Fragments from the Veil — Chapter 6

The events of this past weekend weigh heavily on me. Kristen ... Mandy ... Joseph ... and the light — the light that encompassed me ... that transported me ... that stole my memories. I’ve been rejected ... abandoned ... beaten ... shamed ... perhaps even violated.

The concrete driveway — rough, sharp, and sun-heated — scrapes my knees and digs into my skin. I fall prostrated and sob.

I hear a vehicle approaching. I look — it’s my neighbor’s blue RAV4 ... and she sees me. I see her park in her driveway across the road ... I hear the engine go off.

I keep sobbing, and I feel embarrassed.

I hear light footsteps approaching — she calls, “Hi, neighbor! Are you alright?”

I’m not alright, so I don’t answer.

She’s closer ... she stops next to me. “Are you alright?” she asks again.

I look up — she’s wearing cork sandals with leather straps, faded jeans, and a white t-shirt. She’s blond, with hazel eyes, and maybe in her late 50’s.

She gasps ... “What happened to you!”

I want to tell her everything, but I don’t really know her.

She studies the throbbing side on my face — her eyes, narrow with concern ... her forehead, frowning.

“I’m not alright” I answer faintly. “I need to get back inside.”

I struggle to get up — I moan when I begin to black out.

She grabs me below the shoulder to keep me from falling and to help me up.

“Where’s Mandy?” she asks.

“She’s gone,” I whisper.

“Where?” she asks puzzled.

“Gone ...” I respond. I think she understands what I mean.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “Let’s get you back inside.”

She helps me up, and we walk toward the door — she’s still holding my right arm.

I notice my robe is open, so I pull it back with my left hand — I’m not sure if she saw.

Inside, she helps me onto the oversized, round couch.

“I need water,” I tell her — feeling out of breath.

She rushes to the kitchen and returns quickly with a glass of water.

She helps me drink — I finish nearly the whole glass.

“Let me get my first aid kit,” she says. “I’ll be back soon.”

I wait, lying on the couch and feeling too weak ... too sore ... too broken.

I see she’s left the door open. The air drifts in — soft, indifferent. I wonder if she’ll come back — I hope she does.

I keep thinking about her voice ... her outfit ... her toes... her sandals... her hair. She looks a little older, but that doesn’t matter to me. I need someone to take care of me — and, for some reason, I want it to be her.

She soon returns with a red first aid kit in her hand — it's larger than most firt aid kits I've ever seen.

“Do you need more water?” she asks me — there’s compassion in her voice.

“Yes, please ...”

“I’ll bring you some more,” she says.

She returns from the kitchen with more water and a damp kitchen towel.

She helps me sit up so I can drink — my robe falls open when I sit up.

As I drink, she scans my body — she doesn’t seem to mind my nakedness ... nor do I — I have nothing left to hide.

“Did you have some kind of a surgery?” she asks.

I give her back the glass — she sets it down.

“No,” I say. “No surgery.”

“So, what’s that long scar?” she asks, glancing at it.

“I don’t know — I didn’t have it before.”

“You didn’t have it before?”

“No — the first time I saw it was when I woke up earlier today.”

She looks puzzled. I don’t blame her — it doesn’t really make sense.

She puts on a pair of latex gloves from her kit and proceeds to wipe my hands, my knees, and the soles of my feet with the damp towel. “Just making sure I get some of that dirt off you,” she says.

She then applies saline on the wounds that are on my knees and on my face — blood washes down from my face together with the saline. She uses the towel to absorb it so it doesn’t get everywhere, but some gets on my robe.

She wipes around the wounds with cotton balls and more saline, and then pats my skin dry with gauze. She examines my face — “You’re gonna need some stitches,” she says.

“That’s not too bad,” I say.

“How do you feel?” she asks.

“I have a headache ... and I feel lightheaded ... faint.”

“Did you hit your head?”

“Yes ... at the back.”

She examines my head, parting my hair with her fingers.

“You have a bruise at the back,” she says when she’s done. “I think you have a concussion — you most likely do.” Then, she explains — “I used to be a nurse.”

“Oh ... that's great,” I say.

“There’s an Urgent Care around here so you can get checked there,” she adds. “I can take you there ... you shouldn’t be driving.”

“Please! That would be very helpful,” I say. “Thank you.”

She smiles. “Glad to be of help,” she says.

She takes off her gloves and packs her kit.

“So, what happened to you?” she asks me. “You look like you got hit by a truck.”

“Mandy’s dad was driving that truck,” I jest.

She laughs — she has a beautiful smile. “He must have been really mad at you.”

“Yes ...” I say, "I tend to do that.”

“What? Get people mad at you?”

“Yes ...” I say, a bit proud of myself.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” she asks me, looking at my body.

“No, I say ... but I have that scar ... it wasn’t there before.”

She looks at it. “Do you mind if I check it?” she asks.

“No ... go ahead ...”

She feels it on my chest, through her gloves — “It doesn’t feel new — it’s completely healed.” Then, she continues to examine it down to my belly.

“It looks like it’s been there for a long time,” she remarks. “But I don’t know of any surgery that calls for such a long cut.”

“It’s not a surgery,” I tell her. “I’ve never had surgery.”

“Hmmm ...” she keeps looking at, all the way down to my pubic area.

I feel a gentle stir down there — nothing major, just a natural reaction.

“I’m sorry — I’m just making sure you’re alright. I used to be a nurse — so I'm used to seeing of naked bodies.”

“That’s alright —” I say, “I don’t mind.” I want to be seen ... I need to share this burden with someone ... I need someone to explain what has happened to me.

“You’re lucky you got a nurse to help you,” she says, winking at me.

I smile back. “Yes, it’s so convenient that you’re a nurse.”

