The Enemy's Perfect Score

Rena

A light. A sound. A pain.

That is the order of things. A searing white light pierces through my eyelids. A low, rhythmic beeping drills into my skull. And a deep, throbbing pain starts in my head and radiates through every inch of my body.

“Rena? My love? Can you hear me?”

A voice cuts through the fog. Thick and syrupy. Familiar.

I try to open my eyes. My eyelids feel like they’re glued shut with sand.

“Don’t push yourself. The doctor said to take it slow.”

That’s Troy. My fiancé. He sounds like he’s crying.

A soft pressure envelops my hand. His hand. It’s always so warm.

With a monumental effort, I peel my eyes open. The world is a blurry mess of white walls and pale blue curtains. Everything swims.

I blink. Once. Twice. The room slowly sharpens into focus.

And then I see it.

Floating just above Troy’s perfectly styled dark hair is a number. A bright, neon pink number three.

It hovers in the air, crisp and digital, like a hologram from one of my company’s tech demos. A ‘3’.

I squeeze my eyes shut and open them again. It’s still there. Unwavering.

“What…?” The word comes out as a dry croak.

“Shhh, don’t try to talk,” Troy whispers, his face a mask of worried devotion. He leans closer, his thumb stroking the back of my hand. “You were in an accident. A terrible one. The car—”

He chokes on the word, a single, perfect tear tracing a path down his handsome face.

“I was so scared, Rena. When they called me, I thought I’d lost you.”

I’m not listening. I’m staring at the impossible pink digit hanging in the space above him. Brain damage. It has to be brain damage. The doctors must have warned him. Some kind of visual hallucination from the concussion.

“My head…” I manage to rasp out.

“I know, baby, I know it hurts. They have you on the good stuff.” He gives me a weak, watery smile. His eyes are red-rimmed. He looks like a man who hasn’t slept in days.

And yet. The number three.

Just then, the door to my room slides open with a soft whoosh. A woman in blue scrubs bustles in, a cheerful smile on her face.

“Ms. Morris? Welcome back to the land of the living. I’m Clara, your nurse for the evening.”

My gaze flickers from Troy to the nurse. My breath catches in my throat.

She has one too.

Hers is a pleasant shade of blue. A ‘45’.

“How are you feeling, dear? Any pain on a scale of one to ten?”

I stare, mute. Two of them. It isn’t just Troy. The nurse adjusts my IV drip, her movements efficient. The blue ‘45’ bobs along with her head as she moves.

“She’s still very groggy,” Troy supplies, his voice heavy with concern. “She just woke up a minute ago.”

“That’s perfectly normal,” Clara says, making a note on a chart. “The doctor will be in to see you in just a moment. Try to get some rest.”

She leaves, and a wave of dizziness washes over me. This is wrong. This is all so wrong.

“What did the doctors say is wrong with me?” I ask Troy, my voice a little stronger now.

“A severe concussion. Three broken ribs. Nothing that won’t heal, my love. You’re strong.”

“Did they say anything about… my vision?”

Troy frowns. “Your vision? No. Why? Is something blurry?”

I can’t tell him. He’ll think I’m crazy. Maybe I am.

“Just… spots,” I lie.

The door opens again. An older man with graying temples and a white coat walks in, his expression serious.

My eyes immediately shoot to the space above his head.

A dull, clinical gray ‘12’.

“Ms. Morris. I’m Dr. Evans. It’s good to see you awake.”

He comes to my bedside, shining a small light into my eyes. I flinch.

“Pupils are responsive. That’s a good sign,” he murmurs, more to himself than to me. “Do you know your name?”

“Rena Morris.”

“Do you know where you are?”

“A hospital.”

“Excellent. Your memory seems intact. Troy here tells me you were asking about your vision.”

I dart a look at Troy. His face is a picture of innocence.

“It’s nothing,” I say quickly. “Just blurry.”

“Expected, with a concussion of this severity,” the doctor says, nodding. “We’ll keep a close eye on it. Any double vision, severe headaches, you let Nurse Clara know immediately. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good. For now, rest is the most important thing. Your fiancé hasn’t left your side.” He gives Troy a sympathetic look before turning to leave.

Once the door closes, Troy is back in my space, his hand finding mine again. His touch feels cold.

“See? Everything is going to be fine,” he says soothingly. “I’ll take care of everything. The company, the press, all of it. You don’t have to worry about a single thing.”

I look at him. At the man I’m supposed to marry in six months. The man who is my partner, my CFO, my supposed other half. The man whose performance of grief is so convincing, so perfect.

But the number doesn’t lie.

What does it mean? A three out of what? Ten? A hundred? It feels low. Terribly, insultingly low.

He leans down, his lips brushing my forehead. His cologne, the one I bought him for our anniversary, fills my senses. It smells like betrayal.

“I almost lost you, Rena,” he whispers, his voice cracking with emotion. His face is inches from mine, his eyes searching mine for a response.

I watch the neon pink ‘3’ floating above him. It’s so solid, so real.

He pulls back just enough to look me full in the face. “I love you. More than anything.”

And as he says the words, I see it happen.

The number flickers.

It glitches, like bad code, the edges blurring for a split second.

Then it reforms.

It isn’t a ‘3’ anymore.

It’s a ‘2’.