Come Back to Me

by Trilina Pucci

  Come Back to Me

  2017 © Trilina Pucci LLC

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including by photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system without written permission from the author, except for inclusions or brief quotations in a review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover by Okay Creations

  Formatting by Champagne Book Design

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  I cried today, for a million reasons and for no reason. I feel an overwhelming sadness and anger that won’t go away. It never really goes away, perpetually trapped underneath a veil of humor and a bubbly facade.

  I just want to sleep, for hours, days, weeks. I need for everything in my head to stop spinning so I can start living my life again, or pretend to in a more convincing way.

  I always feel disconnected, alone, like I’m not truly present or actually part of the situations unfolding around me. I know it’s happening around me, to me, but it’s like I am an unaffected bystander viewing the carnage of my existence and occasionally feel sorry for the heroine.

  Is that what I am? A heroine? I know I want to live, so that’s one silver lining in this mess, but I can’t help sensing something else, something more… this can’t be it. Where I am now cannot be where I truly belong. It is simply where I keep finding myself since everything fell apart last year, the place where I am waiting for my whole life to start.

  My head is filled with a thousand thoughts. I need some fresh air. I need to walk, no, run. I change into my running clothes and throw on my sneakers. I pull my hair back into a familiar ponytail. I’ve never been all that creative when it comes to my looks; my hair is long and chocolate, with a natural wave to it that gives it a sexy bed-head look—or at least that’s what my roommate and best friend always tells me. In fact, she’s usually the one telling me how lucky I am to look the way I do, but frankly I’ve always considered myself plain. Cute enough, but ordinary, not anything special.

  I’ve been seeing a guy from my psych class, and this morning I saw him leaving the apartment downstairs! Of all the nerve, cheating on me in my own building. The rub is that I don’t even really care about him. I agreed to date him only to attempt a feeling of normalcy. Now I’m offended that he’s gone and shit all over our fake relationship, so I’ll have to find a new, warm body to pretend with. I stop for a minute, letting the ‘crazy’ of that thought sink in… sooner or later I will need to have a session about this, but right now, I just need to run.

  The minute I hit the streets, I feel better. The faster I run, the faster I shed the frustration from earlier, and the stronger my resolve grows to never entertain another dick again. Being outside in the city makes me feel alive, like I can feel the urban vibrations, energized by its hum. I thrive on it, feed on it, I love this feeling. I manage to work up a good sweat but when I glance at my watch, I see I’m going to be late for dinner with my girls if I don’t hustle back to get showered.

  I usually stick to the open areas. I like zigzagging around people, it adds excitement to the run, but today I cut down a side street that opens to my block.

  I feel it before I see it. The stinging sensation takes over my body and my vision blurs. It’s like everything is moving in slow motion and I can feel myself lose control of my body as it falls to the hard, cold, ground. I hear muffled voices around me and feel tugging at my arms. It takes what feels like forever to regain any shred of consciousness, and when I open my eyes, my head instantly throbs. Have I been hit with a shovel? My eyes are still blurry, and sweat runs down my face. As I wipe it away, I see blood, a lot of it. Is that my blood?

  Shit! I HAVE been hit in the head.

  I reach for the running bag I wear around my waist and realize it’s gone, along with my watch, and jewelry. As if to add insult to injury, so are my shoes… Assholes! I manage to rise to my feet, only to swoon and sit back down again. As I sit there holding my head, here come two headlights, shining right on me. The car screeches to a halt, or maybe that’s me, screaming. I can’t be sure. The driver comes out of nowhere and starts asking me questions while trying to push something onto my head. Then someone else gets out of the car and yells to the driver, who answers hurriedly while keeping pressure on my head.

  I seeing that passenger’s face when he steps out of the rear car door. There’s something about his face.

  “Three days! Three days! Why hasn’t she woken up? You seemed to be paid a lot of money to not know anything at all!” It takes no effort to recognize the hysteria in my mother’s voice. She is usually hysterical about something or another, but when it comes to me, who can blame her… it’s only been a year since I tried to swallow a bottle of pills. I wanted the memories to go away, the feeling of his breath on my neck and his vile threats to leave my mind. I’ve caused her so much anguish already, so much pain, and I am filled with regret for that. Now here I am, in trouble again. My mother loves me. I am determined to get myself right, because she does.

  “Calm yourself, Grace. It won’t do Mia any good if you are admitted to the hospital too.”

  Richard holds my mother tight and tries to comfort her. He is an ideal third husband—attentive, caring, and very, very wealthy. My mother met Richard while married to her second husband, the cheater, which was a much better option than her first husband, the beater. Richard was the attorney who handled her divorce; not the most romantic meet-cute, but a perfect match for her, someone who knows all her demons and had his eyes wide open. I guess that’s the best definition of true love, if it actually exists?

