She opens her eyes. Instantly she is met with a brilliant glow streaming through the window. The sunlight glides across the hardwood floor and up over the mattress in elongated ribbons of radiance.
The bed is big, the comforter an oppressive weight against her chest. She thinks she must have fallen asleep in her mother's bed last night. She blinks, and with a cursory glance at the crème walls realizes that she isn't in Serena's bedroom. Confused and groggy, she makes to turn toward her mother, stopping short when she is met with the unfamiliar face of a man, well built and sleeping soundly, lying in bed next to her.
Her first thought is that she's fucked a stranger. That wouldn't be anything particularly remarkable, but as a disgruntled sigh passes through her lips, her eyes are drawn to the fingers of his left hand, where the glint from his wedding ring catches the bright sunlight. She flops back down onto the mattress with a soft groan and throws an arm over her forehead, covering her eyes, angry with herself. She's fucked a married man.
After a moment of bathing in the sunlight and her disappointment, she folds the comforter back carefully, not wanting to wake him, and slips out of the bed. Her clothes aren't in the bedroom, and although she's always been comfortable with her nakedness, a flush tinges her cheeks as her imagination conjures up images of frantic up-against-the-wall desperation. In the kitchen, she fills up a glass of water and takes it with her to the bathroom, sipping at it absently. She sets the glass down on the edge of the sink. She uses the toilet and cleans up a little, picks up her glass, before turning to look in the mirror.
The stranger reflected in the glass stares back at her in shock. Time stops. Her heartbeat is a pounding tidal wave in her ears, and her throat shuts tight, preventing her from drawing breath.
The goblet slips from her stunned fingers with a whoosh, hitting the floor and shattering into thousands of crystallized shards with an enormous ringing noise that echoes far longer that the initial clatter.
She barely notices it, her eyes fixed on her image in the mirror. The stranger, she realizes, is an altered version of her younger self. But what has happened to her? There are tiny crinkles beside her eyes where yesterday lay unblemished skin. Small pockets under her eyelids. Day old concealer is applied, but she's never before had a reason to use it, never had anything to hide. Her hair is shorter; a lighter brown intermixed with shades of caramel around her shoulders. Looking down she sees that her body is older, too, her stomach no longer the perfectly tight smoothness it was only hours ago, her breasts heavier.
With a choked gasp her hands fly to her face, pushing and prodding at the looser skin she finds there. Her breathing is heavy, her heart pounds in her throat, and in her mind exists an orchestra of sounds so loud that she can barely think. Her thoughts are screaming at her and yet she cannot make sense of any of them. Yesterday she was only twenty-three years old!
Footsteps behind her, and then "Olivia? Are you alright?"
Stunned into silence, she can only turn around to face this stranger, and let her fear speak for itself. Her hands remain presses tightly over her mouth. The man in front of her is naked too, and he walks toward her tentatively, his hands held up in front of him. "It's okay. You're alright," he says, understanding and recognition filling his eyes. He walks toward her and wraps his arms around her warmly, pulling her to him.
"W-what's happening to me?" she whispers, her back quivering with her ragged breathing. "Who are you?"
"It's me," he says. "Elliot." he speaks soothingly, his tone comforting, his hand travelling the contours of her back. "We've been married a long time."
She lets out a sob, pushing back. "No! No, I don't know you. I don't know you!" Her eyes well with tears and the wetness spills over, her confusion and fear too much for her to handle.
"Shhhh, darling, it's alright. Let me explain." He moves toward her again, but she shies away from his unfamiliar touch, backing into the sink and tipping over the cup holding the toothbrushes and toothpaste. She is not who she was when she went to bed last night. She can't remember even going to bed last night. She is trapped in this body, this older body that isn't hers, trapped in a world she doesn't recognize. Stuck in a place that is paralysing unfamiliar. Elliot holds out his hand to her, coaxing her from her cowering position. "Come. Let's go in the living room. I promise you you're safe, Liv."
Reluctantly she takes it, because she isn't sure of anything and she is terrified of being by herself. He seems to know what is happening to her, and he seems controlled. She realizes that part of her automatically trusts him. Some subconscious part of her mind already trusts this stranger man she woke up with this morning. She tiptoes over the glass, wincing, and he takes her hand in his. His hand is big, warm, and calloused. His arms are sparsely covered in dark hair, and she can see the bulge of muscle beneath them. She is too confused to care that she is staring.
Elliot steps quickly back into the bedroom, grabbing a silk robe from a chair in the corner. "Here," he says, handing it to her. As she slips into it he pulls on a pair of loose sweats.
In the living room, he sits her down on the couch, and sits down beside her.
"I…I don't know what happened – I – who..." She begins, too many questions floating around in her head for her to make sense of them.
"Hey," he whispers, putting a hand on her knee. "Calm down." He shifts closer, talking directly to her. "I'm going to tell you what's going on, but I need you to be calm first." He rubs his hand over her thigh in a soothing circular motion. Somehow already attunted to his touch, she can feel her heartbeat slowing the slightest bit in her chest.
"Okay," she breathes, closing her eyes.
He watches her, makes sure that she's stable, before starting.
"Olivia, you have problems with your memory. Trouble remembering things." He clears his throat. "Some days, you wake up and you have no memory at all, thinking you are a teenager, or a child, even." His voice becomes thick, and he breathes in and out a few times, before continuing, his voice rougher. "I know you don't remember me. I know that I'm a stranger to you," he says, quietly, sadly. "But it's okay. I understand," he assures her, albeit unconvincingly due to the pain audible in his voice. "I'm your husband. We've been married eleven years."
The overload of information clenches her heart.
"I don't -," she begins, panicking.
He slides his hand soothingly up her back. "It's okay. I know. I know."
"How did I get to be like this?" She whispers, her breathing accelerating and the wetness accumulating in the corners of her eyes. She tries, tries as hard as she can, to push past the blankness in her mind.
He moves even closer, pulling her gently about the shoulders so that she leans into his side, her head bumping his shoulder.
"Olivia…" he whispers.
"Tell me!" she insists, searching desperately for answers, the fear bubbling up her throat again. "Tell me. Please."
He presses his lips to her forehead, trying to relax her.
"Five years ago...you had an accident," he states, his voice tight with pain. "A horrible, horrible accident."