Oblivion
you don't remember?
"You don't remember your name?"
A pressure thumped at my forehead, pushing and pressing at my skull. It felt like my head was being stretched around my head, and I couldn't raise my head to look the man in front of me in the eyes. My face felt scruffy and unshaven, but my nails were neatly trimmed and looked as though they had been kept in good condition, which felt odd. Maybe I didn’t like shaving?
The man before me let out a sigh of frustration, and stalked out of the hospital cubicle. He towered over the doctor who had examined me earlier and seemed to be shouting at him. I don’t know, my hearing wasn’t working properly and I kept fading in and out of focus...
”You don’t remember who I am?”
The next time I began aware of a person in the room with me, it was the man from before and he was wearing the same clothes; a business suit and a trench coat over the top, although both the jackets had been removed and his shirt looked crumpled from where he tried to sleep in the plastic seat beside my bed.
His head rested on the beside cabinet next to me. A large bouquet of flowers cast a shadow over his face and blocked it from my view, but his large, strong hands rested on his stomach as he snored loudly. I wondered mildly who he was, but I as still wondering who I was too and there wasn’t a strong feeling of concern.
”You don’t remember our life together?”
It had been three weeks and I was living with my parents. The man came to visit regularly, most weekends at least if not during the week. I was using my old books from university to figure out what I did for a living (a lawyer) and he sometimes dropped by with gifts and helpful tips from people I used to work with. The man (James) spent a lot of time asking me what I remember from my life before but I can’t even remember my brother, and he was a recent addition to my life.
He smiles at me when I confess ignorance, every time, but I know that there’s pain in his heart. I can see the sadness prickling behind his eyes when he leaves, and something inside me hurts every time he walks out of the door.
”You don’t remember being gay?”
He speaks, then stops immediately. A silence fills the void after that sentence, and he apologises quickly and takes back his words. After that the conversation is strained and his question prises at my mind like a curious schoolgirl. I can’t not think about it, and he doesn’t want to.
“I don’t remember not being gay, if that helps.”
He smiles, and this time it’s not sad. He laughs, and this time I join in; it feels happy and carefree and I forget that I’ve forgotten because I don’t need to know him to laugh with him. A finger strokes the back of my hand, and I look at him and meet his eyes. The silence this time isn’t strained, and I can feel the hurt from before flower into something else, something that pushes the words out of my lips.
“Lets make new memories.” I say. “I promise I’ll remember them this time.”
A pressure thumped at my forehead, pushing and pressing at my skull. It felt like my head was being stretched around my head, and I couldn't raise my head to look the man in front of me in the eyes. My face felt scruffy and unshaven, but my nails were neatly trimmed and looked as though they had been kept in good condition, which felt odd. Maybe I didn’t like shaving?
The man before me let out a sigh of frustration, and stalked out of the hospital cubicle. He towered over the doctor who had examined me earlier and seemed to be shouting at him. I don’t know, my hearing wasn’t working properly and I kept fading in and out of focus...
”You don’t remember who I am?”
The next time I began aware of a person in the room with me, it was the man from before and he was wearing the same clothes; a business suit and a trench coat over the top, although both the jackets had been removed and his shirt looked crumpled from where he tried to sleep in the plastic seat beside my bed.
His head rested on the beside cabinet next to me. A large bouquet of flowers cast a shadow over his face and blocked it from my view, but his large, strong hands rested on his stomach as he snored loudly. I wondered mildly who he was, but I as still wondering who I was too and there wasn’t a strong feeling of concern.
”You don’t remember our life together?”
It had been three weeks and I was living with my parents. The man came to visit regularly, most weekends at least if not during the week. I was using my old books from university to figure out what I did for a living (a lawyer) and he sometimes dropped by with gifts and helpful tips from people I used to work with. The man (James) spent a lot of time asking me what I remember from my life before but I can’t even remember my brother, and he was a recent addition to my life.
He smiles at me when I confess ignorance, every time, but I know that there’s pain in his heart. I can see the sadness prickling behind his eyes when he leaves, and something inside me hurts every time he walks out of the door.
”You don’t remember being gay?”
He speaks, then stops immediately. A silence fills the void after that sentence, and he apologises quickly and takes back his words. After that the conversation is strained and his question prises at my mind like a curious schoolgirl. I can’t not think about it, and he doesn’t want to.
“I don’t remember not being gay, if that helps.”
He smiles, and this time it’s not sad. He laughs, and this time I join in; it feels happy and carefree and I forget that I’ve forgotten because I don’t need to know him to laugh with him. A finger strokes the back of my hand, and I look at him and meet his eyes. The silence this time isn’t strained, and I can feel the hurt from before flower into something else, something that pushes the words out of my lips.
“Lets make new memories.” I say. “I promise I’ll remember them this time.”
♠ ♠ ♠
comments please?