Inspired by E. Lockhart's We Were Liars

November is Tabisan month and although we're reaching the end of the month, I wanted to make something to celebrate it.

Don't forget to write me what you think :D don't be a stranger, yes?

... beep

... beep

... beep

What is that sound?

... beep

... beep

Where am I?

... beep

... beep

Why can’t I move my fingers?

... beep

What’s with these tubes all over my body?

“... she’s stable now... the scan result... shows no damage...”

“Will... remember... when she wakes up?”

“The accident... her memory... recovery... do not over-exert her...”

Damage? Accident?

Sniff.

What is this smell? Hospital?

Why would I stay in a hospital?

“Dee, can you hear me?”

Dee? Who’s Dee?

Me?

...

MY NAME is Dara Park, I’m turning 25 today.

Everyone calls me Dee. You can call me Dee too if you wish.

I’m a scrawny brunette, barely reach five feet two, who lives in one of those ostentatiously opulent and luxurious apartments downtown Manhattan with my mother and my younger brother. My great grandparents, living up to their American Dream, are the first generation of The Parks to set foot in New York back then in the 1900s and have succeeded in establishing the family name into the top 0.1% of world’s wealthiest society.

In short, we are what they call old money. I was born with silver spoon in my mouth.

Wait, don’t hate me just yet.

I graduated top of my class at NYU and earned my degree in finance. My granddad has been desperately trying to recruit me to join his company as one of their executives following the footsteps of my older cousins, but I always knew I wasn’t born to be one of those white collars, trap in tedious routines and stuck-up colleagues. So I opted to sign up for MSF instead. He almost got a heart attack when he found out they flew me out to South Sudan for a humanitarian project and had to pull some strings to get me back to the safety of his bird cage by any means necessary. We came to a mutual agreement not long after. I quit the job and he stops pestering me to work for him.

Except that I don’t actually quit. I ask them to relocate me to their quarter in NYC as their full-time staff. I have been secretly working for them eversince. I don’t want to cause a ruckus to the entire household so I tell my mom I am currently starting up my own organic food company with some friends. Well, you know, organic and health-conscious related themes are the current trending topic in the first world countries. My mom doesn’t really meddle into my business anyway. She’s too busy being one of those lavish-spender New York socialites.

Thunder, my brother, is probably the only person in the family who knows the truth. My secret stays safe with him.

My name is Dara Park, I’m turning 25 today.

Let me tell you another secret of mine.

There are two evil witches reside in my head, mercilessly splitting my brain into two with their crosscut saw at any given time. If you have no idea what a crosscut saw is, go to the nearest Home Depot and ask for a two-man saw.

Or just google it. Whatever.

How do I find out about these witches?

I can hear their devilish laughter echoes throughout my head, mocking me each time I am devastatingly in pain. I cry and beg and even pray for them to stop grinding, but they won’t listen. They make a good use of the crosscut saw for fast agressive cutting that left the object it pierced with a rough finish. It’s not until recently that I learned their no-less evil woodpecker pet is also joining forces with them making holes in my other brain parts.

Today is one of those unfortunate days when I skip work and stay caved in because of them.

My ing birthday.

I grab my meds by the bedside table, harshly tug the lid and pop a couple of white pills right into my mouth. The last doctor I see tells me those are the strongest he can prescribe. Morphines are to be administered in hospitals only. I hate hospitals.

On days like this when the pain is often beyond unbearable, being dead seems to be a much better option. If only I can shoot a bullet straight into my head. Or cut it out with a guillotine. Or perhaps euthanasia? Well, anything for a fast, unpainful way to end this horrible curse. I am cursed.

On days like this, I can only lay in my bed, waiting for the agonizing torture to finally subside. Days like this can last up to two days, once every week. Three if I’m lucky. I’ve been demoted to part-time staff. It’s a miracle I haven’t got fired yet. I guess it’s not easy to find a filthy rich part-timer for a non-profit organization who is more than willing to play a good Samaritan and donate a huge sum of money for their projects. That’s the only explanation why they still have me.

Sometimes Thunder will come up to my bedroom when he’s around, quietly climbs beside me and holds my hand until sleep catches both of us. That brother of mine knows what I’m going through although I never tell.

My mom, she keeps saying that it’s not real. That the pain is something psychological rather than a real disease. She keeps saying that I need to get a hold of myself. She wants me to think normal. She wants me to be normal,  just like any other rich and spoiled daughter. We’ve seen the best physicians in town, from neurologists to neurosurgeons, they say there’s nothing wrong with my brain. No witches nor woodpeckers and all of them come up with the same conclusion: post-traumatic headache.

