AMNESIA Read online

  Copyright © 2018 by Jaimie Roberts

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Design: Francessca's PR & Design

  Interior Design: Lee Ching with Under Cover Designs

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Epilogue

  Author’s Notes

  Siren

  Scars

  Acknowledgments

  Books by Jaimie Roberts

  About the Author

  “Nothing can last forever.

  There isn’t any memory, no matter how intense,

  that doesn’t fade out at last.”

  Juan Rulfo

  My mouth is dry and my eyes hurt. Nausea settles in my stomach. I’m running. Running through a fog so dense I can’t see beyond my feet. I’m cold. Chilled to the bone that my teeth start to chatter and my body tenses with the discomfort.

  Noises. So many noises that creep into my ears bring with it a deep sense of fear that rattles throughout my entire body. I’m shaking so badly I’m surprised I can even put one foot in front of the other.

  “Lucy.” Someone whispers it so loudly it echoes all around me. I stop, rooted in fear as I try and see where I am and who’s calling me.

  “Lucy,” he whispers again, but this time I feel his hot breath against my ear, causing my eyes to widen in terror.

  I sprint, not caring that I can’t see. My body is fuelled by pure adrenaline, impervious to the fact twigs snap under my bare feet and cause them to bleed. I run. I run so hard and so fast that my breaths are unable to catch up with what my legs are demanding of me.

  Then I’m falling.

  Falling deep into a black hole, floating into nothingness. I try to scream, but it’s like I have something over my mouth stopping me. My arms naturally flail, trying to find something to hold on to—something to grab. And that’s when I notice it.

  Red ribbon.

  It’s everywhere, threading through my arms and legs, wrapping itself around my body and crawling up my neck. It’s constricting, squeezing me so tightly I can hardly breathe. It’s all over my body, covering every area of my skin. It seeps even deeper until I can feel it inside me. Again I try to scream, but the red ribbon instantly covers my mouth and enters my nose. I can’t breathe. I feel like I’m dying. My body tries to fight this force, but the more I do, the stronger it becomes. The only part of me that’s left are my eyes, but pretty soon that same red ribbon crawls across each one, blinding me from the dark hole I’m still falling in.

  And then I feel him. He edges closer until that warm breath fans against my ear again. He breathes into it and when a deep rumbling laugh vibrates through my bones, fear like no other paralyses me. “Lucy,” he growls, making my body tremble.

  “Be a good girl and this will all be over soon.”

  My dad always told me to see the good in everyone—no matter how much you wanted to smash their face in. I always laughed when he said that. When I was at school, I was picked on. Even outside of school, I was mocked. There was one girl, Bethany, I think her name is. She told me I had big ears and a pointy nose. I plucked up the courage to ask her why she felt the need to say those things. She just wrinkled her nose, shrugged her shoulders, and said, “I don’t know. I guess you just have one of those faces.”

  So, here I am at the age of twenty-one, all grown up with no hint of big ears and a pointy nose. But, alas to say, I still have “one of those faces.” I must have because Max Cooper thinks so. He “tolerates” me because I’m best friends with one of his closest friends, Gabrielle. I met Gabrielle my first year of college. I sat down, pen clutched between my fingers as I nervously tapped it against my desk. I sat at the back to remain hidden. I had learnt to adapt to hiding because of my “one of those faces” looks. If I stayed hidden, then no one could pick me out of a crowd. No one could judge me. I was safe. Or at least that morning, I had thought so. Gabrielle crashed into my world... literally. She tripped on someone’s bag and stumbled. Luckily at that point, I looked up. The girl with the crazy pink hair and even crazier green eyes fell on my desk at the same time I caught her from falling even further. “Thank you,” she had said. “I’m always falling over.” She had rolled her eyes as if she’d heard that so many times before. I am the girl with one of those faces, and Gabrielle was the girl who fell over a lot. Once she steadied herself, she looked at me with a crooked smile and said, “May I sit next to you? You look like the only sane person in the room.”

  Right then, in that moment, I had smiled wider than I had in ages. Gabrielle, who is widely known as Pixie because of the cut of her hair, managed to do something I hadn’t done since before my dad died. I felt... noticed. And in a good way. She never once judged my boring baggy jeans, scuffed white trainers, and plain black T-shirt. I looked boring because I wanted to be boring. I wanted to be unnoticed. But, my little Pixie with the crazy pink hair and green eyes had other ideas. We instantly clicked, she and I. It was like we could see something in each other. Something... individual to what the rest of the outside world perceives what we should be. Pixie’s the crazy one, the outgoing, I-don’t-give-a-shit-what-you-think-of-me kind of gal. I equally admire her and am jealous of her at the same time. We’re polar opposites, and yet we click like nothing else. For the last three years since we met, we’ve been joined at the hip. We even moved in together four months after we had met. We do everything together, and life is wonderful.

  Well, almost wonderful.

