Stitched

"Your name is Marie Alice Young. You're a twenty-seven year old elementary school teacher. Your father abandoned you, and your mother when you were twelve years old; your mother committed suicide the following year, your aunt and uncle gaining custody over you."

Marie simply stared, occasionally nodding as the therapist told her her life as she sat on a hospital bed. She had just woken up and looked around when a nurse had called for her. The woman sat beside her, holding her hand sportively tight. Who is this woman, Marie wondered, and why does it seem she's clinging to me more than life?

The woman had faux strawberry blonde hair tied up into a bun. Her face was freckled, and her make up smudged. She wore a candy stripe's outfit, she was a volunteer. Marie looked her over for a name tag, or some form of I.D., but saw nothing.

"Ms. Young, do you recall any of what I said?" The therapist asked her after a moment.

"Uhmm... A bit, I guess. I remember working in a school, and having lost both of my parents, and living with my aunt and uncle... but... I don't recall any faces," Marie said as she thought, trying to remember the faces; she could recall one, but she was too young and too beautiful to be a relative.

She noticed the woman released her hand, and turned to look at her.

"You don't remember anyone's faces, Ms. Young?" The Therapist asked before Marie could speak.

Marie turned her head back to the therapist. "I'm afraid not, Miss...?"

"Mrs. Young," the woman said slowly.

"I'm afraid I can't recall any of my relatives' or students' faces, Mrs. Young."

"I see," Mrs. Young spoke after a moment. "Alright, I suppose you'll want to rest more. Someone will be by to see you later." She rose, bowed goodbye, gathered her briefcase and left.

The volunteer, bowed and departed as well.

Marie sat there in silence and leaned back, falling into a deep sleep.