My name is Dara Park. Today’s my birthday.

The truth is, I am supposed to be the modern day Mary Sue, a character that is too good to be true.

Except that I don’t remember all the events that took place during my 23rd year.

It is almost as if the period has been wiped out clean from my brain. Almost as if I have never lived my 23rd year. Almost as if time has deliberately leaped, waking me up straight from the last day of my 22nd to the first day of my 24th.

The pain doesn’t begin before that.

I don’t know what happened back then. I don’t remember. No one will tell me either. Not even Thunder, my closest confidant. The missing memory becomes an untouched subject they simply ignore as if it never exists.

Except I know it does.

As time goes by, with every pain I experience, I recall fragments, faces, places, but never the whole pictures.

...

“Hey, Dee,” a handsome face of a man greeted me with a smile as my blurred vision came into focus, “Welcome back.”

Next to him, stood my lanky brother. Relieve was evident in his eyes.

I saw my mom stood on the furthest corner of my bed, heaving a deep sigh. She fished out her phone out of her purse and stepped outside to make a call. Most probably to Granddad.

I heard the familiar rythmical beep sound from a monitor placed nearby and realized I was in a hospital.

My head hurt and I couldn’t lift my fingers. Only later I learned that the reason I couldn’t lift them was because of the casts on both of my lower arms.

An older figure in white robes and stethoscope approached, motioning a pen light to check on my pupils’ reaction.

“Hello, Miss Park. My name is Doctor Wayan, I’m your neurosurgeon,” said the man, “Now can you tell me your first name?”

My first name?

“D-dara... It’s Dara...” my voice sounded coarse and my throat felt parched. It took every ounce of energy to even speak, “... what happened?”

“Ssh, easy...” the handsome man kept me in place and offered me a glass of water. I carefully sipped from the straw and let the coolness of the clear liquid soothed me.

“You’ve had an accident,” answered the doctor calmly, “Do you remember anything about it?”

I weakly shook my head.

“That’s alright. It happens all the time,” he let out an encouraging smile, “Can you tell me where you are right now?”

“Hospital bed?”

“That’s right. Do you know what year is it?”

“2013...”

All three males in front of me seemed surprise with my answer. I saw Thunder frowned from the corner of my eyes. The handsome man – still had no idea who he was – quietly exchanged glance with Doctor Wayan. He looked grim.

“What?” I raised my brows in questioning. Was I wrong?

Doctor Wayan cleared his throat before he spoke.

“Well,” he pressed his lips into a thin line, “It’s 2014, Miss Park. November 2014. In fact, today is your birthday.”

This time was my turn to frown.

“How long... have I been out?”

“Two weeks. You were in a coma for two weeks.”

...

“I brought you cheesecake,” the handsome man came again the next day, “It’s Eileen’s caramel pecan, your favorite.”

How did he know I love Eileen’s? We must’ve known each other really well to some extent.

“Thanks.”

I guessed thanking him was an appropriate response. At least he seemed satisfy.

“Do you want some?” he turned his back and busied himself in plating a slice for me. I noticed a slight accent when he spoke. Korean, my best bet.

“Sure,” I nodded, “Sorry – who are you again?”

He froze in his place. Took him a moment before he reply.

“You don’t... recognize me?” asked him reluctantly.

“No,” I shook my head. I was pretty sure I did not know him and had not met him before yesterday.

He grabbed the edge of the table he was leaning and sighed before turning around to face me. His lips grew into a bitter smile.

“Doctor Wayan has told us about your partial amnesia, but still, it’s surprising to witness it by myself.”

“I don’t know you until recently,” I affirmed his words.

“I’m Seungyoon. Kang Seungyoon. We met last year,” he placed a round metal object on my palm. It was a ring and I had no idea why he gave me that. I nervously gulped.

“I’m your fiance.”

...

“Happy 25th birthday,” Thunder whispers beside me when I’m wide awake. I think a few hours has passed since we fell asleep. It’s already dark outside my window. “Feeling any better?”

I nod and slowly raise to a half-sitting position and noticed he’s all dressed up. The old gray tee is now replaced with a fine navy blue scottish cashmere. Underneath, his lighter blue cotton shirt is neatly tucked in his khakis.

“Thanks,” I ruffle his hair affectionately, “What time is it?”

“About dinner time. Everybody’s downstair to celebrate your birthday.”

“Is Granddad here too?”