  I open my eyes to take in the scene unfolding in front of me—my mother’s hands waving frantically about, Richard trying to calm her, and what appears to be doctor looking fairly exasperated. “Mom,” I say, feeling the rasp in my throat from not speaking for who knows how long.

  “Mom, I’m awake, stop yelling at the doctor.”

  “Oh my God, she’s awake, you’re awake! My precious girl! Oh, Mia!” she sobs these words while rushing to my bed.

  “Ugh, mom… sore!”

  “Oh baby, I’m sorry.” She quickly releases her grip and gently takes my hand. Her tears and my confusion are interrupted by the man in the pristine white coat.

  “Miss West, you’ve experienced an acute head trauma. There was some swelling, but we were able to stop the bleeding and repair the damage. Internally, everything checks out okay and your scans show all the swelling in your brain has gone down. You are very lucky to be sitting here with just a few stitches.

  As he says this, I instinctively run my hand over the bandage positioned directly above my left eyebrow, and wince in pain.

  “How do you feel, dearest?” Richard asks.

  “Groggy and confused. What
happened? The last thing I remember is deciding to take a shortcut back home.”

  “The police believe you were mugged. You were hit in the head with a lead pipe, of all things. I swear, Mia, I do not understand why you don’t move into a nicer neighborhood instead of living among animals!”

  Here we go… “Mom, can we discuss the ways in which I disappoint you later? Right now I would like to focus on my head wound and figure out how I got here!” My tone is a bit more clipped than I wanted, but I get tired of the same conversation over and over. I know I’ve put her through hell this last year and she just wants to protect me, but completely taking over every aspect of my life isn’t acceptable. I need to maintain some form of independence from my family’s money. Despite the benefit of affluence behind me, I have always been independent, even from a young age.

  My father died when I was ten, but even before that I never really had a relationship with him.

  My parents enjoyed a privileged lifestyle, developed for and indulged by the ultra-wealthy. Despite creature comforts and the means to purchase distractions, they lived separate lives and only came together when the occasion called for them to step out as a couple, at galas and other social events. Before he left, I remember him being a bastard, the kind of man who drank in private and liked to take the disappointments of his day out on his wife. Mom kept her polish, even through all the turmoil. She was always proud that nobody ever saw her bruises. I never understood that. What good is hiding them if you can still feel them?

  “Mia, I’m sorry, love. I just want to keep you safe. You are my baby, after all.” Her look reminds me that she means well and I soften to her.

  “I know, mom, I know. I’m just freaked out that I don’t remember being brought to the hospital.” I force a lame smile, even though it hurts like hell to move my face.

  “We will keep you overnight for observation, Mia, but if all checks out, I will be happy to release you tomorrow.” The doc’s caring eyes smile with sincerity. “Any memory loss is a result of the head trauma, typically some memories are retrieved, but you may never recall the event.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Singh,” Richard and my mother nod in agreement.

  “Let’s keep this visit brief and allow Mia to rest. If you need anything, please let the nurses know.” With that, the good doc leaves and Richard follows him into the hall, I assume to discuss any particulars he doesn’t want my mother and I to hear. This momentarily irritates me, makes me feel like a child, but I brush it off because frankly I’m in no shape for a battle about overbearing parenting! I look at my mother who has not stopped holding my hand, and I’m happy she is here.

  Suddenly, the thought strikes me… “Mom, how did you know I was in the hospital? If I was mugged and all my belongings were stolen, how did anyone know who I was?”

  The immediate anguish on her face makes me bristle.

  “It was the ER doctor who recognized you. When they brought you in, the doctor recognized you from, well, uh, from your accident last year…” Before I can utter a reaction, she continues with, “…but let’s not think about the past. I am just so grateful that I have you back safe and sound.”

  It is all I can do to focus on my breathing and avoid a full-scale panic attack. Every time I think about that night, the demons still follow me. It’s been all I can do, to try and forget. I want to forget it more than anything, but the irony of my past invading my present is threatening to fuck up my future.

  With a measured breath, I respond with, “Me too, Mom. I just wish I could remember. How did I get here? Who brought me to the hospital?” No matter how hard I try, I can’t remember.

  Then, for the briefest moment, a face. A face flashes in my mind, but instantly it’s gone.

  I know that face. It is his face. But who is he?

  I can’t hold onto the memory long enough. I don’t know who he is, but I know he saved my life.

  It’s good to be home, even with my crazy-overbearing mother calling to check on me every five minutes, and my BFF and roommate, Alex, peeking her head into my room every five seconds. “I’m fine, Alex. You can stop stalking me now.” My lips curl into a small smile.

  I can’t ever get mad at Alex. She is always there for me, loyal to a fault—the kind of friend who would help me move a dead body and never tell a soul. I love her fiercely and she knows it. She is just as unruly and outrageous as her red curly hair, but that’s her charm.

  “Sorry for hovering, but I can’t believe I wasn’t here. You could have died!”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Stop being placating, you could have and I would be friendless and alone!”

