Abeona, with her white hair falling like snow around her shoulders, opened her eyes to a dimly lit room. The air was heavy with the scent of antiseptic, and the distant hum of machinery filled the silence. She sat up slowly, her grayish eyes scanning the unfamiliar surroundings. The room was sterile, with white walls that seemed to close in on her, suffocating.
She reached out a trembling hand, her fingers brushing against the cool metal railing of the hospital bed she was lying on. The sensation sent shivers down her spine, making her hairs stand to attention. The sunlight streaming through the closed windows let her know that it was likely an early morning. However, each tiny hair on her arms rose in protest as if sensing impending danger.
As she attempted to stand, her legs wobbled beneath her. With a sudden crash, a table laden with bottles of medicine toppled over, the clatter echoing through the room like a gunshot. Lala stumbled and fell unable to keep herself standing.
Two nurses and a doctor burst into the room, their voices urgent but unintelligible. The doctor, his face lined with concern, spoke to her in a language unfamiliar to her ears, or perhaps a language she knew but had forgotten. Lala struggled to make sense of his words, her head spinning with dizziness.
With the help of the nurses, she managed to regain her footing and settled back onto the bed. One of the nurses began to pick up the fallen medicine bottles, while the other offered her a reassuring smile. The doctor approached her, his expression grave as he took her temperature and recorded her vitals.
Lost in a sea of confusion, Lala gazed out the window at the majestic mountain in the distance. ‘Was that the Ararat?’ she wondered. The name echoed in her mind, stirring memories she couldn't quite grasp. She longed to understand where she was, to make sense of the jumbled pieces of her fractured memory.
Turning back to the doctor, she struggled to find her voice. "Wh're is this one located?" she asked in English, the words feeling foreign on her tongue. When met with confusion, she repeated the question in what she thought was Turkish, the syllables heavy and unfamiliar. However, just a few seconds ago the language seemed completely alien to her, but now pieces of vocabulary were coming out of her mouth from somewhere deep in her memory.
The doctor's response sent a chill down her spine. She was in a sanatorium of the Ottoman Red Crescent Society in Yerevan. The realization struck her like a blow to the chest, memories flooding back in a torrent of emotions.
A vision of Damon as he smirked, flashed before her eyes. The memory of their fight, of his victory over her, filled her with a sense of dread. She remembered his question, his taunts, his laugh.
She could remember clearly. Damon sighed as he looked into her eyes. “Is there a specific place you want to go?”
Her voice was strained as she coughed blood. Her response came between labored breaths. “This one has at each moment dreamed of reaching Mount Ararat. T’is the only mystic mountain yond this one has yet to grace with mine own presence!”
“I love the way you speak. It’s really lovely.”
‘Why has she remembered that now?’ she pondered. Yet, Damon has kept his part of the bargain. She was where she wanted.
"What's your name?" the doctor's voice cut through her thoughts, pulling her back to the present. Lala hesitated, her mind racing to find an answer. Abeona, her mind whispered, but she knew that wasn't right. Her true name wasn’t that, that was her current name. ‘What about her Armenian name?’ she thought, that one lay buried beneath layers of forgotten pain.
"Lala," Abeona, or rather Lala breathed, the word tasting bitter on her tongue.
“Lala?” The doctor's brow furrowed in confusion, prompting her to continue. “Last name?
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"Avakian," she added, conjuring a false surname from the depths of her mind. ‘Where has that name come from?’ she wasn’t sure.
“Date and place of birth?”
The answer to that was a distant memory from centuries past, lingered on her lips.
“Septemb'r 11, 2502 BC according to the Gregorian calendar, born in Babylon.”
“Sure,” the doctor raised an eyebrow. As the man scribbled notes on his pad of paper, Lala felt a surge of unease wash over her. Who was she truly? Where did she come from, and what secrets lay hidden in the recesses of her mind? The answers eluded her, slipping through her fingers like grains of sand.
In that sterile room, surrounded by strangers and memories she couldn't quite grasp, Lala felt adrift in a sea of nothingness. As she stared out at the mountain in the distance. ‘After such a long time, why was she remembering her long-lost origin?’
