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Danny

I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t want to be anywhere. This desolate farmhouse, swallowed by the endless expanse of wheat fields, felt like a tomb. It wasn’t just the unfamiliar setting; it was the suffocating weight of my own choices, a leaden blanket pressing down on me. I didn’t know this place, or even where I was. All I knew was that this small house, a prison of polished wood and hushed silence, was a far cry from the gritty, desperate energy of the New York motel room—a room that, despite its squalor, felt somehow more honest. I couldn’t look at Dante. The sight of him, etched with a pain I’d inflicted, was a constant, burning shame.

Why didn’t he just leave me? He should have left me to wallow in the filth and self-loathing I deserved. He should have. My so-called “morals,” the ones I clung to like a life raft in a storm, were shattered. They’d always whispered of loyalty, of commitment; but now they felt like mocking whispers, taunting me with the gaping chasm between what I preached and what I did. It wasn’t just the infidelity. That was bad enough.

The betrayal of my vows, the searing pain I’d caused Dante—that was a monstrous act I could never forgive myself for, only compounded by the fact my memories returned, making everything worse. The flood of lost time, the realization of the things I’d done before I went and fucked everything up, things far darker, far more selfish, things that violated my deepest-held beliefs about myself. It was a betrayal even worse than the one Dante had witnessed.

It was a betrayal of my sense of self.

The memories haunted me, specters of a past I wished I could forget. In this isolated farmhouse, with Dante’s wounded gaze haunting me, I was forced to confront the truth. My actions had not just hurt Dante, but they had betrayed the very core of who I was. The man I thought I was—loyal, committed—seemed like a stranger now. The fucking cunt used me, dragged me down into the dark fathomless pit of rot, a rot that had infected my soul. I had violated my own sense of self and the shame of it was a bitter taste I couldn’t wash away.

How could I have sunk so low? The wheat fields, golden and endless, mocked me with their beauty, a stark contrast to the ugliness within me. I wanted to run, to escape this place that felt like a tomb, entombing my past self along with my secrets. But Dante remained a silent sentinel, his presence a reminder of the pain I had caused. I deserved his anger, his reproach, yet he stayed a silent vigil by my side.

The silence between us was heavy with unspoken words and the weight of our shared history. I knew I had to confront the darkness within me, to face the truth of my actions and perhaps, just perhaps, I could find a way to redemption. But the path ahead was uncertain, shrouded in the mist of my own self-deception and the shadows of my shattered morals.

The sound of a car pulling into the driveway broke the tense silence between us.

I felt a surge of panic as the reality of my situation came crashing down on me, and my eyes flickered toward the window, wondering what the hell awaited me next.

Dante walked unhurriedly toward the door and opened it to greet whoever had arrived. From my seat on the couch, I could see the pretty woman. Her kind face and long hair pulled back in a sleek braid offered a small measure of comfort. But she wasn’t the one who captured my attention. Behind her stood a familiar face.

One I didn’t expect to see.

“Hey, Dante,” Zach greeted my husband warmly as I looked away, ashamed to let him see me in this state, let alone anyone else. Dante had told me a doctor was coming, and I didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything anymore except the gnawing, relentless pain I’d caused and the pain I knew I’d continue to cause.

It was all my fault.

I did this. I broke us. But even though I knew I’d wrecked everything, a fierce, selfish rage flared within me. It wasn’t fair. He shouldn’t be so... accepting. So patient. It felt like a betrayal of my self-loathing. He deserved better than this broken, pathetic version of myself.

“I’m Dr. Walker,” I vaguely heard the woman say. “But please, call me Haizley.”

“Why are you here?” Dante asked, looking at Zach, oblivious to the turmoil raging inside me.

The pretty doctor’s words cut through the fog. “ Because the giant oaf I am convinced is stalking me wouldn’t let me leave without an escort. Ignore him .”

Zach groaned. “I already told you, woman. None of the old ladies go anywhere without an escort.”

“ Once again, I am not his old lady ,” Dr. Walker huffed as Dante stepped aside.

I remained on the couch, my gaze fixed on the floor. I wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear. There was no way to fix what I’d broken. I knew that. Yet Dante’s stubborn refusal to let me go felt like a heavy, suffocating blanket. A part of me, the selfish, cowardly part, wished he would let me go. I wouldn’t be able to hurt him anymore. But another, deeper part—a part I desperately tried to ignore—ached with the terrifying realization that letting him go meant accepting absolute, crushing loneliness. A loneliness far worse than the guilt and shame.

Dr. Walker approached, setting her bag down.

I refused to meet her gaze, but I couldn’t ignore the sharp, assessing look she gave me before addressing me. “Why don’t you make us some tea?” she suggested. “I’d like to speak with Danny alone first.”

The suggestion felt like a lifeline, a chance to escape the suffocating pressure of my own guilt and the silent accusation in Dante’s eyes. But I also saw it as a betrayal. A betrayal of the very honesty I craved—the painful, necessary confession that should be made openly, not hidden away in a hushed consultation. I wanted to protest, to demand my truth be aired, to force the confrontation my heart screamed for. But the thought of more pain, more hurt inflicted on Dante, silenced me. I didn’t have the right. I had already caused enough grief.

“Danny, my name is Haizley. Do you mind if I sit down?”

I slowly shook my head, my gaze fixed on the worn rug, a silent battle raging within me. The doctor’s presence felt invasive.

A spotlight on the festering wound of my betrayal.

“How are you feeling, Danny?”

“I don’t want to be here.” My words were a lie, a desperate attempt to shield myself from the truth. I needed to be here, needed to unravel this tangled mess, but the prospect terrified me.

“Why not?”

I shrugged, my eyes drifting to Dante, who calmly placed a kettle on the stove—a picture of domestic serenity that felt both alien and agonizingly familiar. The memory of his touch, the sound of his laughter, a faint echo now, flickered like a dying ember, choked by the heavy ash of my actions. A ghostly warmth against the chilling weight of guilt. He’ll never forgive me , I thought, the chilling certainty sending shivers down my spine and a clenching knot in my gut. My guilt gnawed at me, a relentless, parasitic creature feeding on my self-worth.

“He still loves you, Danny.”

Turning back to the doctor, the words caught in my throat.

“He hates me.” Part of me desperately hoped it was true. A clean break. His justified rejection would be easier to bear than the crushing weight of his undeserved forgiveness.

“Why do you think that?”

I couldn’t say the words. Just thinking about it felt like a physical blow. It wasn’t just the act itself. It was the violation of everything I believed in, everything I’d promised myself.

Honor. Loyalty. Love.

I’d shattered them all.

“Danny, did Dante tell you he hated you?”

“No.”

The air throbbed with unspoken accusations, conveying much more than words could. It was worse than outright rejection. It was the agonizing suspense, the possibility of his forgiveness, a forgiveness I felt utterly undeserving of.

She leaned back, studying me with keen eyes. “Danny, typically I know nothing about my clients before I meet them. So, I’m going to confess something to you. I know a little bit about who you are and what you’ve been through lately. I am here to tell you that everything you are feeling is normal.”

“No, it’s not!” I snapped, my carefully constructed facade crumbling as my body shook. “I’m not normal. I’m a fucking monster! I ruined the only thing that ever mattered to me.” My words were a desperate plea, a demand for justification that I knew I wouldn’t receive. Grabbing my head, I started rocking back and forth, closing my eyes tight as I tried to get Dante’s pained eyes out of my head.

I couldn’t bear to see them anymore.

“Danny, take a deep breath for me.”

“I did this to us. He hates me,” I muttered. “He will never forgive me.”

My words were the bitter truth. A testament to the chasm that had opened between the man I was and the man I’d become. My memory loss was just an excuse, a cruel twist of fate that had forced me to betray my own moral compass. And the worst part? A part of me, a dark, shameful part, almost wished I could justify it, wished I could find some solace in the fractured remnants of my identity. The thought itself was a betrayal and the inner turmoil intensified, until it became a tempest of guilt and self-loathing that threatened to consume me.