’t remember mine. I know I have eyes and lips, but I can’t picture my own face.

My breathing turns shallow as panic crushes my chest. The nurse frowns, and some of the doctors step forward, examining me once again.

“Jane? Breathe. You’re okay. Jane, what’s wrong?”

I’m panting now, searching and reeling through the depths of my skull. Nothing. I remember nothing. Everything is spinning, the room is too small, and the monitors are too loud. I feel like I’m falling, and I want to scream. Instead, I turn slowly to face the nurse with tears in my eyes.

“Who’s Jane?”