Amnesia
White walls. Stainless white ceiling. Sunlight from a wide open window leading to a butterfly garden. A landscape painting on the far wall. Two dozen tiger lilies in a vase by her bedside.
A pink hospital name tag on her left wrist.
"Diana, you're awake." A brown-haired man in glasses stood up from the sofa across the room. She heard sounds of hurrying footsteps from outside. A blonde girl and a tall stocky man in a doctor's white coat peeked in through the door.
"Heya Wondy," the blonde greeted cheerfully. "So glad to see you're okay. You won't believe how much of a pain the brooding bat has been since he found you and you wouldn't wake up from–"
"I'm sorry, who? Who are you?"
Silence. They all looked at her, stunned.
"You really don't know us at all?" asked Blondie.
"No, sorry."
After a protracted awkward moment, Mr. Glasses gave the introductions. "I'm Clark Kent. This is Laurel Lance, and John Jones. We're your friends."
"What happened to me?"
John walked towards her and sat beside her on the bed. He examined her face for a long while. Although he didn't move at all, she felt like he was probing her.
"Amnesia," John finally said. "Selective amnesia. From the accident, most likely. You seem to have no memory of recent events." He turned to the other two, and she had a strange suspicion that they were discussing her. Mentally, without words. But that was absurd.
Clark turned to her and asked, "What do you remember?"
"My name is Diana Prince. I have a double-major of architecture and literature from NYU and I am currently employed as an assistant curator at the Metropolis Museum of National History. I like books and owls."
Clark scratched the back of his head. "Sounds about right. Do you remember anything since you moved to Metropolis?"
"I remember moving to Metropolis a month ago."
"You moved here two years ago."
"I see." She thought about it. "Do I still work for the Museum?"
"Yes, you do." Clark answered. He seemed to be the leader. "Well, let's figure this out. Your body is pretty much healed, and has been for some time. There are no problems other than the memory loss. We just need to get your papers in order and you can go home tomorrow."
The next morning, she woke up to see a man changing the flowers on her bedside vase.
"Clark?" she asked.
"Sorry, it's Bruce." A tall man, about several years older than Clark. Dark hair with a hint of gray. Handsome face. Vaguely familiar. For a brief moment as he stood against the light, she had thought he was wearing a black cowl. Something must be really wrong with her memory.
"How are you, Diana?" he asked in concern.
"I'm okay, I think. As well as can be expected."
He handed her a change of clothes and urged her to get ready. When she came out of the bathroom, freshly changed into her own civilian clothing, he had her discharge papers in one hand and her small duffel slung over his shoulder.
The drive home was uneventful. Not to mention awkward. Bruce barely talked, and she had no idea how to break the ice. His face had an expression so black she was afraid he would bite her if she dared say anything. He seemed to know where she lived, so she figured it was safe to assume they were friends too.
First order of business after getting home, since her so-called friends had refused to tell her anything of value, was to find answers. Naturally, the best place for such answers lay within the collective well of knowledge of the entire human race, otherwise known as the world wide web. She opened her laptop and started clicking.
She was dismayed when she discovered her lack of social media accounts. Maybe she had a different alias online that she just couldn't remember?
She typed her own name into the Google search bar, because only ad-supported fictional TV policemen used Bing. Apparently, she shared a name with an Israeli actress who recently shot to fame for starring in a blockbuster Hollywood superhero movie, so most of the articles she found were not about her. However she did find her old NYU essays on medieval architecture floating online.
When she first woke up from her coma she remembered a strong burning sensation, especially on her arms, so she searched for news on nearby accidents involving fire. A headline caught her eye, Wonder Woman Saves Earth From Cataclysm. A few months ago Wonder Woman deflected a large asteroid from colliding with earth and has not been heard from since. She felt a little sad at that, but it was hardly relevant to her own predicament.
After more searching she came upon an article on a car accident on the outskirts of Coastal city. The car had a Metropolis plate, and the unnamed woman driver survived but was comatose. A month ago. All the circumstances fit.
Well, that was that. Next, who were her friends?