She sat up in the hospital bed, her white hair cascading around her shoulders like a shimmering waterfall. She felt the nurses' eyes on her, their gazes filled with curiosity and concern. The doctor, however, seemed to be studying her with a furrowed brow.
“Real date and place of birth?” The doctor interrupted her daydreaming.
Lala took a deep breath and forced a smile on her lips, using her fingers to push the edges of her mouth up into a semblance of cheerfulness.
"Sorry, this one is just kidding. This one was born in Yerevan on Septemb'r 11, 1887, so this one is ten years of age!" Lala stated, her voice a soft monotone. She focused on maintaining her facade, making sure not to betray any hint of the turmoil swirling within her. She willed her grayish eyes, devoid of pupils like those afflicted by glaucoma, to remain steady and unchanging in color, avoiding any flicker of emotion that might give her away.
The doctor proceeded to ask a barrage of questions, his tone clinical and detached. After what felt like an eternity, he finally excused himself, mentioning that he would consult a colleague about her case. One nurse lingered behind, her gentle presence a stark contrast to the cold sterility of the room. She busied herself with changing the blanket and offering Lala a glass of water, all the while conducting routine check-ups.
"How did this one arrived h're?" Lala asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
The nurse paused; her expression somber. "A doctor found you outside the hospital, bleeding. You were rushed in for emergency treatment. At first, the surgeons feared the worst, but miraculously you woke up, only to fall into a deep slumber for months."
Lala turned her gaze away, her mind grappling with the fragments of memories that eluded her grasp. "For what length of time has this one been asleep?" she asked, tilting her head in confusion.
"If I'm not mistaken, it's been four months. Today is February 15," the nurse replied gently.
Lala took a sip of water, the cool liquid soothing her parched throat. "Do you remember why you were in that state that day?" the nurse probed.
"This one rememb'rs nothing. This one doesn't rememb'r wh're this one lives, nor who this one is at all... this one can only rememb'r this one's name and oth'r few data," Lala faked ignorance, her words a carefully constructed facade to conceal the truth. "But something is this one sure about, this one came h're because of the mountain," she said, pointing through the window toward the distant silhouette of the towering peak.
As Lala attempted to rise from the bed, the nurse gently but firmly guided her back down. "You must not move, you are still in check," the nurse scolded, her tone gentle yet firm.
"This one bids her apologies," Lala murmured, bowing her head.
The nurse's gaze softened, her eyes reflecting a glimmer of compassion. "So, tell me, child. Do you really know who you are?"
"I’m Lala," she declared, her voice steady and unwavering. "This one was born on 11 Septemb'r 2502 BC according to the Gregorian calendar in Babylon. During the reign of King Nimrod, the Bold Hunter!"
“That’s an interesting story, my dear,” the nurse chuckled, her voice warm and comforting. The nurse's gentle hands worked through her white hair with a comb, the rhythmic sound of the comb gliding through the strands creating a soothing melody in the quiet room. As the woman continued to fix Lala's hair, she remarked, “Your hair is... gray. It's rare but cute, and your eyes are pretty too.”
“Albinism so this one bethinks,” Lala felt a pang of sadness at the mention of her hair color. She closed her eyes, envisioning the vibrant aquamarine hue she wished her eyes could be, a reflection of the joy she desperately tried to hold onto.
“Is this one joyous?” Lala pondered silently, her mind clouded with memories of loss and grief. Despite her inner turmoil, she forced a laugh in monotone, the sound hollow and empty in the stillness of the room. “Joyous is this one,” she repeated to herself, the words feeling foreign on her lips.
The nurse's arms enveloped her in a warm embrace, offering a sense of comfort that Lala desperately craved. “For a long time, this one had lost her joy,” Lala confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. “But now, this one is joyous again.”
As tears welled up in Lala's eyes, she clung to the nurse, seeking solace in the fleeting moment of happiness. The nurse's touch was a balm to her wounded soul.