Try Again, Bry Glenn

Today is the day, and now is finally the time.

Bryan “Bry” Glenn was driving his white 2019 Jeep Wrangler toward the intersection. The traffic light had been sitting on green for some time now as he accelerated. On the radio, he was listening to “Death Bed (Coffee For Your Head)” by Powfu; it always felt like such a powerful song to him, evoking strong feelings of nostalgia and a sense of hopeless longing – he couldn’t quite explain why, but it seemed like the perfect song for this moment.

Bry’s countenance was one of contempt and dismay. His dark hair, once neatly combed, now hung in a messy, greasy, unkempt mess, untouched for days. His eyes were red and swollen as tears ran down his unshaven cheeks. His nose was congested with a slow, constant stream of mucus, and his lips trembled. His hands shook as his bone-white knuckles clenched around the steering wheel in a death grip.

A feeling of relief was expected to wash over Bry. Today, he was finally going through with what he had been promising himself, over and over. He promised it to himself in the shower, on the toilet, at work, doing laundry, cleaning the dishes, driving home, lying awake in bed for hours on end. Today, that promise to himself is going to be brought to fruition – he was going to end the miserable stain on human history that is his life. Yet no relief would rise up to meet him. There was no sense of rightness in what he was about to do, only a growing dread and the same anxious dread that had been welling inside of him, whirling like an agitated maelstrom in his soul. That didn’t change the course of Bry’s decision, however.

The lane to the right of the intersection was empty, but seemingly by some divine intelligence, the lane to the left had plenty of vehicles to choose from. At the head of the line of idle cars waiting for a green light was a large, green colored SUV. The occupants of that vehicle would likely get out of this with nothing more than a scratch. That was good. Bry didn’t want to hurt anyone else in this escapade, only himself.

With that comforting thought, at least, Bry pushed on the gas pedal, knowing the time for the traffic signal’s change was soon here. The engine roared in seeming hesitation, growing louder. But his speed picked up. Bry felt the pressure built up in his throat and willed himself to release it. It was more than a cry – it was a wrenching scream, drenched in all the agony he had endured and reminisce of the hatred he felt for others as well as himself. Fresh tears burst from his eyes by the gallon.

A trick of light turned red into green, and with the green SUV quickly approaching the driver's side of his little jeep, Bry saw the light.

The light he saw was a fluorescent light blue, so light that it was almost white. He stared at the strange light for several long moments before he realized he was lying down on a bed that was not uncomfortable. He made an attempt to raise his hand to shield his eyes from the humming light above, but found that his arm was very weak. It took him a great effort to raise his hand to his face. Amid his brain fog, he began to make other realizations about his current surroundings.

The sterile tang of antiseptic was the next thing He registered. That, and the dull throb behind his eyes. He removed his hand from his eyes, and the world blurred into a white ceiling, then sharpened into acoustic tiles and fluorescent lights. He tried to move, but a jolt of pain shot through his left leg, and his arm felt heavy, constrained.

"You're awake," a calm voice said.

He turned his head. An older, friendly-looking man in a white coat stood beside his bed, clipboard in hand. "Where... where am I?" Bry's voice was a croak.

"You’re in the Mercy Vale Clinic," the doctor replied, his eyes kind but serious. "You've been here for two weeks. You were involved in a serious traffic accident. Can you tell me what your name is?"

He tried to sit up, but it was too painful. He allowed himself to relax back into the bed, which also caused him pain. “I… My name… I don’t know my name.”

“Your name is Bryan Glenn,” the doctor helped. “I understand most people call you Bry. Tell me, Bry, do you know what kind of accident you were in?”

Bryan Glenn. Bry. The name felt strangely alien on his tongue. He tried to grasp at memories, faces, places, anything. His mind was a vast, echoing chamber – utterly, terrifyingly empty. "I... I don't remember," he stammered. "Anything. Who I am. How I got here."

The doctor nodded slowly, a trace of sadness in his eyes. "That's to be expected, Bry. You have post-traumatic amnesia. It's often temporary, but in some cases, it can be quite profound, covering a significant period of time." He paused, then took a breath. "There's something else you need to know. The accident... it wasn't exactly an accident in the conventional sense."

Bry frowned, a prickle of unease running down his spine. "What do you mean?"

"The police report, witness statements...” the doctor paused. With a cool inhale of breath, he continued, “They indicate you deliberately accelerated into a major intersection against a red light. You were hit by an SUV, and your jeep flipped on its side – you weren’t wearing your seatbelt, Bry. It appears that you attempted to take your own life." His light eyes peered searchingly at Bry as he added, “It should comfort you to know that the driver of the vehicle which you raced to get in front of is going to be okay. He was quite shaken up, but otherwise fine.”