“By the way, I’m Lindie. I don’t think we’ve ever met.”

“Nice to meet you Lindie — I’m Nathaniel.”

“I’ve met Mandy before ... I’ve just seen her here and there ... briefly ... once in a while.”

“You probably won’t see much of her anymore.”

“Sorry to hear that,” she says. “Well ... I think that’s all you need for now — they’ll take care of the rest at the Urgent Care. How about if we get some clothes on you and I drive you there?”

“Sure,” I say.

I try to stand — but I feel weak, and exhausted.

“Let me help you,” she says when she sees me struggling.

She leads me upstairs to my bedroom.

Once there, helps me sit on the bed and gets me a pair grey briefs, cargo shorts, a t-shirt, and my fisher sandals.

She helps me into them ... first my briefs ... then my shorts ... then off with my robe... then on with the t-shirt. Last of all, she straps my sandals on.

“Do you need a phone, wallet, or keys?” she asks me.

I look around, but I don’t see them.

“I don’t know where they are,” I tell her.

“Where did you last see them?”

“That’s the thing ...” I say. “Las night, I went out with a friend. I was heading back home, and I stopped the car on the curb ... not too far from here. I then saw a bright light — and I don’t remember anything after that. I woke up here, not too long ago — I was in bed, and my clothes were off ... that’s when I noticed the scar — then Mandy’s dad came.”

“So, you don’t remember getting home?”

“No,” I say.

“Were you in a car accident?”

“No ... I don’t think so. I think it was something else.” I think for a moment, trying to recall the events — then I realize I didn’t see my car in the driveway. “Actually, I think my car may still be where I stopped on the curb last night — if it’s still there, it’s not too far from here. Would you be willing to take me there too?”

“Absolutely,” she says. “Let’s go there first, then get you to the Urgent Care.”

“Sounds good — thank you.”

She helps me to my feet, down the stairs, and into her car. We didn’t lock the door of the house — there wasn’t much that mattered there anymore — and I needed to be able to get back inside without my keys.

She drove us there. It wasn’t too far away. Her hands guided the steering wheel — she had a French manicure on her nails. Her arms were freckled, just like her face and her chest. Her toenails also had a French style. Even with her sunglasses on, I thought she looked like an angel.

“It’s there!” I said, pointing at my car.

“I see it,” she said.

Lindie drove us to where it was, and she stopped next to it so we could check it out. I got chills from looking at it — it didn’t have a scratch or a dent on it.

“I guess it wasn’t an accident,” she observed.

“I guess so,” I replied.

I was about to get off — “Wait a minute,” she said. “I’ll pull around.”

She made U-turn and parked behind my car.

We got out and went to check my car. The doors were locked, and the windows were up. We looked inside. There, on the driver’s seat, were my clothes — my pink polo shirt, my jeans, my socks, my analog watch —the one my mother gave me — and my sunglasses.

The objects I had seen floating — the coins, the tissues, the tennis ball, the pen — those objects were scattered all over.

I figured that my wallet and my keys — including the key fob for my car — were still inside the pockets of my jeans. I could also see part of my underwear inside my jeans.

“What the hell!” I said to myself.

“So ... you left the car and your clothes here?” asked Lindie.

“No — I wouldn’t have done that.”

“And how did you get home?”

“I don’t remember that either — but the latch of the door at home was on when I opened for Mandy’s dad,” I explained. I wish I hadn’t opened to him — but how would I have known he was going to assault me?

I began to feel weak and lightheaded. Lindie suggested that I call the insurance company while she drove me to the Urgent Care and have them tow the car back home. I did that — I explained to them what I knew, filed a claim just in case, and I also asked them to unlock the car for me.

At the Urgent Care, they disinfected my wounds, stitched me, scanned my head, and even took scans of my scar. They found more scarred tissue under the scar — clearly, I had been cut open. They also told me I had a concussion.

They told me to avoid driving, watching TV, and exerting myself. They said that I needed to rest, get plenty of fluids, and give my body time to heal — that it could take anywhere from a couple of weeks to a couple of months for me to heal. They also told me to follow up with my physician — they would send copies of everything to him.

Lindie stayed with me the whole time I was there, keeping me company.

She then drove us to Panera Bread. She paid for both of us since I still didn’t have my wallet with me. We both got a strawberry poppyseed salad with chicken for each ... and cold green tea.

Afterwards, she drove me home and left me back on the couch — since I didn’t want to go upstairs.

She then gave me her phone number. “I’ll be around,” she said. “Call me or text me if there's anything you need — even if you just need someone to talk to. I’ll come back tomorrow and check on you.”

“Thank you for everything,” I said. “You’ve helped so much.” I had tears in my eyes. I gave her a hug and kissed her cheek.

She looked at her phone — “I have to leave now,” she said. “I have to pick up my daughter from church — she was there for an activity and she’s done now.”

“Seventh-day Adventists?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “Non-denominational — Seventh-day Adventists worship on Saturdays, not Sundays.”

Her statement puzzled me. “But today is Saturday ...” I said.

“No,” she corrected me, “today is Sunday.”

I nearly fainted.

“Nathaniel — are you okay?” she asked me with concern in her voice.

“My dinner was on Friday night,” I said. “The light I saw was on Friday night ... but I woke up today — I lost an entire day…”

Author’s Note

This story is part of Fragments from the Veil, a mythic cycle of desire, rupture, and strange illumination. It deepens the journey through trauma and tentative care, exploring the fragile moments between despair and hope.

If you’re new to this world, you may wish to begin with Chapter 1, or simply let this fragment stand on its own.

Related Chapters

Fragments from the Veil — Chapter 5

Fragments from the Veil — Chapter 7