I don’t have friends or family—no, don’t pity me, because it’s just a fact—who I can rely on to give me a ride. Plus, using one of those rideshare apps is still way too pricey. The city bus is a hell of a lot cheaper and more convenient, especially since I can’t drive after being sedated at my doctor’s appointment.
But do I wish I didn’t have my episodes, because I’d be driving alone instead of sitting in a seat some drunk likely peed on at some point? Hell, yes.
In fact, right now, I’d really like it if the lady seated beside me would stop staring at the goddamn left side of my face.
You know what? Fuck it.
I turn and stare her straight in the eyes. Hers widen in sudden surprised panic, but I don’t give a shit. Maybe she shouldn’t stare a hole in someone just because they’ve got scars on their fucking face.
Talk about uncomfortable.
“Wanna get out your phone and take a pic? ’Cause it’ll last longer.” I dip my chin, gesturing to where her purse sits in her lap. “Go right ahead, ma’am.”
My tone is nonchalant, because for fuck’s sake, I’d like it a whole lot more if she’d stare at a pic of my face instead of the creepy, barely blinking dead-on stare she’s had for the past eight solid minutes.
She huffs at me—me—and jerks her eyes away. Like I’m the one being rude.
People, man. They fucking suck.
With a sigh, I stare sightlessly out the bus window, gently massaging the nagging throbbing at my temples. Hopefully, today’s therapy will help.
Three months ago, I heard an advertisement on the radio. I swear, it was like fate finally tossed me a life raft after having to deal with these damn headaches.
“Do you suffer from chronic headaches? Debilitating migraines with blackout episodes? Are you between the ages of twenty and thirty years old?
“If you answered yes to both questions, then you could be eligible for the newest clinical trial!
“Hyperbaric oxygen therapy and IV ozone blood infusions have shown promising results for many other serious medical conditions.
“Combining the two therapies to reduce or even eliminate chronic headaches and migraines is expected to have positive results.
“Call this number for more information…”
Normally, I tune out commercials, but this one snagged my attention and I felt compelled to call. Once I answered a handful of questions over the phone, they scheduled an appointment for me to come in for a preliminary test.
When I was chosen to be a trial participant, it gave birth to a thread of hope that maybe—just maybe—I’ll find something that cures my onset of the blackout headaches and sleepwalking episodes.
There are perks to being included in the study as well. Not only do they pay a stipend, but they accommodate participants’ schedules by having after-hours and weekends available for treatments.
Most places here in Mandarin Springs shut down on Sundays—aside from the main gas station in the center of town—because it’s viewed as sacrilegious to stay open on “God’s day of rest.” Luckily, the trial doctor lets me come in for my treatment on Sundays, so I don’t have to close my business and lose any customers.
It’s also a bonus that I don’t have to work on my treatment days, because I’m normally pretty wrecked afterward.
A twenty-minute bus ride is all it takes before I’m striding toward the small strip mall where the doctor’s office is located.
Lara, the nurse sitting at the counter, greets me when I step inside. “Welcome back, Miss Ford.”
She rises from her chair before I can claim one of the waiting room seats. “Dr. Phillips had a cancellation, so he’s ready for you. I can take you on back now.”
“Talk about perfect timing.” I’m certain my smile is brittle. My muscles grow even more tense, and the pit of my stomach maws open sickly in preparation for the intravenous part of this therapy.
I fucking hate needles. Those suckers give me major anxiety, which I know is ironic considering how up close and personal I’ve been with a tattoo needle.
It’s not the same for me, though. One is just barely prodding at the skin, while the other is far more intrusive and delves deep to lodge in a vein.
I take a seat in the cushioned leather chaise, my fingers nervously tightening around the armrests.
Lara holds the clipboard and pen poised above it, ready to write down my response. “Any updates or issues since your last appointment with us?”
“Yes.” My answer emerges slowly, uncertainty lacing my tone. “I woke up this morning with no recollection of coming home Saturday night.” Before she can ask, I tack on quickly, “It’s like I blacked out, but I wasn’t drunk.”
Her brow furrows as she jots this down in my file. “Did you have any injuries? Do you think you fell and hit your head again?”
She says again, because that’s what she and Dr. Phillips concluded the last time I woke up with no recollection of the night before. I hadn’t had an inkling how I’d gotten the large knot of a bruise near my hairline or the cuts along my upper arms and throat. I’d vaguely remembered having the start of a headache, but that’d been all.
I gently press my fingertips around my skull even though I’ve already checked multiple times. “No, because I don’t have any sore spots or swelling. But if you look at my hands…” I flex my fingers to show her the cuts and how some of my knuckles are split.
“Hmm.” She studies my hands curiously before tossing out a teasing, “Sure you didn’t get yourself into a bar brawl?”
I barely suppress my derisive snort. “Not likely.”
“Well…” She hugs her clipboard to her chest and tips her head to the side thoughtfully. “Remember what Dr. Phillips says. The brain works in mysterious ways—”
“It protects us from traumatic memories,” I finish for her, my tone flat. Because I’ve heard this dozens of times now.
It doesn’t explain a damn thing, though. I’m getting more and more impatient as time passes and the headaches coincide with chunks of missing memory.
Sure, I’ve had more time in between episodes like these since starting this therapy, but they’re no less debilitating memory-wise.
Lara’s sympathetic smile grates on my nerves. It’s mostly because the response she offers sure as hell doesn’t give me any clue as to how I got these injuries.
“Was there anything else?”
I can’t quite pinpoint what has me hesitating to reveal that flash of disturbing memory earlier in my bathroom. Finally, I settle on, “It’s just so damn frustrating, not knowing if I’ll regain those missing chunks of memory.”
Lara pats the top of my hand. “That’s understandable. Just remember what Dr. Phillips says. Traumatic memories are often buried to save us from experiencing the trauma of reliving painful events.”
I nod, because I’ve heard it all before. It’s what every psychologist has told me over the years when I’d complained about large chunks of memory evading me.
The car accident that left me scarred consists mostly of a disjointed mess in my mind. At times, a mental glimpse will flash behind my eyes, showing me in that car and crying out for help.