Amnesia.
They say that is what I have, along with the broken bones and permanent headache... Amnesia. Apparently, when my coach hit the tarmac the wrong way up my head hit something in turn. Out of the thirty four passengers only nineteen survived. I am one of the lucky ones.
But I don't feel lucky.
I am grateful to be alive but I have woken up into a life I do not know, in a year my mind has not reached and with people making claims on me when I do not recall their faces.
I know who I am or rather I know who I was but there is a gap, eight years are merely blackness.
Eight years, three of them spent married to a man who is currently a stranger. The stranger who at this moment sits in this room of cleaniness and monitors and can barely look in my direction as when our eyes meet all he gets in return is an expression of weariness.
I close my eyes, trying to delay the moment when they deem me fit to leave and recover at home.
Home. With a stranger. Without myself for protection...
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