I remembered walking home, but then everything is hazy. I recalled heat, light and a hard knock to my head. I heard screams and pleas from bodiless voices. Perhaps some of them were my own. Some of them seemed to be his. He is the man who is with me now. I’m flat-backed on the back seat of his car, tracing the haloed streetlights as they sketch past the window. If I turn my head, I can see the outline of his body, hunched over the steering wheel. He’s breathing heavily, perhaps sobbing slightly. Something warm and sticky covers one side of my face, and my head pounds. I close my eyes, and let the darkness claim me once more. 

Hours, minutes, days, who can measure time when locked in a rolling dreamscape. I wake up again in a crisp white bed. I tentatively reached a hand to my head to find a thick bandage wrapped around it. Despite the strangeness of my surroundings, I lacked the strength or curiosity to fully sit up and look around, so his voice jolted me when he spoke. It was deep, calm and soft.
“Are you ok?” 
It’s a simple question, and one I had no answer for. 
“Where am I?” I responded simply after a long pause. I turned my head painfully to the side where the cut runs deepest to see him sitting in a small armchair next to the window. The curtains are white, yet heavily lined, and drawn. I could see it was daytime. 
“You’re safe.” His reply is just as brief. I looked at his face. His eyes are dark and concerned, yet passive. As if he’s accepted some kind of fate despite an internal battle. I’d put him in his mid-thirties. There was something about him that made me want to crawl under the covers and hide, despite the hint of kindness in his eyes.  
“Safe from what?” Our staccato conversation continues. 
With a sigh, he eased himself up from the chair, and with a confident stride, made his way over to the door at the other end of the room. I didn’t bother to turn my head to follow him, but I heard the lock on the door click into place. 

The next few days pass in much the same way. He came and went at regular intervals, nursing me through my recovery with stoic, uncommunicative calm. He brought food, water, and a collection of books. He watched me take the painkillers he offered, and changed my dressings. As I gained more strength, I started to test the different areas of my body. It seemed my head was just one injury. My eyes sting, as if scorched. My legs ached indeterminately, and perhaps worst of all, my little finger on my left hand is broken. He strapped it and checked it regularly with meticulous care, and I wondered if he’s a doctor to understand exactly what to do. A small bathroom is connected to my bedroom, and he helped me walk to it, and waited outside while I did what I needed to do. As the days passed, he allowed me to make my own way around my room. I discovered that the bedroom is large, airy and almost entirely white. There is no phone, television, or radio. The window looked out onto a large garden, filled with towering trees and just above what appeared to be a wide patio. Heavy, ornate, black bars crisscross the window from the outside. 
The questions I ask him are always the same, and he never loses patience. But he remained stubbornly unresponsive to my pleas. I asked him to take me home, drive me to a hospital, contact my mum. He simply said I needed to rest. One day, when pushed, he ignited, and hotly responded that there’s nothing left for me anymore. That makes me feel more frightened than anything else. Like he’s erased the whole of my life before coming into this comfortable, sterile room of his. I don’t say anything else, and sit back on the bed, shaking as he stormed away, locking the door firmly behind him. 
The next day, he came to me, and dragged the chair to the side of my bed. With a deep breath, he began what felt like a rehearsed speech. “You’re going to want to leave this room soon. Your injuries have healed well, and I don’t want you to feel -” he paused, stumbling slightly over the next word. “Confined.” I let out a small bitter laugh, despite myself, and he looked annoyed, or uncomfortable. “The house is secure, I’m sure of that, but I have to be able to trust you. You have to promise not to try to escape. And I have to be convinced, otherwise I can’t let you out of this room.”
I looked at him incredulously. “How can I convince you of that, when you know I want to go HOME.” I shouted the last word, anger seeping through my bones like a hot flash. I didn’t think he’d hurt me, no matter what words I fling at him. I wondered how he’d respond if I attacked him physically. He was taller than me. Fit if not overly muscled. He moved in a graceful way that made me think he could react quickly, and surely. 
“I’ve told you, there is no home for you to go to. Don’t you remember?” His face was slightly flushed, and I wondered at my words striking so well. 
“I don’t know what that means.” Even to me, my voice sounded petulant.
“Lily,” his words were strangled, and I draw a sharp breath. It was the first time he’d used my name. “Don’t you remember the fire?”
I could, I realised. I see the fire eating up my home, the heat, the dancing flame. Everything I’ve been dreaming of. “No,” I’m sobbed. “But my mum, she’ll want to know I’m ok …” I can’t wrap my head around it. The edges of my memories keep curling, lifting away from my groping fingers. 
“You need more time,” he asserted. His voice was still a little shaky, but his habitual calm was sliding back into place. He left me, and instead of continuing to weep, I curled up on the bed and slept for what felt like an age.