Chapter One (Alternate)

The pungent stench of antiseptic overpowered my senses. For a split second, I wasn’t able to figure out why that medicinal smell was so strong, until I looked down and noticed my broken body. As soon as I saw that I was covered in bandages that oozed yellow, red and green, my heart started to pound through my chest. What happened to me? I forced myself to try to remember something useful, but I didn’t even know my own name. Alone and feeling more than a bit lost, the only thing I was thankful for were the nurses and doctors who attended me in the hospital.

That was my first mistake.

Because I didn’t find out the truth about where I really was until some time later, I believed pretty much everything my attending nurse told me. As it turns out, she fed me a bunch of crap about how I was in a “terrible accident” that claimed the lives of “many people” and that I was “lucky to be alive.” To be honest, I did suspect that the nurse’s saccharin-sweet demeanor was an act, but I thought that she either wouldn’t (or couldn’t) tell me what really happened. Even though I suspected she was lying, I felt I had to believe her rather than face an ugly truth. Lies, even if they’re fairly big ones, were just prettier sometimes. Weren’t they?

In retrospect, I should have questioned the nurse a bit more thoroughly, partially because she was “it” in terms of my access to the outside world. Oh, a few doctors would drop by now and again, but they seemed more interested in examining me than helping me. I’m still not one-hundred percent sure, but I could have sworn that one of them even referred to me as “that subject” during their rounds. I’m also pretty angry with myself for missing the giant, red flags that told me something was “off,” but even if I had figured out that I wasn’t really in a hospital — where was I supposed to go?

There was no TV or clock in my room, no other patients I could talk to, and no newspaper for me to read. The only decorations the room had were a hideously, ugly painting and a few, plastic flowers. Since the nurse refused to remove the bandages that covered my face, I’d often anxiously imagine what my face looked like. Was I a monster? Was I beautiful? When my curiosity got the better of me, I’d ask the nurse for a mirror, but she never gave me one. She’d simply reply to me by saying, “Oh, it’s still too soon. You wouldn’t even recognize yourself.”

Curiosity burned inside of me. I needed to know who I was, where I came from. The nurse, of course, cheerfully filled me in with what little she knew. She had explained to me that they knew my name was Sophie Miller, and that I was engaged to a man named William. Apparently my fiancé had shown up worried and heartbroken, but was “so grateful” I had been found. While it would to take some time for me to heal, the nurse believed that “time heals all wounds” and that William’s love would see me through my terrible ordeal. She said I should “be so lucky” that a “nice, young man” would take pity on me since I had nothing: no job, no home, no money.

William never came to the hospital to visit me, which I thought was a bit odd. I’d often ask the nurse why she thought William never sent me flowers or dropped by to say hello. Of course, she’d reply with a smile and a convenient answer. “Oh dear, we’ve learned you’ve contracted a terrible infection,” she had said. “We’ll have to keep you under strict quarantine.”

As it turned out, that nurse told me quite a few tall tales, and I still haven’t learned her name.
The dream of being rescued out of a terrible predicament might work for some people, but that was never my fantasy. Day after day I’d wait for my quarantine to be lifted; day after day I gradually gave up on the idea that anyone was going to come and get me. I didn’t have a clue as to who “William” was or why he would love someone who didn’t remember him. I guess you could say I felt extraordinarily guilty about it, so I convinced myself he wasn’t real.

Instead of mooning over the great love I couldn’t remember, I focused all my attention on getting better. Couldn’t tell you how long I waited, because I never figured out what day (or what month) it was. I had hoped the nurse would give me something more to go on, but she’d simply smile and whisper more pleasantries while she checked on my bandages. The more bandages she took off, the more drugs she started to give me. To this day, there are moments from my hospital stay that are completely blacked out from my mind.

During the times I was lucid, I turned the nurse’s stories into a game. Grab a few details here, put a couple more pieces together there, and I was convinced I’d finally know enough about my former life to walk right out the hospital’s front doors. Sure, it was probably true I couldn’t survive on my own without any money or identification – but I was going to try. To help keep my mind active, I’d spend my conscious hours plotting and planning my escape, right up to the part where I’d be free to find out what kind of a life I left behind. Some days were better than others. Usually, those were the days I dreamed of a violet-colored sky, brilliant and terrifying all at the same time.

