My Amnesia, Their Life Sentence

I didn't know when I lost consciousness.

I only remembered my heart feeling like it was being squeezed by an invisible hand, the pain so intense I couldn't breathe. Then everything went black. The world disappeared.

Now, I was lying somewhere. My consciousness drifted in darkness, like sinking to the bottom of a deep ocean, yet not completely submerged. I could hear sounds but couldn't open my eyes. I could feel pain but couldn't move a single finger.

This state—it was like being trapped inside my own body.

It was cold. The air carried the sharp scent of disinfectant. Something was inserted in my arm, and there was a tube down my throat.

I heard the beeping of machines.

And voices. People were talking.

"...severe depression, post-traumatic stress disorder, and stress-induced cardiomyopathy—what we commonly call 'broken heart syndrome.'"

A doctor's voice. I tried hard to listen, but my mind felt stuffed with cotton.

"So what exactly is wrong with her?"

Dad's voice.

He sounded... angry?

"Her body is shutting down," the doctor said. "Mr. Sterling, your daughter's physical condition is consistent with someone who has endured prolonged extreme stress and... abuse. Her heart is literally 'breaking.'"

Abuse.

Yes, the doctor was right. But would Dad believe it?

"Abuse?" Dad scoffed, and that sound made my heart sink. "Doctor, you've got it wrong. We gave her the best life, the best room, the best of everything. She's the one who behaved badly. Whose fault is that?"

Behaved badly. He was saying I behaved badly again. Just like three years ago at that party, when he slapped me.

"We gave her too good a life, and she didn't appreciate it..." Mom's voice came through, choked with tears. "A girl from a small town just doesn't know how to behave properly..."

I wanted to speak. I wanted to tell them the truth. But there was a tube down my throat. I couldn't make a sound.

My body wouldn't obey. I was trapped in this broken body, forced to listen to them blame me. Just like the past three years.

The click of high heels against the floor. I knew it was her.

"Dad, Mom, how is sister?"

Seraphina. My foster sister. My nightmare.

"Sera, you came..." Mom's voice immediately softened. "The doctor says your sister's condition is very bad..."

"Maybe..." Seraphina said softly, with a perfectly timed pause—as if she just thought of it, but the pause was too perfect. "Sister has some unresolved trauma. I heard about Professor Nathan Cross at Stanford. He has a new therapy specifically for cases like this."

She spoke too smoothly. Even remembered the doctor's name so clearly. How long had she been preparing this?

"Deep hypnotic memory reconstruction," she continued, pronouncing each technical term perfectly. "It allows patients to recall the source of their trauma, and family members can see the memory projections too. That way we can understand what sister is thinking and help her recover."

This wasn't spontaneous.

This was planned.

"That way we can truly understand what sister is thinking," Seraphina said softly. "Maybe we'll discover... why she's always like this. Why she always blames us, blames this family."

I understood what she meant.

She wanted them to see my memories, not to help me, but to prove how "abnormal" I was, how "unsuited" I was for this family, how "ungrateful" I was.

She thought they'd see my "delusions," my "lies," my "jealousy" of her.

But... but what if they really saw my memories... what if they saw the truth...

"But..." Mom hesitated.

"Mom," Seraphina's voice broke. "Sister needs our help. This might be her last chance. We can't give up on her."

Last chance.

Yes. This might really be my last chance.

Because I could feel it—my body was giving up.

My heart beat slower and slower, weaker and weaker. Each beat felt like a final struggle. Maybe I didn't have much time left.

"Contact Dr. Cross," Dad said. "As soon as possible."

I didn't know how much time passed—maybe hours, maybe a day—but the bed started moving. Hallway lights blurred through my eyelids into hazy halos. I heard wheels rolling, nurses whispering.

"So light," one nurse said. "85 pounds, my God..."

85 pounds?

I used to weigh 110. I'd lost 25 pounds in three years.

No... I'd lost more than just weight.

"I heard it's depression," another said. "So young..."

They didn't know. Nobody knew.

Except Seraphina.

The bed stopped. I was carefully lifted and placed on something else—not a bed, a chair. A special chair with equipment humming behind it.

Someone placed something on my head. Tiny sensors were pressed against my scalp.

"Sterling family, Mr. Hayes," an unfamiliar male voice said. "Put these on. I must make the risks of this technology clear."

This must be Dr. Cross.

"Deep hypnotic memory reconstruction projects the patient's memories in visual form," he continued. "Through the VR equipment, you'll see everything she saw, feel everything she felt. But if the traumatic memories are too intense, it could cause physiological collapse. Cardiac arrest, brain hemorrhage, even death."

Death.

The monitor's beeping suddenly accelerated.

That was my heartbeat.

Was I afraid?

Afraid of death?

No. What I feared more was dying with these truths, with no one ever knowing.

"We'll sign whatever," Dad's impatient voice. "She needs to face her problems."

My problems?

What were my problems?

Was it that I was drugged, raped, abused, treated like property and given to strange men?

Was it that I told the truth but no one believed me?

Was it that I had parents like you and a sister like Seraphina?

"Mr. Sterling," the doctor's voice became serious. "Are you certain you want to see your daughter's 'true memories'? Sometimes, the truth isn't what we expect."

"You think I don't know my own daughter?" Dad scoffed.

That scoff pierced my heart like a knife.

You really didn't know anything.

But you were about to find out.

More footsteps. Steady, confident.

I knew those footsteps too well.

Adrian Hayes.

Once, when I first came home at 17, those footsteps made my heart race. I thought he would be my support, my knight.

Now they only filled me with bitter irony.

"Sera, are you okay?" His voice was so gentle it made me sick.

"I just hope sister gets better..." Seraphina's sobbing—so fake, but they all believed it. "Even though she's always misunderstood me..."

Misunderstood? I wanted to laugh.

"Child, thank you for staying with Sera," Mom's voice trembled with emotion. "With you here, she won't be so upset."

Everyone was comforting her.

And I was lying there, my heart breaking, my lungs failing.

The bed moved again.

I felt liquid entering my veins. Warmth spread up my arm. My consciousness grew hazier yet somehow sharper at the same time.

"Vivian Sterling," Dr. Cross's voice came from far away. "Can you hear me?"

I wanted to answer. My lips moved slightly.

"Good," he said. "You're safe. I need you to relax and follow my voice."

His voice was steady, like a lullaby.

"Now, I want you to go back. Back to the moment you feel... everything started to change. The moment you believe life was never the same again."

The moment everything changed.

My consciousness searched through the darkness.

When was it?

Was it the first day I came back to the Sterling house?

No... I still had hope then.

Was it the first time Seraphina hit me?

No... it started before that.

It was—the party.

That birthday party. Age 17.

"Tell me, Vivian," Dr. Cross said softly. "What do you see? Where are you?"

I... no... I didn't want to go back...

But my consciousness was no longer under my control. The hypnotic drugs were like a hand, dragging me into the abyss of memory.

I began to fall.

In the darkness, that night unfolded before my eyes like a film—

The luxurious hall of the club. Crystal chandeliers. The scent of champagne. Seraphina's smile.

And then I was back.

Back to that night.

The night my nightmare began.