Spellbound

Spellbound
- by Laura -

He plunges faster and faster into the vortex, spinning dizzily, uncontrollably into oblivion. Death rises up to greet him as the spectral walls of the abyss fly by. Then, a comforting softness envelops his body. His fall is gently broken by what appears to millions of tiny cotton balls. His body comes to rest peacefully in the comfort of the soft, cool depths. The throbbing pain in his head shimmers into nothingness and a deep, black sleep replaces consciousness.

His eyes open to a dark room. Slowly he lifts his head to take in his surroundings. The ache in the back of his skull has reappeared and his movements are sluggish and uncertain. A ray of light appears at the far end of the room. After forcing his mind to concentrate, he realizes it is coming from an outer room. A woman glides in carrying a tray.

"Well, I see you've recovered." the melting voice trickles in his ears. "Can you do with something to eat?"

Speech is beyond him. All his powers are focused on maintaining his consciousness. The woman is a stranger to him. The room is a stranger.

"Are you in pain? You took a nasty hit." When she still receives no response, she continues worriedly, "I'd better call the doctor."

"No." he manages to croak. She looks at him doubtfully. Exerting himself, "I'll be fine. I just need to rest here for a few minutes."

"What's your name?" the woman asks.

"My name? My name is...." His brain strains to remember. Nothing comes to him. "Don't you know?"

"How would I know? I found you at the bottom of a ravine. The doctor says you have a concussion."

"Didn't I have any identification on me?"

"We couldn't find any." She pauses, realizing the significance of his questions. "You mean you don't know who you are? I'm going to call the doctor." she ends firmly.

"Wait!" he pushes himself up from the bed. Bolts of pain shoot through his head and he falls back in agony. She looks at him anxiously before turning towards the door.

"Please don't!" he pleads again hoarsely. He doesn't understand why it is so important that she not call anyone, but his mind tells him that he is in danger.

She studies him closely. Auburn hair tumbles around her dark, intelligent eyes, debating her next move.

"Look, I'm sure I'll be fine in a few hours, if you don't mind letting me rest for awhile." he manages to add casually through a haze of pain. "It'll come to me. Just let me rest." His lids already drift downward.

She looks on his exhausted frame and sighs. She'll give him his few hours. But that's it. She has to return tonight. She can't be delayed.

His eyes open again, this time to the muted light of the lamp on the night stand. The room is small and sparsely furnished. He turns his head towards the light and sees the redheaded woman staring at him.

"Are you feeling better now?" she asks somewhat impatiently.

"Yes...yes I am." his brain is no longer fogged by the intense pain. Only a dull ache remains.

"Good. Give me the number I can call to have someone come and get you."

"I..." he struggles to remember but his mind remains blank.

"You still don't know who you are, do you? I'm calling the doctor."

"You can't!" he shouts desperately.

"Why not?"

"It's dangerous."

"What???"

"I know I'm in danger. I don't know how I know this, but I do."

"You're going to have to do better than that. I was due back in town an hour ago."

"Please, you have to help me."

"This isn't my field."

"What do you mean?"

She studies him. Her colleagues have had patients like this; those that can't remember the details of their lives but retain the emotions of their past. He probably is in danger. Normal people don't end up in the bottom of remote ditches.

"I'm a psychologist, but I don't treat your type, although I've seen it before. The only way for you to recover is to get professional help."

"I tell you I can't. I can't remember anything about my past except that I'm in trouble. And I need your help."

"You could be a criminal."

Stunned by the suggestion, he strains his mind for some clues. Nothingness greets him again. "I guess I could be..." he adds hesitantly.

"Then again, you could be the victim of a crime." Her heart softens at his confusion.

"All I know is that if you call anyone, I'll be in danger. I don't have a right to ask you to help me, but I am. I've just lost my life and I must find it again. I feel like I'm losing a race with time, but I don't know why. You must help me find it. Please help me find it," he grits out with exhaustion.

"Discovering lost lives is not my specialty. I'm not a clinical psychologist or a psychiatrist. That's what you need." she insists.

"Please don't leave me." his mind begins to sink into oblivion as the pain increases. "I need you to help me find my life. Please don't leave me. Please...."

"He's in a lot of pain," an old woman's worried voice sounds above him somewhere.

"Roger...Roger....can you hear me?"

Slowly, Roger's pain-filled eyes flicker open. Olivia Monroe sags with relief. "What happened?" he asks groggily.

"Mules are meaner and stronger than you are. Bessy didn't like the looks of that shot you were going to give her.
She decided to get her shot in first. How's your head feel?"

"Like it's been kicked by a mule." Roger grumbled.

Mrs. Monroe smiled in relief. "He's all right boys. He'll be up in a few days and ready to take a shot at Bessy again.
Now get back to your work."

The men shuffle out.

"You had me worried, Roger. You were ranting and raving about losing your life. You scared me." Tears begin to trickle down the old woman's lined cheeks. She takes his hand in a firm grip. "Don't scare me like that again. We old folks are prone to heart failure. Now get some sleep."

Roger opens his mouth to say something, but she hushes him. "Get some sleep. I'll be right here."

His eyes drift close and his face relaxes in the most welcoming sleep he's felt in years.