Out of Sight, Out of Mind

Helping myself means letting down those who care about me. 

Everyone wants me to remember. The people claiming to be my family and friends, the doctors, the police. I was the only one there, the only one who supposedly witnessed the death of young Misty Melville. I was the only one who survived the encounter, yet I came back bringing more bruises and mysteries than they had in the first place. If they could solve me, put together the scattered pieces in my brain, they could solve the puzzle and help future victims. 

But I’m a victim too. And if what happened was so bad I stopped holding on to my memories, then I didn’t want anything to do with them now. 

The doctors come pestering me everyday in this way or that. Sometimes they prick my arm with needles, sometimes they poke at my head. Sometimes, they just sit there, hoping their disappointed stares will push me over the edge. I hate every minute of it. I hate feeling like their experiment. I hate their examinations, their pointless attempts to draw out what isn’t there. They always tell me I’m fine, that they’ll solve me soon, so what can I do but sit there and grit out my thanks. At least my pitiful face gets them to leave the room. If only to come up with more procedures to test out on me. 

My family and friends are even worse. They crowd me everyday, relentlessly taking turns shoving into my small room during guest hours. They ask how are you feeling!? and say things like I’m here for you no matter what! If only they knew how it felt to be in my position. Their saccharine smiles burn at my inside more than any medicine. They have so much hope in me, while I don’t even recognize them. 

But what stops me from giving into their dreams the most are my hourly encounters with the police. Every Thursday, they come to my room, carrying a pamphlet of new evidence they somehow found relating to the investigation. They show me the pictures, recording my face for any expressions of recognition. A red smear against concrete. Locks of freshly dyed pink hair. Even an earring of an elephant recovered from the young girl's body. These images fuel my nightmares, locking the door to any memories that might come out. 

Some people would say I’m traumatized. Therapist no. 2 certainly thinks so anyway. According to her, I don’t remember the incident, but I do remember the emotions related to it. The stress and fear are apparently stopping me from opening up that part of my brain. I think it’s a load of crap. How can I remember the emotions for something if I don’t remember what happened? It sounds like one of the inspirational quotes elementary teachers plaster onto their walls to force kids to be kind. 

I believe in a more flowing form of life. The library doesn’t have the book you wanted? Browse for a new one. Your friend ruined your life? Cut her out of it? A brutal murder happened 20 feet away from your car and gave you amnesia? Move on and hope never to come in contact with the perpetrator again. Why do people have to always pursue things so far down the road? Can’t they tell that my attempts to help are fake? That all I want to do is leave this town and move on. Apparently not. 

I glance at the clock. 4:55. Crap, in five minutes I’ll be subject to another police interrogation session. Fumbling with my covers, I pull myself out of the stiff hospital gurney and grab my fuzzy orange jacket. Everytime they come, we have the meeting in the same place. Well, it’s the only appropriate place in this room really. The matted burgundy couch sat crammed against the corner by the window. It had tears on every cushion, revealing the yellow foam underneath. A vase of plastic flowers sat on an old table that rested against the other end. I would sit there. The officer would pull over the wheeled desk chair on the other side of the room and place the materials to discuss on the cushion next to me. This was how it had been for the past month. 

Just like I envisioned, the blond-haired officer walked in precisely on time and pulled the chair over, a clear folder of laminated papers tucked under her arm. She slid them across the couch over to me before taking a seat.

“Lisa McCarthy,” she said staring down at the notebook she carried with her. They assigned me different officers every time, hoping new faces would bring new memories. As if, no wonder these people didn’t go into the sciences. “ If you don’t mind, our department recently found some new pieces of evidence we would like for you to examine.”

Wow, no pleasantries. At least the last guy had said hello first. Hoping to get this over with, I pulled over the copied pages and took the first one out. It was a picture of a golden retriever.

“What you’re holding there is a picture of Misty’s dog. Security cameras show it was with her the day of the attack. At first we didn’t think it was relevant, but we’re wondering if you might remember hearing or seeing them before you lost your memory,” the officer nodded towards the image I was holding.

“No,” I responded. “I don’t remember.” The truth was, I despised dogs. The way they continuously barked and demanded that you pet them. It nauseated me. Especially large dogs like the picture, they ran up to strangers like they owned the world. 

I took out the next object. It was a small strip of fuzzy purple fabric, plastered down with rain and mud. It looked like it was decaying, and even through the bag I could smell the stench of squishy grime. 

“What’s this,” I asked. The officer hadn’t told me any info about the bag’s contents yet. I could tell by her disappointed expression she had hoped to catch a flash of recognition in my face. 

“We think it’s from Misty’s jacket. We found it in a sewer nearby the crime scene recently but we had nothing to match it to. The rest of it must’ve gone through the pipes already.” She reached over and took the bag from my hands, as well as the dog picture, carefully placing them back in the folder. I guess that was all they found today. Hopefully they would stop coming up with new stuff for me to stare at soon and I could finally leave. 

“Oh, before I forget,” the officer added as she headed out the doorway. “Your friend found your purse at her house. How it didn’t come up weeks ago I wouldn’t know, but here. Maybe there’s gum in it or something.” She tossed me the bag as she left.

I thought about ignoring it at first. My friends were always sending stuff that were supposedly mine, but just ended up holding presents I’d never even think of buying. Maybe they wanted to make me feel better, but it just gave me a lot of stuff I’d never use. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much else to do. Hoping that the officer was right and I could maybe find something to eat, I unzipped the leather cloth and dug my hand inside. 

To my surprise, it seemed messy and unorganized, unlike my previous disguised gifts had been. There were a few teared-open packs of candy and stray cash. Yep, definitely mine. If only my past non-amnesiac self had provided me something to eat. Luckily, I spotted the shiny aluminum wrapping that had to signal food. As I reached for my month old granola mix, my hand brushed aside a lonely elephant earring.