The words hung in the air, cold and sharp, like icicles threatening to fall from the ceiling. Bry Glenn, a man with no apparent past, had tried to die. He looked at his bandaged leg, his bruised arm, and the IV drip in his hand. Did he really want this? The idea was utterly nonsensical to the blank canvas of his mind. Why would he want to erase himself when there was nothing there to erase?

As he tossed this around in the empty space of his mind, the door to his room flung open. It was a woman, her face stricken with grief and tear stains, but her eyes brightening instantly when she saw him awake. "Bry! Oh, thank God!" She rushed to his side, new tears beginning to form in her eyes, and gently squeezed his uninjured hand.

Bry smiled sheepishly at her. Whoever she was, she was absolutely stunning. He noted especially her fiery red hair and hazel eyes. He felt a strange urge to reach up and stroke her hair – but that couldn’t be right – you couldn’t just do that with strangers. He may have lost his memory, but he still had some semblance of decency.

"You must be..." Bry trailed off, hoping she'd fill in the blank.

"It's me, Julia," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "Your wife."

Wife. The word evoked a strange warmth, a quiet hum in the emptiness. Julia. She was his beautiful wife. “I’ll let you two reunite,” the kindly doctor interrupted, “But soon, Bryan, we’re going to need to have a talk.” With that, he turned and left the room.

Julia sat by his bed, her hand never leaving his, talking in soft tones about "their" life. She spoke of their small house in the city, their Saturday morning runs, the way he always made her laugh, even when she was mad, and their dog, a Yorkie named Henry – “You always thought dogs with blaring human names were funny,” she explained at his quizzical look at the dog’s name. She recounted inside jokes, shared dreams, and tiny domestic details that painted a picture of comfort and deep affection. He listened, absorbing her words like a sponge, trying to build a person from her memories. He felt no recognition, no spark of recall, but he felt an undeniable pull, a sense of belonging. This woman, his wife, clearly loved him deeply. And as he looked at her, he realized he already felt something akin to love for her.

Later that day, his parents arrived. His mother, small and tearful, clung to him, gently stroking his hair and murmuring prayers of thanks. His father, a stoic man, gave him a firm pat on the shoulder, his eyes shining with emotion. They looked at him with such deep love, a fierce, primal bond that seemed to challenge the amnesia entirely. His mom and dad took turns sharing stories of his childhood: how he had always been a curious, bright kid, how proud they were when he got into his dream college, and how he always looked out for his younger sister, even when she drove him crazy. They showed him photos on their phones and faded picture books – a gap-toothed boy on a swing, a triumphant graduate in a cap and gown, and a grinning man standing next to Julia after what must have been their wedding. He saw a life filled with milestones, achievements, and unwavering family support. He found himself smiling, a genuine, unforced smile.

A few days later, Bry was discharged from the hospital and taken to the place where he and Julia had spent the past seven years living together. It was indeed a small house, but he liked it that way just fine. There wasn’t much clutter, and the entire place seemed to have been recently cleaned top to bottom. Heirlooms and mementos that, unfortunately, did nothing for Bry’s memory hung about the place; framed photographs held their mystery, and pieces of art ignited bright curiosity as Bry examined them. “These are nice,” he commented, eyeballing a specific painting. “Was this you?”

Julia choked a sob that was quickly disguised by a curt chuckle. “You painted them, Bry.” A small but warm smile sat on her face.

“I did this, huh?” he replied softly. He wondered if he had lost this talent along with the rest of his mind after the incident. He prayed it was not so.

A boisterous laugh boomed from the front door, causing both Bry and Julia to jump – it was a booming call preceding that of a burly man with an infectious grin. "Bry! You old dog! Heard you finally managed to get hit by a bus – always knew you'd push your luck one day!" The large man bellowed. His hair was thinning on top, though his beard, speckled blonde and red, was full and long.

"Mike," Julia said, warningly.

"Just kidding, Julia, just kidding!" Mike threw his hands up, then strode to the bed, eyes softening. "Seriously, though, man, glad you're okay. We were all worried sick."

"You're... Mike?" Bry ventured. He awkwardly held out his hand, a confused smile on his face.

"The one and only! Your best friend, partner in crime, and the only person who can tolerate your terrible taste in music." Mike slapped Bry’s hand away and pulled him into a bear hug, one that Bry would later say in jest, “a bone-crunching hug!”

“My best friend, huh?” Bry asked with a hint of mischief. “Alright, big guy, prove it.”

