The Nightmarish Reality

"Time heals all wounds, I presume," the interviewer said, warming his butt on my turquoise Serena and Lily armchair in my lounge room.

"That's ridiculous. What wounds can I heal when I don't remember a damn thing from my years as a child. The media covered this already. What more information do you want?" I said nonchalantly, blowing at my cigarette. My gaze was fixed on the scrawny man, his short dyed black hair to blonde threatening my breakfast.

He took out his notepad and jotted down what I had just said.

"There isn't anything to write. We are done here. Get out!"

"So you are saying you have amnesia? Then why are you always cold, harsh and brutal when you don't even remember your past? Why are you always intimidating? Why are you on demand on every police checklist, them desperately wanting you to join their force? How is it possible..."

I pressed the cigarette butt that had been burning between my fingers on the ashtray and stood up as the man continued bombarding me with all the questions he could think of. Gawd! Where did I stash my painkillers?

It bothered me he couldn't read the emotions screaming loudly on my face. Over the years after being kicked out from the only place I tried calling home, I learnt to hide my actual feelings. Not even a twinge of emotion could be evident on my face. But at that moment, anyone walking on the other side of the street would wish there was another side to walk on, further away from me. It was that clear.

Hiding feelings though was also part of the job. You don't want to sell out your emotions to strangers. It only showed weakness. We can't control what will happen tomorrow. You'll never know who will step on you and who wouldn't. That is why life was overpriced and tagged as unfair. All you have to do is adapt and fight the world before it fights you.

"I said get-out! Normally, I won't repeat myself," I said, still keeping my cool but I was about to lose it, Lord have mercy.

"Clearly, but I'm doing my job. I'm being paid for extra hours."

"Look at my face. Do I look like I give a damn about your job? You go by my rules under my roof, so I'd suggest you stop being a stubborn pig and get the hell out of my house before I throw you out myself."

The interviewer stood up, scrambling uneasily as he gathered his things. His eyes met mine.

"You don't intimidate me at all." His voice sounded strained and brittle.

"Oh! Well, that's very good to hear," I replied sarcastically, looking down at him as he was shorter, and smiling, hiding the rage of madness that was boiling in my veins.

I moved even closer to him, brushing my black robe against the grey granite tiles. And before he knew it, my leg met his back and he fell from the contact his stomach meeting the tiled floor, and an agonised groan escaped his throat.

I squatted next to him and took him by his ungodly hair, whispering in his ear. "I think now you know why I'm on demand at every police department. So, if there are no other questions, you know where the front door is." 

I walked to another room painted cream and contrasted by a dark maroon wool carpet that had a smooth and satisfying feeling on bare feet. I sat on one of the couches in the room, laying back my head on the headrest and placing my booted feet on the coffee table opposite the couch, sighing in exhaustion.

'Twenty-four unread mails,' my digital monitor announced, earning a huge loud groan in response.

I lazily stood up to reach for the remote and checked on all the received and unread emails.

"Please write back. We need your help; You are highly considered, blah, blah, blah; The LAPD wants you to kindly check in as soon as possible to interrogate a new suspect. Payment is done for every hour." I read.

"Crap!" I concluded, slumping back on the couch.

As I scrolled down the list of endless emails, the last one drew my attention. It had not been read for the past eight months. It immediately called for my attention as the subject was a single dark heart and three continuous dots.

The hell? What was that supposed to mean?

Dear Becca Monroe,

It would probably take a while before you open this mail but I'll be patient enough until you read what I have to say,

I'll cut to the chase. I'm the doctor who attended to you when you were six and an old couple brought you to my hospital after they found you bleeding near a railway station. You might be wondering what happened, I do too but I may have an idea. Since nineteen years ago, ever since you were admitted here, I never stopped checking on your brain scans. Together with a neurosurgeon, Mikael Baldowski, we discovered you had memory loss but as the years advanced, we figured out how we could help one remember by connecting the cerebrum which is associated with memory in the human brain to a machine designed by the Chinese to record dreams.

We have not yet tested it, but of course, dangers and risks may arise. You'll be our test subject as everyone else with memory loss bailed. We will not force you to but we'll push through with your consent.

I believe you'd want to know what happened that caused your memory loss.

Feel free to reply and give your opinion. 

~Dr. Xander

"Do I really want this?" I asked myself after re-reading the email one more time.

Would it be worth it?