Dangerous Melodies - Chapter 59: Chapter 59
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MARISOL
The past few weeks had been harrowing. A stalker had broken into my home, shaking me to the core. I’d fought him off with martial arts moves that came from somewhere deep inside.
The police called it self-defense. Said I was lucky. But when I watched the security footage later, I barely recognized myself. Every move was fast and efficient like I’d trained my whole life. A knee to his stomach. An elbow to his throat. I didn’t hesitate.
That terrified me more than the break-in.
Where had I learned that? Who had taught me to fight like that? A memory should’ve followed the motion, but there was nothing. Just my own voice, shaky and unfamiliar, reporting the attack like I was reading from a script.
It wasn’t just the danger that rattled me. It was the reminder of a deeper truth: I didn’t remember who I was.
The weight of amnesia settled over me like a second skin. I remembered nothing before waking in that sterile hospital bed six years ago. The doctors had called my survival a miracle. The bullet to my head should’ve ended everything. Instead, it took everything else.
My past, my identity, my name.
Victoria Valencia. That was the name on the ID they found on me that night. But no matter how deep I dug, no matter how many private investigators I hired, the answer never changed. There was nothing. No records. No trace of anyone with that name.
The silence fed my anxiety. The not-knowing became its own kind of wound.
I slipped into my bedroom and sank onto the vanity stool, the night air cool against my skin. My amber eyes stared back at me from the mirror, the only thing I recognized. Beautiful, maybe, but the scars on my back told another story. They whispered of pain I couldn’t remember.
Reaching for the brush, I froze. My fingers trembled as I traced the curve of my cheek, wondering who else had touched this face. Had someone loved me once? Hated me?
Sometimes I imagined someone brushing my hair, gentle hands and soft humming, but the image always slipped away before I could see a face. Or a lover touching the scars and asking questions I couldn’t answer.
You’re Marisol now, Lucas always said. Let the past go. But how could I, when it haunted every quiet moment?
I stared into my own eyes, searching for recognition. All I saw was the ache of not knowing who I was.
I shifted, flinching as the robe brushed the jagged lines across my back. The doctor had examined them with a frown and said they looked like whip marks. He hadn’t said it aloud, but I’d seen it in his eyes. What kind of life had I lived before that gunshot?
Six years. It had been exactly six years since the gunshot, and still, nothing. A black void where a life should’ve been. The harder I tried to remember, the further those missing years slipped away.
Who had pulled the trigger, and why? Was it a stranger? Someone I knew? Was I still a target?
The spiral came, as it always did. My chest tightened. Breath shallow, mind racing. No matter how many nights passed, the torment didn’t fade.
And yet, sometimes, something broke through the silence. Once, on tour in Montreal, I passed a man in a gray coat. He wore a leather glove on his left hand and walked with a limp. Something in me recoiled.
I stumbled back, breath caught in my throat. I didn’t know him, not consciously, but the fear came hard and fast.
I’d spent the rest of the night pacing my hotel room, heart racing, convinced I was being followed. Nothing came of it. The man was never seen again. Still, the feeling lingered.
Sometimes, I wonder if the mind doesn’t forget. It just hides what it can’t bear to remember.
Silence crept in, heavy and familiar. Maybe the answers would never come. Maybe I had to live with that. But the ache for closure never left.
My scars didn’t just mark skin. They marked time, pain, and erasure. A life stolen.
To the world, I was Marisol. The name glittered under stage lights, beloved by millions. My eyes, my voice, people adored them. But as I stared into that mirror, all I saw was a stranger.
The fame, the name. It meant nothing without the past that shaped it.
I often went back to the night that changed it all. The night Lucas Moretti walked into the bar where I was singing.
The lead singer had called out sick, and my coworker, who’d heard me humming through shifts, nudged me onto the stage. I’d been terrified, convinced I’d choke.
My hands were shaking so badly that I almost dropped the mic. I scanned the crowd and saw nothing but silhouettes, blurry and unreal. But when the first note left my lips, the room snapped into focus.
The fear vanished the moment I started to sing. Instinct took over, and my voice soared. Clear, steady, mine. By the end of the set, the band offered me the lead spot.
It was like muscle memory, something deeper than thought. Just like the way I’d fought off the stalker. My body knew what to do. My mind was just trying to keep up.
We played bars, dive joints, wherever they'd have us. Slowly, we built a name.
Then one night, Lucas walked in. I felt his gaze before I saw him. Steady. Intense. After the set, he handed me a gold-embossed card.
"You’ve got something special," he said. Confident. Commanding. "Come by the studio tomorrow. I want to hear more."
I’d been skeptical. Promises like that rarely meant anything. But Lucas’s certainty, and my bandmates’ faith, pushed me to try.
We cut a demo. Lucas hustled. Made calls. Pulled strings. And somehow, labels started listening.
As the pieces fell into place, Lucas said I needed a stage name.
"You need something that sticks," he told me. "Something unforgettable."
No name fit until I woke one night with a single word on my lips.
Marisol.
I didn’t know where it came from, but it echoed deep inside. I told Lucas the next morning.
He smiled. "Marisol it is."
He didn’t know it then, but he’d just named a star.
It didn’t happen overnight. We clawed for it. Auditions, late nights, rejection after rejection. But eventually, someone heard me and saw potential.
My name started to spread. Small clubs to sold-out arenas. And Lucas was there for all of it. Pushing. Protecting. Building a successful career, even if it didn’t feel like it.
But even on the world’s biggest stages, the emptiness followed. I’m Marisol now. But someone out there still knew who I used to be, and maybe they were waiting for me to find out, too.
