windows. Too much light. It made her eyes water. The pain in
her head was ferocious, with fangs and teeth, shredding at her
throbbing brain.
This is mine. My home? No. Not home. Work? Yes, work.
What do I do? Why am I here? Why am I on the floor?
She reached for something past that, but it was like
extending a small hand around an object a thousand times the
size, touching the hard, forceful corners of it, the blunt surface,
and grasping nothing.
Her own name. She grasped for that. It came to her readily,
thank fuck. Giana. Giana Thompson. She had the vague
memory of a building. Her house? Large. It looked like a
resort. Timber on the outside. Cedar shingles. No. Her parent’s
house. Their new house. Not her childhood home. Her parents’
faces. She remembered them. Her mother, dark hair, dark eyes,
always so serious and hard. Not always. No, at one time, she
had laughed. Her father, blonde, blue eyed, tall, broad, proud,
but the shame there, in the depths of his eyes, in the depths of
his soul, of his being. Had he always looked that way? The
answer wouldn’t come.
“You hit your head.” That voice from above her, pulling her
out of the vortex of memories she was trying to conjure,
pulling her back. She didn’t want to come back. She went
anyway.
She blinked and the face focused. A sweet, heart-shaped
face. Young. Pretty. Big blue eyes. Thick lashes. Peach lips. A
faint blush on cheeks dotted with faint freckles. Brown hair
with red shot through by the insane amount of sunlight that
hurt so much.
She shut her eyes again. Tried to remember what her house