At night, the nurse started to tie me down to the bed and give me an additional sedative or two to help me sleep through the night. She’d say that the “worst was almost over” and that I had an “extra rough patch” coming up. By “extra rough patch” she meant I’d be in pain and she was afraid I’d end up hurting myself. She was right, I was in pain. It just wasn’t the kind of pain that a drug could heal.

By that point, I had begun to realize I was a prisoner in that hospital. I needed to leave, and leave fast.
I spent the next few nights watching the nurse tie me down, to see if there was something I could do differently to help myself. It wasn’t as easy as I’d hoped, because the drugs made everything a bit hazy. One night, when I had almost figured out how to untie my restraints, I heard some strange words coming through the vent above. Normally I’m not that great of a listener, but the words “alchemy” and “conspiracy” seemed really bizarre to me — especially since I was supposed to be in a hospital.

Excited, I yelled at the vent. “Is anyone there? Can you help me?” But no one bothered to answer me.
At first I thought the voices were chatting about a book they had read, but the conversation seemed too real to be fiction. My mind chased these words furiously, trying to figure out how they fit together with my stay in the hospital — right before I passed out. Was I part of a conspiracy? If I was, how did something like alchemy fit in to that equation?

Needless to say, the nurse must have upped my dosage because I stopped trying to escape after that. Sure, I felt like fighting back sometimes, but I just didn’t have the energy or the strength. It was easier to believe that I was in good hands, and that I shouldn’t really worry about what was going to happen to me. I told myself I deserved to be treated that way. I told myself that I was being punished.

At least that part was true.

After what seemed like an eternity, the nurse finally stopped tying me down and giving me drugs. When my mind cleared, that’s when I really started fantasizing about my escape. I’d dream about hitching a ride on the first public bus I could find. Someone or something on that bus would jar my memory; then I’d run right out into the open, loving arms of my family or friends. Back then, I believed that the smallest thing—a kind word, a familiar face—would unlock one of my memories and the rest of my memories would just come flooding back. Good or bad, I wanted to know who the hell I was.

In between wishing and whining, I finally met William.

That day — of all the days I spent in that “hospital” — is still the one I recall the best because when I woke up that morning, the world was crying. I wasn’t sure how or why it happened, but for the first time in months, I was able to look out of a window in my room. To me the rain was nothing short of a miracle, it was cleansing and sad, all at the same time. Streams of water ran down the outside of the glass windowpane, forming trail after trail of iridescent blues and grays. I threw my modesty aside and jumped out of bed, wondering if I could finally see my own reflection. I couldn’t see very much; just my long, stringy hair and my pointy nose. Entranced by the raindrops, I traced their watery paths with my finger until they fell to their death on the sidewalk below. Imagining each one represented a night filled with dark dreams, I couldn’t stop counting their tiny deaths.

Distracted by the splatter of raindrops, I didn’t notice the man standing in the doorway. “Sophie,” a man’s voice had called out to me. “Do you want to leave?”

Self-conscious thoughts rushed into my mind, and my hand immediately grabbed the strings of my patient’s shift, pulling it closed. Part of me wondered how long the guy was standing there, staring at my bare backside while I put my fingerprints all over the glass. I turned to face him anyway with my eyes closed, trembling out of excitement rather than fear. It wasn’t until I heard myself say “Yes!” that I opened them. Even if the man I agreed to leave with was ugly, mean or twice my age — I believed my freedom was more important than my happiness. Needless to say, I wasn’t that surprised when the man introduced himself to me as my fiancé, William Sands.

William was tall and scrawny; his head was completely shaved except for the blond, pointy goatee he wore on his face. He wasn’t what I had considered attractive, but then again — I didn’t really have any other men to compare him to expect for a few, male doctors. I found myself looking straight into his eyes, hoping he had all of the answers I needed to see. William’s eyes were clear and guilt-free, as if he knew who he was, where he had come from, and what he would do in life. It was his confidence–more than anything else–that I was helplessly drawn to. This single man was not the answer to my romantic fantasy; he was a gilded key to my memories and my future.