  “Well as long as we are making this about you, how was your trip?” I use her dramatics as an opportunity to change the subject.

  “Eh, not really worth the money. It was all goofy family reunion stuff, a bunch of my redneck cousins wearing camo, asking me why I want to live around so many Yankees in New York City.” She rolls her eyes and makes her way past the doorway, plopping on the floor of my room.

  “What are we watching tonight? Pretty Woman? Jersey Girl? Or another equally anti-feminist Cinderella story?”

  I laugh and roll my eyes. You have to love a girl who recognizes the hypocrisy and goes full steam ahead anyway!

  “I was thinking more along the lines of Die Hard, or Lethal Weapon. Ya know, something that requires zero thought process.” Alex smiles and pushes to her feet to change out the movies.

  It’s a gift to have a friendship that is uncomplicated and easy. Alex understands me.

  When everything went down last year, 18 months ago, she helped me cling to my sanity and I will always love her for that. She never threw my crazy in my face and most of all she never judged me. I couldn’t have invented a better friend if I tried. That’s what history with someone does, it makes them more than a friend. Alex is my sister.

  “Hey!” I called from my room. “What’s taking so long? If you don’t hurry I’ll be forced to come out in these disgusting pajamas and risk my health for that movie!”

  No answer.

  “Seriously, what’s the hold-up Alex?” I start to slowly move my legs off the side of the bed and stand, letting myself acclimate to the position. Pain is an immediate reminder of how bruised and inflamed my limbs and head are. I want to sit back down, but an uneasy feeling is growing. Why isn’t she answering me?

  Of course I’m being paranoid, overreacting because of what I’ve been through, whatever that is… I still don’t remember. As for Alex, it’s not as if she’s fallen and hit her head on the other side of the door, although the thought forces me to move forward. This mugging has affected me more than I realize.

  When I reach the door, I grab the handle just as it begins to turn with force. Startled, I jump back, and pain grips my body. “Aaaaahh!!”

  “What the hell, Mia! Get back in bed.” Alex looks at me like I’m nuts. “Why are you up? The doctor said to stay off your feet for a few days.”

  “I know, but I got freaked when you didn’t answer. I was calling and you didn’t say anything.” I try to hide my shaking hands, but know Alex can see through me.

  “No worries, babe. If I wander into an alley, feel free to worry then.” She gives a wink and walks past me to start the movie. Just like that, it’s done.

  When the movie ends, Alex is passed out and I’m hungry. An appetite makes me happy, that means my body is healing. I hate being sick—injured—same difference. I sit up slowly, mostly out of pain and also because I don’t want to wake Alex. I head toward my door, bumping into my desk chair. Dammit! That hurt, but I can’t turn on the light or I will wake her. When I reach the door, that same uneasy feeling starts to creep up my spine, making the hairs on my arm stand straight up. I brush it off, knowing that I’m still shaken from being beaten and robbed. I stand looking down at the fuzzy shadow of my hand, a bit dizzy and my eyes not quite adjusted yet.

  As I open the bedroom door, my heart starts to race and my breathing becomes
shorter and faster. Everything in my body is at full alert, screaming at me to shut the door and lock it! Damn this, I will not become some crazy old lady confined to one room because I’m too scared to walk to my own kitchen. I open the door with purpose, even though nobody is there to witness my show of courage. The great room is empty, dark and silent. I take a steadying breath and step through the doorway.

  Half-way through the living room I see it, ever so slight and almost unnoticeable. The curtains in the dining room move.

  I am frozen to my spot. My mind rushes through a thousand thoughts. How fast can I get back to the bedroom? Can I scream loud enough for the neighbors to hear? Is it just my imagination? I’m brought back into the present by the sound of the window behind those curtains closing.

  I scream.

  The first thing I see is Alex running at me and I realize I am running back towards her and the bedroom. We are both screaming at each other but somehow she understands that she needs to go the same way, retreating to safety. We both make it back to the bedroom and I scramble for my cell, then remember it’s dead. I’m suddenly thankful that mom convinced me to keep a landline, “just in case”. Alex locks the door behind us and looks to me for some kind of explanation.

  “Please, we have an intruder! Send someone, please.” I say in a rush to the 911 operator. Alex goes to my closet and flings open the doors, grabbing the bat I keep in there for this kind of occasion. She holds it up, defensively.

  As I give our address to the 911 operator, I can feel the stinging saltwater tears running down the abrasions on my face. Alex reaches one hand back and I clutch her hand, but she quickly releases my hand to hold the bat, like she means business.

  We wait an eternity, both of us silent, sucking in tiny breaths as if to give the perception that we are not there hiding behind the closed, locked door. The next sound we hear is the police banging down the apartment door and announcing their presence.

  “Thank God. We are in the bedroom!” Alex screams, dropping the bat and turning to hug me.