  Unfortunately, Pixie came as a package deal, and that package deal included her irritating friend, Max. He also has an equally irritating best friend called Chester, who can’t seem to think for himself. He follows Max’s lead all the time. I’ve noticed, so others must have as well. In total, there’s six of us in our cosy little group, and I get on with all but two. I was the outsider. The one who came in late. Everyone already knew each other for around five years. It felt awkward at first, but everyone was welcoming. There was only one who stood on the sidelines watching me cautiously with his flaming brown eyes and hair so golden brown, that every girl wanted to snip a piece of it off so they could take it to the hairdressers to replicate its colour. Even I was tempted at one stage—until I found out what a total arse he truly is. His scrutiny of me made my walls flare up. I remember feeling watched as I was introduced around the room at Pixie’s house. My shoulders tensed, my teeth gritted. I hated that the girl who remained hidden was suddenly studied so closely I could feel his blazing brown eyes burrowing into me. My skin heated and my breathing quickened. I had felt intimidated by him straight away, and that thought had made me so angry, that by the time I had reached him, my stare was ice-cold. I had shaken his hand rigidly. I was def
initely not accepting him the same as the others. Even Chester at the time welcomed me with a big, bright smile. That all changed once Max had obviously gotten him on the “I hate Lucy Rhodes” bandwagon. Since that initial meeting, we have never clicked. Instead, we exchange sarcasm as a defence mechanism. Pixie can’t understand it. She constantly asks me that if she loves me and him, then why can’t we love each other? “Because he’s an arse,” I would always reply. And then I would go to bed that night feeling guilty because I couldn’t live up to what my dad wanted me to be. To see the good in everyone.

  Pixie and her friend’s obviously find a quality in him that’s endearing, but I have yet in my last three years of knowing him found out what that is. I try. Oh, believe me, I try every day. But every day he’s a complete prick, and every day, I end up back home apologising to my dad for being a crappy, disappointing daughter.

  But then five days ago something awful happened. Max was involved in a hit and run accident. An accident which left him with a fracture to the left leg and right arm. He had been in a coma for three days, but then suddenly woke yesterday. Chester called us to say he would be okay and we could come and see him the next day when he was ready for visitors. Everyone breathed a collective sigh of relief before hatching a plan to meet the next day and shop for a present each.

  So, for the last twenty minutes, I have been scouring the isles of John Lewis searching for a gift. A gift that meant something from me to him. So far, the only thing I could come up with was a T-shirt that read, “I speak fluent sarcasm.” It was the nicest thing I could think of out of a bunch of other crappy stuff.

  “Do I really need to come?” I ask, placing down a Santa snow globe. It’s the beginning of October, already cold, and the Santa brigade is out in full force. Considering my dad died the day before Christmas almost six years ago, I was never keen on this time of year. For me, it was just a constant reminder. I remember my first Christmas with the group. I wasn’t joining in on all the games as much as the others and Max asked why. Pixie had said that I wasn’t into Christmas. Max had laughed, followed by Chester. “She doesn’t like Christmas,” he snorted, before looking directly at me. “Of course she doesn’t.” And then he had silently huffed a small laugh, shaken his head, and then looked away as if I didn’t exist anymore. That was a regular theme in our small but intimate gathering. I had tried over the three years to figure out why he instantly hated me so much. The best guess I could come up with is …

  I just have one of those faces.

  I hear a deep, resonating sigh come from Pixie. “I wish you two learnt to get along.”

  I huff out a laugh. “It’s not me causing the friction, Pixie. I would like to class myself as one of those people who get along with others, as long as they are nice to me. Max has been rude and obnoxious since the day I met him.”

  Pixie cuts short her hanger sliding of a bunch of men’s Christmas jumpers to turn to me, her face nothing short of displeasure. “Yes, but you’re not completely victimless in all this. I know it was you who poured salt in his tea and left a bucket of water on top of the slightly open living room door, so that when he walked in it would drop on his head.”

  Try as I might, I can’t help the snigger that comes out of my mouth. Childish, I know, but it felt good at the time. Harmless fun compared the snide comments I’ve had to endure for the last three years.

  Pixie raises her eyebrow. “See? That’s what I’m talking about right there.”

  Pixie walks off, obviously finished with either the jumpers or me. I can’t tell which. I follow after until she stands by a section of Christmas Santa ornaments and picks one up.

  “Oh, come on, Pixie. You can’t say he never deserved that.”

  She places the Santa ornament down and picks up a snowman one instead. “I’m not standing up for Max. I know how bad he’s treated you. I’m just saying you could be the better person out of all this.”

  My shoulders sag in defeat. They sag because I know she’s right. When I don’t say anything she places the ornament down and turns to me again. When she spots my demoralised face, hers softens. “Look,” she starts, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Have you ever tried talking with him? I mean one-on-one, face-to-face.” I shake my head. She already knows the answer to that. “Max is a really nice guy underneath it all. Maybe if you tried to talk to him without throwing insults you may end up liking each other.”

