Chapter 5 - who are you?

Someone, whose name is now forgotten, once said these words. 'Life is a tragedy when seen in close-up but a comedy in the long run.'

I wondered if mine was a comedy or a tragedy......

As consciousness slowly seeped into my awareness, I found myself in an unfamiliar place, surrounded by the sterile scent of antiseptic and the soft hum of medical equipment. My eyelids fluttered open, adjusting to the harsh brightness of the hospital room. Hospital room? Didn't I die in the dirty alley?

Confusion etched across my features as I tried to recall the events leading up to this moment. The distant echoes of hurried footsteps and muted voices filtered through my hazy memory. Tubes and wires connected me to machines, a web of unknown significance that hinted at the severity of my situation.

A dull ache pulsed through my body, a constant reminder of an ordeal I couldn't quite piece together. What happened to me? A wave of vulnerability washed over me as I realized the fragility of my own mortality. I almost died. A scene stuck in my head of my sister pointing a gun at me. Must have been a nightmare.

Turning my head, I caught sight of concerned faces hovering nearby—family or friends, I assumed, their eyes a mix of relief and worry. Their whispered conversations and gentle reassurances were a lifeline in this unfamiliar environment. Did someone call an ambulance? Why was I in the hospital?

With a trembling hand, a woman I didn't know reached out, seeking the comfort of a familiar touch amidst clinical sterility. Questions lingered on my lips, yet the throbbing ache and the surreal surroundings muted my inquiries. Who were these people? And who was this woman touching me? I wanted to move away but my movement was constricted by the machines that seemed to be keeping me alive.

As the fog of unconsciousness gradually lifted, I embarked on the slow journey of piecing together the fragments of memory, navigating the uncertain terrain between dreams and reality within the sterile confines of the hospital room. I remember walking home from work and getting scared because I thought I was being followed. I remember finding out my sister paid people to kill me.

And lastly, I remember laying in a pool of my blood asking God to give me another chance.

"Essie!" I whispered, my voice cracked and dry.

That bitch did this to me. How did I survive though? I was sure I was dead. How could I survive two gunshot wounds, one on the chest and the other on the abdomen? No, I don't think anyone would survive that unless they were not human. Which brings the question to my mind...How was I here?

"Zendaya!" Someone called breaking my train of thought.

Zendaya! Who the hell was Zendaya?

A figure stood by my bedside, their silhouette casting an unfamiliar yet distant shadow. As I tried to focus, I struggled to recognize the person before me. The search came up empty, I was sure I had never seen this woman before. The woman's lips parted, and with a tremor in her voice, she uttered a name—a name that felt foreign to me. Zendaya.

Confusion clouded my senses, a veil of uncertainty shrouding my thoughts. The woman's gaze locked onto me, desperately searching for recognition, for a semblance of understanding in the midst of this bewildering moment.

The strange woman, tearful yet hopeful, persisted, speaking words laden with love and urgency.

"You're back," she whispered, using the unfamiliar name again, a name that failed to trigger any semblance of familiarity in me.

Struggling to piece together the fragmented strands of memory, my heart raced with a mix of emotions—confusion, and an overwhelming sense of disconnection. As the woman's voice continued to resonate in the room, I grappled with the unsettling notion that I was being addressed by a name I couldn't grasp, and by a person I should recognize.

"W-who are you?" I asked after failing to recognize her.

She choked a gasp. Her lips quivered slightly, a telltale sign of the storm brewing within. A furrow etched itself between her brows, evidence of the tantalizing thoughts swirling through her mind.

With a delicate grace, she inhaled a trembling breath, willing herself to maintain composure. Her fingers clenched and released in a silent battle against the floodgates of emotions threatening to spill over. A solitary tear escaped, tracing a path down her cheek, a silent testament to the reservoir of feelings held in check.

There was something about watching her hold her tears, that broke my heart. I might not recognize her but something inside my body was stirred by her behavior.

"I'm sorry," I muttered.

I didn't mean to hurt her. She obviously knew me while I knew nothing about her.

"It's okay," she brushed it off, "as long as you are alive. That is all that matters"

My eyes landed on her beautiful blue eyes. Her kind gaze clashed with my inquisitive one. Her eyebrows went up as she took in my face.

"Who are you? If you don't mind me asking?" I asked.

I knew I was hurting her but I needed some answers as to who these people were.

"I'm your mother, don't you remember Zendaya?" She asked, her hand on her chest.

Zendaya! There goes that name again.

"Who is Zendaya?" I asked.

Loud gasps filled the room as everyone's eyes focused on me.

"You are Zendaya, honey," the woman said.

How could I possibly be Zendaya? My name is Semira. Why would they call me another name?

"You must be mistaken," I insisted.

The woman gave me a look. She pressed the emergency button near the bed. Within seconds a doctor and two nurses ran into the room. The rest of the people were asked to leave, leaving my supposed mother, the doctors, and me in the room.

"Something is wrong with her doctor. She can't remember her name or me," she explained, her voice filled with worry and dread.

The doctor asked a few questions; my name, my age, where I was from, and other things. I answered all the questions as I remembered. After a few minutes, the doctor consulted with another. They came back into the room ready to explain the situation.

"Mrs. Cole, your daughter seems to have Dissociative Identity Disorder. This is a condition that is characterized by the presence of two or more distinct personality identities.

Each may have a unique name, personal history, and characteristics. Which explains why your daughter is convinced her name is Semira and not Zendaya," the doctor explained.

I wasn't sick. Well, I didn't feel sick. I was Semira, that I was sure. But Zendaya was foreign to me. Who was she and why would they think I was her?

"What causes this disorder?" Mrs Cole asked.

"Your daughter was in a coma for three months with no hope of waking up. It is a miracle that she woke up today. She might have this disorder as a reaction to trauma as a way to help her avoid bad memories. We are yet to know what exactly happened to her, and from the look of things, it will take a while to get the answers we might need. So don't be alarmed, treat your daughter as you always do. In time she will remember who she is," said the doctor.

I knew the doctor was trying his best to calm my mother. After much thought and consideration, I came to the conclusion that either I was in someone else's body, or I was dead.

"Semira"