Broken and Awake

I wake up to beeping.

At first I think it’s a dream—some annoying alarm I forgot to turn off—but then the sound sharpens, steady and unforgiving, and pain rolls through me like I’ve been hit all over again. My body feels heavy, wrong, like it doesn’t belong to me.

My eyes flutter open. White ceiling. Too bright. Too clean.

Hospital.

The word lands slow, sinking into me as I try to move and immediately regret it. Everything hurts. Not one specific place—just everywhere. My head throbs. My chest feels tight. Even breathing feels like work.

“Jay?” a voice says, close and trembling.

I turn my head a fraction and see my mum first. Her eyes are red and swollen, her face drawn tight like she’s been holding herself together with pure will. One of her hands is clutching mine, like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she lets go.

Next to her is Lily.

Her mascara is smudged. She looks wrecked. Guilty.

“Hey,” I croak. My throat feels dry, scraped raw. “Why does it feel like I got hit by a truck?”

Lily lets out a broken laugh that turns into a sob almost immediately. My mum presses a hand over her mouth, tears spilling freely now, no attempt to stop them.

My stomach twists.

“What happened?” I ask.

They look at each other.

“You were attacked,” my mum says finally, her voice shaking so hard it barely holds together. “Outside a party. Someone found you and called an ambulance.”

Attacked.

The word doesn’t connect to anything. I wait for memories to rush back—faces, fists, fear—but there’s nothing. Just blank space where a night should be.

“By who?” I ask.

Lily shakes her head, fast and helpless. “I don’t know. I swear, Jay, I don’t know. I left for five minutes—five—and when I came back you were gone. I thought you’d gone home.” Her voice cracks. “I shouldn’t have left you alone.”

“It’s not your fault,” I say automatically, even though my chest tightens when she says it out loud. Left alone. Again.

“You’ve been unconscious for four days,” my mum whispers.

Four days.

I blink at her. The room feels like it tilts.

“Four?” I repeat.

She nods, tears dropping onto the blanket. “I thought… I thought I was going to lose you.”

She breaks then, really breaks, shoulders shaking as she presses her forehead against my hand. I don’t know how to comfort her when I barely feel real myself, but I squeeze her fingers as best I can.

My head aches. My body aches. There’s a hollow space inside me where something important is missing, and I don’t know if that scares me more than the pain.

Someone hurt me.

And I don’t remember a single second of it.

A knock sounds at the door before it opens, and a man in a white coat steps in, tablet tucked under his arm. He smiles gently, the kind doctors use when they know the room is already heavy.

“Jay,” he says. “Good to see you awake.”

My mum wipes her face quickly, like she’s embarrassed to be caught crying, but she doesn’t let go of my hand. Lily straightens, eyes locked on the doctor like he’s about to deliver a verdict.

“What’s wrong with him?” my mum asks immediately.

The doctor glances at me. “I’ll explain, but I’d like to hear from you first. Jay—do you know where you are?”

“In a hospital,” I say. My voice sounds thin to my own ears.

“Good. Do you know what day it is?”

I hesitate. “January… second?”

Lily inhales sharply.

“It’s the fifth,” the doctor says gently. “But that’s okay. You’ve been unconscious for several days.”

He steps closer, scrolling through his tablet. “You have a fractured left arm—clean break. It’s been set, and you’re in a cast. You also suffered a mild head injury. A concussion.”

My head pulses like it wants to argue.

“That explains the pain,” he continues. “And the memory loss.”

I stiffen. “Memory loss?”

“Yes,” he says. “You remember who you are. Your life. Your family. That’s good. But it’s common in cases like yours to lose memory of the traumatic event itself.”

“So I won’t remember…?” I trail off.

“The attack,” he finishes for me. “You may never remember it. Or you might—later. There’s no way to predict that.”

My stomach drops, a strange mix of relief and fear twisting together.

“Is that permanent?” my mum asks, panic creeping back into her voice.

“Not necessarily,” the doctor says. “What matters right now is recovery. Physically, you’ll heal. The arm will take about six to eight weeks. The concussion means rest—no stress, no strain.”

He pauses, choosing his words carefully. I notice that.

“I strongly recommend therapy,” he adds. “What you went through was traumatic, even if you don’t consciously remember it. The body remembers. The mind reacts.”

I swallow. “So… I’m not crazy. If I feel weird.”

“Not at all,” he says firmly. “Nightmares, anxiety, confusion—those are normal responses. Therapy will help you process what your brain is protecting you from.”

Protecting me.

That’s one way to put it.

The doctor gives a final nod, tells my mum a nurse will be in shortly, and leaves us alone again. The room feels quieter without him, like something important just passed through and took answers with it.

I stare at the ceiling, at the lights I don’t recognize, at the future I apparently slept through.

Someone hurt me badly enough to put me here.

My body knows it. Everyone else knows it.

I’m the only one who doesn’t.

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***