  Despite knowing she’s right I still can’t help the darker side in me that completely repels the idea. What if I did offer myself up like that and he shuts me down? My whole life I’ve had to deal with that shit. I’ve grown tired of being the victim. That’s why with Max I chose to fight back—be as vindictive and nasty as him.

  But, in the grand scheme of things, Pixie’s right. I should be the bigger person. Knowing I have to say something, I sigh. “You’re right. I’ll try and speak with him at the hospital. Maybe he’ll be so drugged up and in happy land he won’t have the energy to insult me.”

  Pixie smirks but shakes her head. “You two will end up being the death of me. I’m too young to have a heart attack.”

  Sophie and Brett join us before I can possibly think up an answer for that. Sophie and Brett make up the other two who are the six in our group. Three women and three men—well, one actual man meaning Brett. The other two are too delinquent to be called men. Sophie and Brett are a couple and are nice to me. They have been ever since I joined. They weren’t dating back then, but you could tell they really liked each other. Everyone said that it bothered them if they got together, because what if they split up. It would destroy the dynamic of the group. I think they realised this and stayed away as long as they could. It was six months into knowing them that they couldn’t contain it any longer. Add a Saturday night out to a club of drinking and dancing and the inevitable happened. There was a lot of worry and concern over this, but two and a half years down the line they’re still together, and as far as we can all tell, they are still very much into each other.

  “Have you two found anything?” Sophie asks, clutching onto Brett’s hand.

  We both shake our heads.

  “It sucks,” Pixie responds. “I hate present shopping.”

  Just then I have a lightning bolt idea. “How about we all chip in some money and just get him a voucher? That way he can buy something nice for himself once he’s out of hospital.”

  Pixie’s eyes light up. “That’s a great idea.” She lifts her hand and rubs my arm. She offers a small smile—one that tells me she’s thankful for at least trying.

  “I know he regularly shops in Top Man,” Brett adds. “How about we get him a voucher from there?”

  Eager to get out of here and away from all the Christmas shit, I say, “Well, then. Let’s get going.”

  We arrive at the hospital around an hour later to find Chester outside pacing the halls. We all look at each other, frowning before our paces pick up.

  “Chester, what’s wrong?” Pixie asks, grabbing his shoulder.

  He turns, looking directly at me with his big blue eyes before he glances at Pixie. He lifts his hand and bites the nail on his thumb before replying. “He’s … he’s not himself.”

  We all look at each other again—all with confused frowns on our faces. “What do you mean, he’s not himself?” Brett asks.

  Chester flits his eyes towards me again, causing my frown to deepen. Why does he keep looking at me?

  “Something strange has happened. It’s like he lives in a different universe or something. The doctors are calling it amnesia.” His eyes travel to me again. This is getting surreal.

  “Go on,” Pixie probes, trying to get more information out of him. “There’s something you’re not telling us.”

  Chester sighs before running his hands through his hair. “He remembers us, but can’t recall anything that’s happened in the last three years.”

  “Three years!” Sophie shouts, causing Chester to shush her.

  “Keep quiet. He might
hear you and right now he’s a little sensitive about it. He’s frustrated—as you can well imagine. I told him things he did yesterday and six months ago and he just stared at me blankly like I was lying. He even told me I was winding him up. I would wind him up normally, but not over something like this. It got to a stage where I was telling him things that happened a year ago, two years ago, like that holiday we all went to Paris that time. He fixed me with his stare before denying point blank that he had ever been to Paris.”

  The shock from all of us is discernible. I remember Paris vividly because that’s the time Max decided to up the ante on his game playing. He made it known to all the women in Paris that I was single and ready to mingle. It resulted in me being constantly hit on by a lot of ladies. It was uncomfortable to say the least, and resulting in my mini holiday being the most awkward holiday I had ever been on. That’s when I decided on my hate campaign towards him. I can’t believe he can’t remember all of this.

  “Oh my God!” Pixie shouts. “I can’t believe it. So you’re telling me he can’t remember anything since before our Paris holiday? Nothing at all?”

  Chester winces before glancing my way again. What is his problem?

  “That is the case, but there’s more.”

  Collectively we frown at each other again before turning to Chester. “What do you mean?” I ask.

  Chester fixes his deep blue eyes with mine. For the first time ever since Max’s war on me I’m met with kindness. “I think you all need to find out for yourselves.” He motions for us to walk through the door and into the room where Max is. We’re all wary. All wondering what it is that’s even more to this memory loss than what we’ve been told.

  One by one we trail through into the small room where we’re met by a frowning Max. He looks bruised and has a bandage around his head hiding that beautiful brown hair of his. His eyes are glassy like he’s been crying and his face looks kind of pale. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Max so vulnerable.

  “Max,” Pixie cries, running up to him and placing a hand on his shoulder. “How are you holding up?”