Even though it should have, the thought never entered my mind to ask him why he wanted to take me with him. I rushed into his arms, grateful to leave. “Yes,” I thought, “I’ll do anything – even marry you – as long as I can get away from this place.”

What was I thinking?

Of all the mistakes I’ve made over the years, I’d like to think that leaving the “hospital” with William was the worst thing I’d ever done. Unfortunately, I know now that’s definitely not the case. The truth has a curious way of worming itself out when it needs to and in my case, I didn’t really start learning it until a few years later. Imagine my surprise when I found out that everything—from the time I woke up in the hospital up to the day I started recovering my memories—was a single, elaborate lie.

My captors – who called themselves “Alchemists” – certainly coordinated their efforts well, right down to the tiniest, most innocuous detail. Even after we were married, William had continued to reinforce everything the nurse told me; he often threw in a couple of juicy, extra bits to keep me from questioning him. I was an orphan, he had told me, and I was raised by my grandmother – a tough, wily woman who never looked a day over forty. Beyond that, he led me to believe that I would never regain my memory because of my “terrible accident.” Whenever I’d ask more questions, William would grow worried. He’d say that my confusion and my inability to accept the “real world” would end up destroying me, so he kept me confined to our house. Around that same time, he took me back to the doctors, who diagnosed me with a “crippling illness.” They told me I had to have a daily shot that would prevent me from having a fatal aneurysm.

More drugs. The shots made me docile, pliable and drowsy, but not forgetful. No, something else was responsible for that, something much darker and completely absurd all at the same, exact time. That “something” was made of magic.

We lived in a humble, two-story home, but I never really thought it was “my” house. Everything I had, from the little, bathroom shower soaps to the clothes on my back, William gave to me. I spent half of our marriage learning how to paint intricate mandalas and the other half doing chores, until William gave me an adorable, little kitten to play with. She was a nice distraction for me; I spent a fair amount of time knitting just so she could bite at the strings.

I feel like I should have done something more to help myself, even though I kind of knew how wrong everything was. Depressed, I slept through quite a few wasted years with William; we had a loveless, cold marriage, devoid of laughter and tears. I thought everyone I knew was either long gone or they had forgotten about me. Not to mention, I had no idea that I knew anything about magical Oaths or Alchemists. Death seemed like a better alternative for me than living through another empty year.

William must have known that I wanted to die, because my life ended up taking a dramatic turn for the worse.

Feeling rebellious, I decided one morning to take the day off. Declaring myself free-for-the-day, I shrank down underneath the warm covers and tried to figure out what I was going to do with myself. After refusing William’s whiny request to remake yet another pot of burnt coffee, I decided to skip my work-from-home job assignment, too.

I stayed in bed for most of the morning, staring at the phone. After realizing I had no one to call, I finally hopped in the bathroom to take a long, hot shower. The water scalded my sensitive skin, turning it from caramel to an angry shade of bright red. I fought with the shower settings, but once again I had to make a mental note to remind William to fix the “cold” faucet whenever he got back from wherever he wandered off to. That day, I assumed that William was probably off studying at his favorite coffee shop; he was going to school to be some kind of doctor and he often had a lot of homework. Part of me wanted to trash the house, just to show him how frustrated I was. Another part of me — a much saner part — thought that it was probably a good idea to keep pretending that I was still taking the drugs. Of course, that didn’t mean I was going to take my own advice.

A Note from the Author

When I started to rewrite the novel, I decided to simplify the story to allow the discovery of the setting to really shine through. After reading and rereading this chapter, I felt that Serafina’s backstory bogged down the opening of the book because it was very emotionally dense and too much for a reader to grasp. By pulling back the story of how William and her had first met, I was able to infuse glimpses of that early on in the book without giving in to a sloppy discourse or provide a prologue that didn’t fit with the rest of the story. Writing how she felt was a good exercise, but I’m glad I chose a different opening.

About Flavor Fiction Friday

For a limited time, Monica Valentinelli will share flavor fiction set within the Violet War urban fantasy setting. Flavor fiction may include short scenes, quotes, prayers, textbook passages, etc. that are designed to give the reader a “taste” of this unique world.