“Yeah. He wants to personally give you your birthday gift. Do you think you can manage?” he looks at me with genuine concern, “I can tell them you’re feeling unwell.”

“That’s okay,” I shook my head, “I’ll go change and be down in a minute.”

When he’s about to open my door, something immediately crosses my mind.

“Why does Top never visit me anymore?”

He stops in his track. There’s a slight discomfort in his expression at the mention of the name that you won’t notice unless you know him as well as I do.

“He didn’t even show up in the hospital last year.”

“Uh... have you tried calling him?”

“I can’t reach him. His phone is always turned off and he never reply my emails. Did I do something that upsets him?”

“I don’t know. But even if you did, he’s not the type of person to hold grudges.”

“He isn’t, you’re right. Maybe he’s just busy. He’s in Kunduz the last time I heard. You can’t really expect a decent reception there, let alone some internet connection.”

He smiles, “Now go change, quickly. The others have been waiting for you.”

“Hey Thunder,” I call him again, “The missing year... Do you think I’ll ever remember?”

...

I remember rain. Heavy rain and the smell of wet grass.

I remember bumpy roads, dirt tracks turned into mud tracks.

I remember watching cattles being tended, children and women in darker skin tone passed by. The men carried guns on their shoulders.

All of them barefooted.

I remember watching the view of a new world outside my window mindlessly as the sturdy old Jeep that carried me wove its way to outside Juba.

One afternoon in June 2012. I was 21 and half a globe away from home.

When we arrived two and a half hours later, an East Asian man, probably three or four years older than me, welcomed us in a complex of what they called as MSF official base camp. He was tall and lean and tanned with defined jaw line and high cheek bones. His short hair and his dull white shirt was damped due to the pouring rain. But he couldn’t care less. His greetings were short and practical, just like the way he moved. Everything about him shouted logic and efficiency.

He told me his name is Seunghyun. Choi Seunghyun. An ER doctor.

He told me to call him Top just like everyone else. His Korean name was too hard to be rolled by native tongues.

He helped me with my bags, and I couldn’t help but flinched when my Louis Vuitton suitcase unforgivingly hit a puddle and turned into a mud mess in a blink.

“Don’t worry,” his deep voice reverberated in unexpected English accent, “Put it in a wash and they’ll be grand.”

He offered a wide smile. I couldn’t decide whether he was genuinely trying to comfort me or he was being a cynic . It’s a ing Louis Vuitton, you’d be flinched too if you were me.

He introduced me to everybody and showed me around after dinner. He knew I came from an upscale family background, a greenie with a bachelor degree. He asked me why I was there. Why I chosed to spend the night in their barracks instead of my warm and fluffy bed back in New York. I said I wanted to help. He told me this wasn’t another documentary or Beyond Border movie.

...

“You know, Maddie will be upset to know you didn’t find her food appetizing.”

Maddie is the name of our cook. I look up from my untouched plate to the voice talking.

“I had a turkey sandwich earlier.”

“When was that? Yesterday?” Seungyoon raises one brow. “You stayed in your room for the whole day and didn’t come out until half an hour ago. You haven’t had anything to fill your stomach.”

“I munched a granola bar,” I know I’m being stubborn. I am not hungry and I don’t feel like eating at all.

“Come on, at least have a bite of your birthday cake,” he gives me a slice of those chocolate-raspberry tart, but before I get to touch it, Granddad gently hit his champagne glass a few times signaling an announcement.

“After a year of hardwork and renovations, I am pleased to tell you that our Cemagi Villa is now under its full transformation and ready to be occupied,” he shoves a set of ribboned key to my hand, “You’ve always wanted that villa, haven’t you Sweetheart? Now it’s officially yours and I want you to have a good use of it. Stay there for the new year holiday.”

Everyone except me gasps in delight. He winks and pulls me into a fatherly embrace.

“A birthday gift,” he whispered, “For my birthday girl.”

“Is it okay?” I asked him.

“What is, Dear?”

“You never let me come to Bali after the accident.”

He cups my face with his wrinkled hands, “Your mother and I have talked to Doctor Seymour, it’s been a year and we all agree this can be good for your mental recovery.”

Mental recovery?

“You think I’m mentally ill?”

“You’re my beloved granddaughter, Dee. Mental illness doens’t run in our blood.”

...

“Tell me what happened back then, Mommy. Tell me about the accident.”

“I’ve told you so many times already, you should’ve known,” my mom doesn’t look away from the wedding dress catalogue in her hands. “And stop asking a