The past few weeks had been harrowing. A stalker had broken into my home, shaking me to the core. I’d fought him off with martial arts moves that came from somewhere deep inside.
The police called it self-defense. Said I was lucky. But when I watched the security footage later, I barely recognized myself. Every move was fast and efficient like I’d trained my whole life. A knee to his stomach. An elbow to his throat. I didn’t hesitate.
That terrified me more than the break-in.
Where had I learned that? Who had taught me to fight like that? A memory should’ve followed the motion, but there was nothing. Just my own voice, shaky and unfamiliar, reporting the attack like I was reading from a script.
It wasn’t just the danger that rattled me. It was the reminder of a deeper truth: I didn’t remember who I was.
The weight of amnesia settled over me like a second skin. I remembered nothing before waking in that sterile hospital bed six years ago. The doctors had called my survival a miracle. The bullet to my head should’ve ended everything. Instead, it took everything else.
My past, my identity, my name.
Victoria Valencia. That was the name on the ID they found on me that night. But no matter how deep I dug, no matter how many private investigators I hired, the answer never changed. There was nothing. No records. No trace of anyone with that name.
The silence fed my anxiety. The not-knowing became its own kind of wound.
I slipped into my bedroom and sank onto the vanity stool, the night air cool against my skin. My amber eyes stared back at me from the mirror, the only thing I recognized. Beautiful, maybe, but the scars on my back told another story. They whispered of pain I couldn’t remember.
Reaching for the brush, I froze. My fingers trembled as I traced the curve of my cheek, wondering who else had touched this face. Had someone loved me once? Hated me?
Sometimes I imagined someone brushing my hair, gentle hands and soft humming, but the image always slipped away before I could see a face. Or a lover touching the scars and asking questions I couldn’t answer.
You’re Marisol now, Lucas always said. Let the past go. But how could I, when it haunted every quiet moment?
I stared into my own eyes, searching for recognition. All I saw was the ache of not knowing who I was.
I shifted, flinching as the robe brushed the jagged lines across my back. The doctor had examined them with a frown and said they looked like whip marks. He hadn’t said it aloud, but I’d seen it in his eyes. What kind of life had I lived before that gunshot?
Six years. It had been exactly six years since the gunshot, and still, nothing. A black void where a life should’ve been. The harder I tried to remember, the further those missing years slipped away.
Who had pulled the trigger, and why? Was it a stranger? Someone I knew? Was I still a target?
The spiral came, as it always did. My chest tightened. Breath shallow, mind racing. No matter how many nights passed, the torment didn’t fade.
And yet, sometimes, something broke through the silence. Once, on tour in Montreal, I passed a man in a gray coat. He wore a leather glove on his left hand and walked with a limp. Something in me recoiled.
I stumbled back, breath caught in my throat. I didn’t know him, not consciously, but the fear came hard and fast.
I’d spent the rest of the night pacing my hotel room, heart racing, convinced I was being followed. Nothing came of it. The man was never seen again. Still, the feeling lingered.
Sometimes, I wonder if the mind doesn’t forget. It just hides what it can’t bear to remember.
Silence crept in, heavy and familiar. Maybe the answers would never come. Maybe I had to live with that. But the ache for closure never left.
My scars didn’t just mark skin. They marked time, pain, and erasure. A life stolen.
To the world, I was Marisol. The name glittered under stage lights, beloved by millions. My eyes, my voice, people adored them. But as I stared into that mirror, all I saw was a stranger.
The fame, the name. It meant nothing without the past that shaped it.
I often went back to the night that changed it all. The night Lucas Moretti walked into the bar where I was singing.
The lead singer had called out sick, and my coworker, who’d heard me humming through shifts, nudged me onto the stage. I’d been terrified, convinced I’d choke.
My hands were shaking so badly that I almost dropped the mic. I scanned the crowd and saw nothing but silhouettes, blurry and unreal. But when the first note left my lips, the room snapped into focus.
The fear vanished the moment I started to sing. Instinct took over, and my voice soared. Clear, steady, mine. By the end of the set, the band offered me the lead spot.
It was like muscle memory, something deeper than thought. Just like the way I’d fought off the stalker. My body knew what to do. My mind was just trying to keep up.
We played bars, dive joints, wherever they'd have us. Slowly, we built a name.
Then one night, Lucas walked in. I felt his gaze before I saw him. Steady. Intense. After the set, he handed me a gold-embossed card.
"You’ve got something special," he said. Confident. Commanding. "Come by the studio tomorrow. I want to hear more."
I’d been skeptical. Promises like that rarely meant anything. But Lucas’s certainty, and my bandmates’ faith, pushed me to try.
We cut a demo. Lucas hustled. Made calls. Pulled strings. And somehow, labels started listening.
As the pieces fell into place, Lucas said I needed a stage name.
"You need something that sticks," he told me. "Something unforgettable."
No name fit until I woke one night with a single word on my lips.
Marisol.
I didn’t know where it came from, but it echoed deep inside. I told Lucas the next morning.
He smiled. "Marisol it is."
He didn’t know it then, but he’d just named a star.
It didn’t happen overnight. We clawed for it. Auditions, late nights, rejection after rejection. But eventually, someone heard me and saw potential.
My name started to spread. Small clubs to sold-out arenas. And Lucas was there for all of it. Pushing. Protecting. Building a successful career, even if it didn’t feel like it.
But even on the world’s biggest stages, the emptiness followed. I’m Marisol now. But someone out there still knew who I used to be, and maybe they were waiting for me to find out, too.
End of Dangerous Melodies Chapter 59. Continue reading Chapter 60 or return to Dangerous Melodies book page.