Clark Kent, semi-famous reporter/photographer from the Daily Planet. Laurel Lance, a lawyer from Star City currently on assignment in Metropolis. John Jones was such a common name she had no hope of finding anything useful without other keywords. She didn't get Bruce's last name. Just on a hunch, she tried searching anyway. Bruce Lee, Bruce Willis, and… Bruce Wayne. Bingo. No wonder the face was familiar. Wayne Financial set up a Metropolis branch several years ago and he had been going back and forth between here and Gotham on a regular basis.
Why was she friends with a multi-billionaire playboy? And, apparently, they were close enough friends for him to drive her home himself from the hospital?
Unfortunately for her, those answers did not exist online.
She had been given a clean bill of health, and there was nothing else for her to do but to resume her regular life. Despite having no memory of the past two years, she had no trouble returning to work. Everything she needed to know as a curator she had already learned, and she could always read up if she needed knowledge on recent events.
Several days after she had settled into comfortable routine, she had a visitor. Mr. Scary seemed to be in a much better mood that day than when they last met. She greeted him, "Good afternoon, Mr. Wayne. What can I do for you today?"
He acknowledged her use of his last name. "You remember?"
She shook her head. "No. I just found you on the Internet. I never did get to ask, how do we know each other anyway?"
"We met at a party, and you were the most beautiful woman there."
"Am I your girlfriend?"
"I wish. No, you litera—" he caught himself, "quite spectacularly dumped me on my ass. We've been 'just friends' ever since." With emphasis on 'just friends'.
"I see." That explanation sounded a bit too convenient, but she decided to take it at face value.
He had just passed by to inquire about how she was doing. He waited until she could sign off for the day, and he drove her home. He didn't come in when she invited him for coffee. She felt uneasy as she watched him drive away.
For the succeeding weeks he would make it a habit to visit her at the museum every other day or so. He was one of the museum's biggest patrons, so her colleagues did not find his visits suspicious. He stayed only for a few minutes, literally just to ask her how she was doing, and then scoot off after she said she was fine. She couldn't figure out why he didn't just text her instead, as he certainly had her number. Her days always seemed brighter after seeing him, however, so she wasn't complaining.
On Sundays he had more time to spare, and they would have brunch at the museum cafe. They discussed only two things: if she has started to remember anything (unfortunately nothing), or dinosaurs. He seemed to have a fixation for dinosaurs. He was particularly fond of the life-size Tyrannosaurus skeleton displayed in the main museum hall.
Once it was Clark who visited. Sometimes she saw Laurie. Diana only got one day off a week, so they went clothes shopping on a Saturday. When she checked her bank balance, she had to keep her jaw from dropping at the number of digits in her account.
The next day, during her regular brunch with Bruce, she decided to be blunt with him.
"Am I your kept woman?"
His coffee went down the wrong pipe. After his hacking subsided, he exclaimed, "What the hell?"
"I get an obscene salary yet I'm required to put in only three hours of work every day. I figure you had something to do with that. I also found my hooker costume."
"Hooker costume?"
"The gold-and-red greek armor bikini thing with the eagle breastplate in my closet. Looks really expensive too. It's a Wonder Woman replica, isn't it? You have a roleplay fetish?"
"Diana, whatever it is that gave you amnesia really did a number on your head. Maybe we ought to schedule you to see John again? He's a very competent psychologist."
"So I'm not your hooker?"
"No. You're not a hooker. That's illegal. You're an assistant curator. No more, no less."
"That doesn't explain my salary."
He sighed, realizing she would not let the discussion go until he came up with an answer that satisfied her. "Until recently you worked on several sensitive projects for me. You are getting hazard pay. For your own sake I'm not telling you any more until you get your memory back."
One day, a couple of kids went over the barrier and toppled over the Tyrannosaurus skeleton.
"Watch out!" she shouted. She barely made it in time to catch the giant femur before it fell on one of the youngsters. The rest of the bones scattered across the floor. Luckily it was a slow day. Not many people were around and no one was hurt.
"Gosh," they said, faces awash in awe. "You're really strong, miss."
"Not really," she replied as she gently put the femur down. "This is quite light. It feels like it's made of foam." She was quite surprised at that, because it was pretty much unheard of for a museum to use foam skeletons in their formal exhibits.
Naturally, she had to spend the rest of the day putting it back together. It took her until almost midnight to finish.
She locked the museum entrance behind her and started walking. She had already missed the last train and had no choice but to hotfoot it home. She disliked walking home that late because her path took her past the seedier part of town.