The bodacious grin on Mike’s face defied all logic and spread even wider as he launched into a series of anecdotes – backpacking through Europe, disastrous camping trips, epic gaming sessions, late-night philosophical debates over cheap pizza. Mike's stories were full of adventure, laughter, and unwavering loyalty. He spoke of Bry's quick wit, his surprising knack for fixing anything, his steadfast reliability. Bry listened, feeling a surge of affection for this loud, honest man. He realized, in his life, that it wasn't just about domestic bliss; it was also about shared adventures and enduring friendships.

Days turned into weeks, and Bry continued his journey of recovery at home, but the blankness in his mind remained. But the empty spaces began to fill, not with old memories, but with new experiences. Julia patiently reintroduced him to their home, a cozy haven that Bry delightfully discovered was filled with books and plants, and often the scent of freshly brewed coffee. She walked him through their garden, pointing out the roses he'd planted, the herbs they grew together. He made sure to obtain and memorize every detail of the framed photos on the mantelpiece, snapshots of a life he couldn't recall but was constantly being told had been vibrant and full.

He looked at Julia across the breakfast table, her eyes sparkling as she recounted a funny story from work. He listened to his parents' weekly calls, filled with quiet affection and gentle encouragement. He met up with Mike for coffee, and the easy camaraderie was instantly reestablished, full of comfortable silences and shared laughter.

He had a loving, beautiful wife who adored him. Parents who cherished him. A best friend who was more like a brother. He was surrounded by people who cared deeply, who spoke of a life rich with experiences, successes, and profound connections. He saw the evidence of a good life everywhere – in the warmth of his home, the laughter that filled it, the unwavering support of his loved ones.

The doctor's words still echoed sometimes, a faint, unsettling whisper in the back of his mind: You attempted to take your own life.

Why? What despair had been so profound that it had driven him to that desperate act? What internal torment had shadowed this seemingly wonderful existence? He had asked Julia, Mike, and even his parents if they knew why he tried to kill himself. None of them knew; none of them even knew he was suicidal. Julia explained she could tell something was obviously wrong in those days leading up to it, but Bry would never talk to her about it, no matter how hard she pleaded he talk with her. Why did Bry try to take his own life? He may never know. The past remained a locked room, its secrets sealed away forever.

At least, that was his thoughts on it until the day of the two month anniversary of his hospital discharge. Bry had been rearranging a shelf within the walk-in closet of their bedroom. He moved coats around, deciding which order he liked best, then he moved to the shoes neatly in a row above them. His gaze sat on a pair of brown leather dress shoes; they seemed to hold some importance to him, though he didn’t know why. It must have been a sentiment from… before.

Bry pulled the pair of shoes down and saw that beneath the soles there hid a folded piece of yellow paper. The sight of it made him feel queasy and faint, though again he could not say why. He noticed he was sweating from his forehead down to his palms. He raised a trembling hand, picked up the paper, and unfolded it.

I don’t know if anyone will ever read this, the note began, who knows when you’ll care enough to look through my things for anything other than to get rid of your last memory of me – I can’t blame you for that. I doubt my passing means a great deal to any of you, but in case you were wondering why I did it, I might as well come clean…

Bry slowly folded the note back up and put it in his chest pocket. Something like this requires a great deal of thought, and a heavy decision to make. He would think on it as he got the bonfire ready – company was coming tonight for a bar-b-que. He could do both, for now.

Bry stood alone in front of the bonfire in the backyard of the Glenn residence. His mom and dad would be here soon, but Mike said he might be “five minutes late? Or fifteen – shit if I know with the surplus of psychopaths on the road today. Ha-ha! I’ll see you when I see you, bro.” Bry smiled at that, thinking about how his closest friend was not only a fantastic human being, but pretty hilarious at times.

He felt the smooth skin of a pair of dainty arms slowly wrap around him from behind.

“How’s everything cookin’, good lookin’?” Julia Glenn cooed at him.

Bry turned around to face his wife, the smile revealing the love of a thousand years, brewed over two fantastic months, gleaming toward her. “I think we’re all in for a real treat,” he replied in a similar tone. The yellow note from the walk-in closet was set in with the kindling of this great fire, and put to the torch, unread by Bry – well, perhaps he had read it once, before the intersection, but that meant nothing now. Bry decided he wasn’t to read that note, and neither will anyone else. Whatever the old Bry had written on that faded paper was irrelevant now, and would only cause more unnecessary hurt. So tonight the message burned, and its memory gone in the abyss of time. “Yeah, I think we’re all in for a real treat,” Bry Glenn repeated with a laugh.

And what did he see before him? Everything else. All that had and ever will matter. What he experienced every single day was nothing short of a beautiful, wonderful life. He was happy. The why didn't matter anymore. The now was more than enough. Does anyone ever truly live happily ever after? There will, of course, be other bumps in the road, other days of sadness, challenges, and heartache, but he would also experience happiness, and love, all the same – today is the day, and now is finally the time to live.