Chapter 4- His Angel

I drift in the darkness for what seems like centuries, unable to grasp anything tangible as I am ripped from image to image, reliving experiences, memories… but they are not mine.

There are new faces, new dangers, and the kind of primal dread that would summon up your adrenaline in less than a second for flight… or fight, like these memories seem to be used to. It feels like a blood-spattered nightmare, brimming with more violence than I am used to, filled with guns, blades and the pungent, rust-like smell of death.

The pain comes a few times, sharp, biting, encompassing, but soon, it gives way to silence. I glimpse white walls once, peaceful, calming just before rolling back into the darkness. The nightmares; the memories.

With a jolt, I wake.

Every part of me aches as I try to sit up, gaze scanning the cold, sterile space, moving from the white, nondescript ceiling to the shiny machines- the ones that had previously been used to monitor my heart rate, blood pressure, and brain function. I'm confused for a second. Bronco and his partner couldn't have possibly taken me to a hospital after shooting me dead, could they?

This doesn't make any sense.

I move an arm and see that I have an IV- line sticking from it. My torso and upper right arm are wrapped in bandages, and I'm guessing it's the same story for my forehead. I feel the rough fabric there too. My cheeks are burning from healing scratches, and I might have a stitch in my jawline.

I really don't know how I got these new injuries. It is possible that Bronco and his friend were just trying to make sure I really died, because the wounds seem a little exaggerated. That is all the more reason why this situation is ironic: despite their best efforts, I somehow managed to survive.

As I try to disconnect my IV-line, the door opens and a smiling woman in a lab coat comes inside. "Hello."

The gaze I throw at her is heavy with suspicion. "Who are you? Who brought me here?"

"Erm, I'm your doctor. A friend of yours got you admitted here because you were really hurt. This is a hospital, in case you're wondering. Your injuries were terrible."

"How bad is it?" I ask.

She gives me a reassuring smile. "Nothing that won't fix itself soon," she says, reaching for the steel tray on the hospital trolley beside my bed. She holds it up in front of me so that I can see my reflection.

"Thanks," I mutter, moving it closer. What I see takes the breath away from my lungs. The tray clatters to the ground.

"Are you okay?" My doctor stoops, and picks the tray up, giving me a wary glance. "They're just scratches, and your head wound will heal in no time."

"Was it that bad?" I ask. "Did you have to change my face?"

There is surprise in her gaze. "No." She shakes her head. "No. Your wounds were terrible, granted- I mean, you were in a coma for three months- but absolutely no cosmetic surgery was done on you. Why would you think that?"

"This is not my face!" I get off the bed, peering at shiny surfaces, the windows, hoping that I had just been so mentally confused that my own reflection got distorted in my eyes. But I am left with the glaring truth.

This… is not my body.

I turn to the worried doctor who watches me like she is wondering if I should be re-admitted into a mental institution. "Bring me a good mirror!" I scream at her.

She rushes out of the room, leaving me with a confusing mass of thoughts. Five minutes later, a man comes in. He leans against the wall, staring at me long and hard. The thing on his face is not quite a smile, yet it's not annoyance either. It's a cross between disbelief and awe.

"Thirteen," he breathes. "I couldn't believe it when the doctor said you were awake. You've been out for months."

Thirteen?

The man continues to speak even though I offer him nothing in the way of a response. "Your injuries were nasty. You nearly died."

No, I did. I died. Every part of me knows this. And this body too… this new body- she died. But for some reason, my vengeful spirit had possessed it. That is the only explanation I am able to come up with for this crazy situation, if you can believe it.

I didn't quite reincarnate. My soul must have ditched my body, breaking all protocols- all rules guiding existence- slipping through a crack in time and space to inhabit this body. This also sounds far-fetched, but I am fresh out of ideas. I've always been a bit of a drama queen, but this… this is just a little too extra, even for me.

"Thirteen?"

My gaze snaps to him. "Who are you? And how do you even know me?" And who the fuck calls another person a number?

He rubs his temples, frustration setting in. "The doctor told me that earlier you were experiencing a bit of a mental strain, courtesy of your concussion. I know you've been in a coma for a while, and your injuries were terrible. It might take you some time to adjust, but-"

I turn from him and head for the door. He pulls me back.

"Look." He blows out a sigh. " You have a cracked rib, two bullet wounds, a stab wound and a hell of an existential crisis. I understand. But you must have forgotten that Leone Andreotti is worse than all of that combined," he says. "So be a good girl, and let's go back to base-"

"And who the fuck is Leone fucking Adreotti?" I snap.

The man stops short, gaze drifting across the room like he's afraid the very walls would tell on us.

"Your fucking Boss?" He offers. "Who will fucking kill you if you don't get your ass back to base."

"Well tell him I'm waiting."

"That concussion hit you badly, didn't it?"

It must have. Nothing makes any sense, and I might have just made a terrible decision.