Just as she feared, several blocks from the museum she found herself being followed. "Hi," said the man in the hoodie. He walked too close to her, and goaded her into an alley.
He brought out a large knife and threatened her with it. "Want your purse, miss."
"I don't think so." As if by instinct, her arm quickly shot out towards the knife. She grabbed the blade and it snapped in half.
"Holey—!" Fear. Suddenly he was in fear. "Are you some kind of monster or something?!" He didn't stay to find out. He dropped the broken knife handle and ran for his life.
"Diana!" Bruce was running towards her from across the street. Briefly, an image flashed in her mind of a cowl and a billowing black cape behind him. But no, he was just Bruce. He took her hands when he reached her. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine," she replied. To her consternation, she found herself shaking from the encounter.
"You shouldn't be walking out alone this late."
She nodded. She was so glad to see him that it didn't occur to her to wonder what he was doing there in the middle of the night. He picked up her fallen purse and hung it on his arm. He started to lead her away from the alley. Suddenly she had a wild idea.
She punched him. Bewilderment flashed across his countenance, but he managed to block her. He dodged her subsequent left hook to his head. She crouched in a boxer's stance, the motion coming to her so naturally, and jabbed a few more times. He weaved, avoiding her every hit. As if they had sparred together countless times before. Again she saw him in the cowl, and muscle memory took over.
Her fist connected with his stomach, hard. To her surprise, instead of doubling over, he flew backwards several meters until his back slammed onto the building wall. She was so shocked at what she had done that her fists immediately unclenched and she took a half-step backwards. She blinked, and suddenly he was nowhere to be seen.
Strong arms encircled her upper body, and the next thing she saw was the ground coming up towards her face.
"Are you back, Princess?"
"What princess? Oww," she whined as he pushed her down on the ground. He twisted her arm tentatively. Finding no resistance, he let her go.
"Not yet," he said under his breath in answer to his own question. "Or it would be me on the floor." He helped her stand up.
Diana had to ask, "Did those sensitive projects I worked on for you happen to involve physical combat?"
He hesitated before answering. "Yes."
"That actually explains a lot." She rubbed her arm where he had twisted it while he dusted himself off.
He walked her home.
He kept asking if she was alright, made certain she was fine, and then he bid her goodnight.
As he turned to go out the door, the overwhelming feeling that something was off kept nagging at the back of her mind. And it had to do with the sight of his back towards her.
She grabbed his wrist. He looked at her quizzically. He shook his arm in an attempt to get away, but her grip was iron.
"You don't leave," she said, her voice breaking.
He asked, "What do you mean?"
"You take me home, sometimes we have dinner or just talk, but… you don't leave."
She looked into his eyes, two coal-black pits into nothingness. She remembered falling, headfirst, willingly, deep into that endless abyss oh so long ago.
And he knew, that she had finally recognized him.
In one move he stepped forward and claimed her mouth. She gasped but didn't resist. He twined his fingers into her hair, pulling her closer, drinking her in as if she was life itself. She forgot to breathe.
"Diana, Diana," he murmured reverently, "I've missed you."
She responded to him instinctively, as her body remembered what her mind did not. Each glance, each touch, each synchronized movement was heartbreakingly familiar.
Much later, when her breathing had normalized, she told him, "I don't remember giving you permission to do that. In fact, I remember not giving you permission, on pain of broken bones. Way to take advantage of my weakness."
He chuckled, "Worth it. What else do you remember?"
She thought about it. "Laurie doing escrima, and Clark flying up in space. John is… green. I keep seeing you in a black cowl."
"Should I wear it next time?"
"Hmm. Maybe. It seems like this is what jogs my memory most effectively."
"You should report to the League soon. Everyone is worried about you." The thing about an international space-based headquarters is that they had no concept of 'timezones' and 'office hours'. Members were active around the clock, and in fact, Clark was on duty at that very moment. Bruce complained, "Ah, but I'm enjoying your company too much right now." He had been without her for months and was loathe to lose her to the League just yet.
She lightly traced her fingers on his chest, in the jagged outline of a symbol she remembered that he often wore. "Don't you think we should keep working at my memory first? Some things are still fuzzy to me."
"By all means," he agreed.
