Sam rolled over in bed, pain wracking his body. He opened his eyes and looked around. Hurting, aching all over, unsure of where he was.

A woman was sitting at his bed-side. She smiled gently at him. He recognised her. He knew they were married. His head hurt and he struggled to think.

‘Hello, you. How are you feeling?’ she asked. 

She handed him a glass of water and some pills. As Sam took the pills, his wife explained about the operation.

‘It was a very serious procedure. The doctors say your memory should return, but it could take months. They say you need to relax, stress is no good for you.’

‘I don’t really remember anything really. It’s all kind of mushed up in my head.’ Sam said.

‘You remember me, don’t you?’

‘Yes, of course.’ he said. 

An image came to him, the two of them on holiday, in the sunshine. Stella, his wife. 

‘And our wedding day?’ She asked.

He thought for a moment, the images coming to mind.

‘Yes, on the day we picked, England were playing in the World Cup and a lot of people cancelled so they could watch the match.’ Sam said. 

‘That’s right. We weren’t bothered, it only mattered that we were there.’

She leaned in and pecked him on the cheek. He recognised her familiar scent of her perfume, but the name and the brand escaped him. He smiled at the thoughts of his wedding day as they came to him. 

‘I had chocolate fudge cake, everyone else had apple pie.’ He said.

‘Yes, as you don’t like apple pie, you had the fudge cake. It was our day, after all. The groom gets what he wants.’ 

He nodded, of course. He didn’t like apple pie. That was it. Apple pie and custard, he shivered at the thought. Horrible stuff. Give me chocolate fudge cake any day, he thought. 

Over the next few days Stella spent all her days looking after him and tending to him. She would bring him cups of tea and glasses of water, would make sure he took his pills, would prepare some lovely food. You couldn’t beat proper home cooked food. Stella managed to rustle up some of his favourite dishes. With Stella taking care of him it wouldn’t be long before Sam was up and about. But, what about her job? He was sure she had a job in an office.

‘Shouldn’t you be at work? You won’t get into trouble with them, will you?’ he asked. 

‘I’ve explained to the office that I’ll be off for the next few weeks, compassionate leave. I need to look after my husband. They were fine about it all. Take as long as you need, they said. I still manage to do bits on the laptop.’

As the days went by, memories came to Sam, almost like a day-dream. He would see snap-shots, almost like scrolling through the camera roll on his mobile phone. Images, two or three seconds of life before his operation. Most of the images were of his relationship with Stella, places they had visited, family Christmases and parties. 

As time went on the flashbacks became more varied. In some of the memories they were clearly arguing, bickering, annoyed with each other. Stella would be red in the face, arms gesturing as she made her point. In some memories that came to him, he couldn’t quite make out what was being said, but they were rowing, anger and frustration on their faces, Stella storming from the living room, slamming the door behind her. 

Sam tried not to make too much of the negative memories. Every couple argued, didn’t they? That was natural. He told himself not to make too much of the less positive flashbacks, and did not raise the subject with Stella. It would be cruel and ungrateful if, while she was tending to him, he were to ask, do we argue, are we one of those couples who fight all the time? He simply put it to the back of his mind and tried to concentrate on his recovery. 

A few days later another memory came to him. They are cooking in the kitchen, talking. As the memory is being played out, he can’t hear what is being said. In keeping with the tone of the recent memories, they seem to be arguing. Then Stella turned, anger in her eyes and swung the pan from the stove, flinging the pan at him. Sam raised his arms to protect himself, catching the hot oil on his arms.

Sam sat up in bed, his heart pounding at the memory. Had that really happened to him? He pulled back his pyjama sleeve. Sure enough, there was burn marks all down his arm.

At that moment Stella entered the bedroom with a cup of tea. He forced a smile on his face and tugged his sleeve down.

It was one thing if he and Stella hadn’t had a perfect marriage, who did? But what if their less than perfect marriage had been an abusive one?

He made a decided effort to get himself well. Once he was up on his feet, he could make a better assessment. And if it turned out he had been the victim of domestic abuse, then he would get the help he needed, and make sure Stella was held accountable. 

He would just be a bit more mindful of things, be conscious that all may not be well in their marriage. 

The next time Stella gave him the pills, he made a point of not swallowing the medicine, then spitting them out moments later when he went to the bathroom. 

A few weeks later, having rested and recovered, Sam was strong enough to get out of bed. Wearing his pyjamas, dressing gown and slippers, he managed to shuffle around the house. He was still in pain and discomfort but not quite the awful agony he had been in when he had started his recovery. Rather than being confined to bed and the bedroom, he would get up in the mornings and read and watch television. He would also join Stella at the dining table for their evening meal. 

One evening, Stella announced that their meal was ready. Sam hobbled over to the table. He thanked her for cooking and looked at the plate of food on offer. As soon as he saw the chicken wings and salad something occurred to him. Another recollection. 

‘I don’t think I’m a fan of meat on the bone, am I? I’m not sure if that’s something I’ve always-’

The words dried up in his throat as he noticed Stella glaring at him.

‘This again?! I cook a lovely meal and you complain! It isn’t easy all this.’ Stella said.

‘Take it easy, it’s fine. I’m just saying. I am still trying to recall what I like, that’s all. It’s fine.’

Screaming and ranting about his ingratitude, she hurled her cutlery across the table at him. Sam was shocked that things had escalated so quickly. He got to his feet. 

As he stumbled back away from her, Stella grabbled the sauce bottles from the table and threw them at him. Sam managed to duck as a ketchup bottle sailed past his head and smashed against the wall behind him, sending red sauce splattering up the wall. .

Moving as quickly as he could he, left the room, and stumbled into the hallway. As he staggered along the hallway, another memory came to him. He was walking down the street. There was a speeding car. The car headed straight towards him, he could see Stella behind the wheel, the car ploughing him to the ground. Having mowed him down, Stella got out and stood over him. 

Sam was shocked. It was Stella. She had run him over. She had done this to him. Suddenly everything was clear, and made sense. It was all there. All the memories were back. He had told Stella he was leaving, wouldn’t take any more of her abuse.

And she had driven her car at him, in retaliation.

There had been no operation, no hospital. She had dragged him back inside and when he had come round, she had concocted a story about an operation. The reason he was in pain was because of the incident. 

He shuffled down the hallway to the front door. He had to get out, had to escape. He had to get away from Stella. 

He reached out for the door-handle. He swore. The door was locked. He heard footsteps behind him. He turned to see Stella walking towards him, rage in her eyes.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ She snarled. 

‘I remember everything. You tried to kill me. You ran me over.’

‘You can’t just leave, Sammy. We made a vow to each other.’ 

‘Let me go, Stella. Just open the door and I’ll go. That’ll be it.’

Stella shook her head. It was then he noticed the cricket bat in her hand. 

Sam woke up and groaned. His whole body hurt. He looked around. He recognised the room he was in. A woman was sitting by his bedside. She smiled at him. Sam knew she was his wife. He smiled back.

‘Hello, you.’ she said. ‘How are you feeling? I bet you don’t even remember having the operation, do you?’

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom