Why would he do this to me?

My emotional roller coaster ride had reached the highest and steepest hill and the only way to go was down. All the other things inside the room seemed to fade in shades of white except for the wooden canvas frame stand standing by the window, cradling an oil painting.

It was a portrait of me, wearing the floral dress I wore when we first met again. A smile curved onto my face in the portrait as my long wavy hair flowed down my head, soaked in rain. But the thing that caught my eye was the necklace I was wearing in the picture. It was the same necklace he gave me. Did he just paint this out from imagination? Or did his memory return as he painted this? Oh, Oliver... why?

A breeze went in through the window, allowing the morning rays to illuminate the painting - his handiwork. It was as if I could see him sitting on the stool as he strokes the brush onto the canvas. I wished to see him that way, even for one last time. But because of my stupidity, I now stand here longing for the old times when Oliver and I were innocently and blindly falling in love. It was at this moment that I realized it was love indeed. Just as everything drowned in white, I saw the two of us standing on the edge of the highway overlooking the city.

He asked me his ever persistent question, "Do you love me?"

Back then, I wasn't sure what to say. I wanted to say that I love him. But at that time, I was still scared that if I say those words, I might not be able to take responsibility for it and keep the feeling long enough for our relationship to prosper. And so I replied using my use-this-if-you-don't-know-what-to-say word, "...maybe."

Looking at the memory at this point in time, I realized how stupid I was. I wanted to shout to my old self to say those words out loud. I wanted to scream to her: Say those words, damn it! I wanted to go and choke myself into saying those three words he so longed to hear. Say those words before it's too late! Say it now! Say it now!

But indeed, it was too late. The memory faded in a white mist of regret. The painting stood before me now, reminding me of what I had lost.

"On the day of the accident, he lost his memory." I had forgotten that Oliver's sister was still standing behind me. "He lost a big chunk of memory... a really big one. He forgot about us, he forgot who he is... he forgot about you."

This might sound bad but I think that would've been the best thing to happen to him: forgetting about me. But, if he forgot about me, then what was this painting doing in his room? Before I could ask that question, Oliver's sister pushed on.

"I had to fly back here in the Philippines. It was a tough job to be with him that time. He wasn't the Oliver I grew up with anymore. We tried our best to help bring back his memories. We tried several therapies and all, but it only made him even more hostile and restless. And so we gave up on bringing back his memories and focused on making new ones instead. Sam Castro became his name. Being a news writer became his job. Ryan, my son, became his best buddy. Ryan volunteered to work closely with him to keep an eye on him. Everything went well. We were all happy. But when the company decided to open up a branch here, Oliver was quick to volunteer. We tried everything to stop him, but he was unstoppable. Knowing that his identity was successfully kept hidden, I got a bit easy on him and let him go. But for added measures, Ryan decided to come with him to make sure none of the Dela Calzadas will hurt him. Both of them were fine when they arrived here. They were complete strangers in this city, which was a good thing. My mistake was that Ryan didn't know about you."

Hearing those words kept me rooted on my spot. I held on to the necklace Oliver gave me. Indeed, it was a mistake Oliver knew me in the first place. He doesn't deserve a foolish woman like me.

"I'm sorry but I didn't mention you when we were helping Oliver bring back his memories. I thought it would only bring back bad memories. Yes... I knew what happened between the two of you." I felt my cheeks heat up in shame.

"But I guess I was wrong," she continued. "It would've been good for Oliver if the two of you had met earlier after the accident. After all, a large part of him was dedicated to you. You would've been the best therapy he could've had. Maybe if this incident didn't happen, he might've fully recovered. Or... he may already have."

"What do you mean?" I turned to her but she had already turned for the door. If she meant that Oliver's memory had returned the day he met me again, I had every evidences to say otherwise. I thought of the time I forced his identity to him, but he looked back at me with the most clueless, yet beautiful, eyes.

"Find out for yourself." There was exhaustion in her voice when she said that. "I'll leave you for a while as I gather some things." With that, she left but kept the door open.

I wasn't exactly sure what she meant by that but I was glad she left. I couldn't take any of her stories anymore. It was torture – but a torture I deserved. I stood there watching the door left opened. Two years ago, it was Oliver's back I saw walking out my door, leaving it open. That was the most painful thing I felt until now. 

An open door – a great representation of how I feel: someone without closure. Is this really what I deserved? Am I doomed to an eternity of a loveless life? I guess so.

I turned to look at the painting. How can a man love me like this? How did he do it? How can he still love me all these years even though a heartless 'maybe' was all he got in return? I had a taste of perfection but I was clueless at that time. I guess it's true that you only know what you lost when you've already lost it.

I went closer to the painting, trying to examine it closely as if it was the closest thing I can get to the best thing I once had. Then I noticed something out of place. The painting, it wasn't flawless as I thought it was. Having a room full of Oliver's paintings, I knew this wasn't the kind of painting Oliver would give me. There were stains of red in unlikely places. I caressed the painting and realized that there were stitch lines all over the painting, not visible when viewed at a distance. It was as if the painting was torn apart and sewn back again. What happened?

But then, as I leaned closer, I caught a whiff of a pungent metallic odor coming from the painting. Blood.

I felt all the heat from my body evaporate as I realized that the red stains on scant areas of the painting were actually blood. I backed away looking horror stricken. I felt like I was looking at a ghost. It felt creepy indeed, looking at a blood-stained portrait of me, but this is Oliver's work – the very same guy who crossed the deep pits of amnesia just to see me again.

I went back closer again and this time, I took the painting from the wooden frame stand carefully as if holding an already broken piece of glass that was bound to break with the slightest mistake. I turned it around to see its rear side. Oh, Oliver, you really never changed.

Like any other painting Oliver had given me, this one had a short note written scruffily on the back. This time, however, it was written in black ink stained with blood. It said:

I still promise to love you no matter what

- Oli

Upon reading this, I reached the pinnacle of the hill track of my emotional roller coaster ride. I could see the beautiful sky above, but I was never going to reach it as all that was left for me to go was down. I fell down on my knees as I hugged the portrait. I cried and even that was an understatement. I cried like a little child. I cried loudly letting go of all the pain I held inside, letting out all the frustrations that had piled up, letting myself drown in misery. I cried like there's no more tomorrow. Well, I guess there really is no tomorrow for me.

I guess this is... the end.

But wait... where's Oliver? Is he alive? I got so lost from his sister's story that I forgot about Oliver. I didn't really know what happened to him. I ran out of the room leaving the portrait onto the wooden frame stand. I looked for Oliver's sister. I found her by door. She had just hung up from a phone call.

"We need to go." That was all she needed to say for me to understand what was going on.

***

I drove like a maniac, not minding whether I was counter-flowing or beeping my horn like crazy. I needed to go to the hospital where Oliver was and I needed to get there fast. When we got there, I didn't bother to park my car properly. I wasn't even sure if I'd turned off the engines. We went straight to the ICU, not minding the 'hello-s' and 'how-are-you-s' of the clueless people who knew me in the hospital. We passed long white-washed corridors; our steps seemed to echo despite the number of people around us. The familiar antiseptic, sterile scent of the hospital that once filled me with a sense of duty now filled me with a sense of dread. We arrived at the receiving area of the ICU. It felt chilly and smelled strongly of cleaning products. We donned all the necessary protective clothing and entered the premise.

The ICU was a ten-bed capacity circular room with the cubicles surrounding the nurse station. There were only two lit rooms, which meant there were only two patients – a chill duty as what my colleagues during my hospital days would say. But this time, there were no nurses sitting in the station.

There was a lot of movement and a lot of beeping from the machines surrounding the place. There was one muscular nurse doing CPR on a patient as another nurse wheeled in the bulky defibrillator in that patient's cubicle. Another one was pumping a bag-valve mask through a tube hooked through that patient's mouth while the other was standing by a suction machine. A doctor came in asking about the patient's status and how much epinephrine had been given. All these activities made my stomach lurched. Although I was acutely aware of the events, I felt lost and didn't know what to do. There were only two patients, which meant that one of them has got to be Oliver. It was hard to recognize them immediately with all the tubes and plasters attached to them. I prayed to all the heavens that the one they were reviving wasn't Oliver.

I caught the eyes of one of the nurses working on the dying patient. Underneath her face mask, I recognized her as one of Oliver's colleagues before. She looked at me with eye brows raised, apparently surprised to see me. But then, she looked down in a defeated way. She may have already confirmed what I feared.

***

Who is the dying patient? Will Melissa see Oliver again? Or will the painting be the last gift Melissa will have from Oliver? Find out on the next chapters ^_^ 

End Notes:

Hey guys! Thank you so much for reading up to this point. I apologize for the slow updates. I got so busy these days. The final episode is coming so close, now. So stay tuned ^_^

So once again, if you liked the story, please consider hitting that vote button below or add this to your library. If you think it's bad, message me :) If you have something to say, don't hesitate to leave a comment. See you guys! Have a good day ^_^

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