Lost

Trigger warning: firearms mentioned; mental health issues discussed

I must be lost. Either that, or going crazy. Everything is different. I want to go home, I keep telling people I want to go home, and they keep telling me that I am home. I can't be home, this isn't my home. Everything is in the wrong place, there are strange people here, and they aren't letting me leave.

Even when I simply try to get up to go for a walk, these people keep telling me to sit down, asking me what I want and if they can get it for me. I just want to be left alone. If this is my house, I want them to get out, and I tell them so. They tell me they can't leave, that they live here too. Who are they? What if I leave?

I finally escape my chair, and they stay right next to me. Why can't they leave me alone? I'm fine. I feel fine. This place can't be my home. Nothing is where it should be. Why can't I find my keys? Where are my keys? I just want to drive home. I'm sure I can find it.

They won't give me my keys.

Instead they ask if I need to go to the bathroom. Maybe I do... I can find it myself. I tell them so. They won't let me go by myself. Who are these people? I must be in prison. This can't be my home, but they say it is.

"My house, my rules," I tell them, "Now leave me alone." They just laugh at me. "If I had a gun, I'd shoot you!" I yell, "Get out of my house!" They try to grab me, and I swing out a fist. "Why can't you leave me alone?" I shout, as they wrap their arms around me, forcing me back to my chair, "Let go! Let go!" I catch one of them on the jaw. She stumbles back, and I shake my head triumphantly, before finally sitting back in my chair, as though it was my idea the whole time. "That's what you get, you m*therf*cker!" I spit.

They're looking at me again. The one I hit is crying and shaking her head, "I can't do this anymore," she says, "He needs more help than we can give."

What does she mean? I'm fine. They're the interlopers here, they're the strangers. They're the ones who tried to take me down.

The other one squats down next to me, and I glare at him. I know he's looking down on me, he thinks I'm stupid, that I don't know.

"Dad?" he says, "Do you know who we are?"

Dad? Who is he calling 'dad'? Me? When did I have kids?

He bites his lip. "Come on, Dad," he pleads, "It's Tommy."

Tommy? The name awakens a faint memory. Trying to grasp it feels impossible. I am squinting in concentration, trying to pull it forward. Finally, it comes. A young boy, with a fishing rod. A young girl, with a cooler. We were going fishing. We had a picnic with us. It was summer and warm, and we were going fishing because I had promised I would take them as soon as school let out. Why did I promise that? Why were they important? Where did this memory come from?

I look at the woman, crying; at the man, squatted next to me. Suddenly, it comes back. Tommy and Theresa! My kids! My son and my daughter!

I look around. I am at home, in my easy chair. The kitchen is through the door to my right, and the bathroom down the hallway to my left.

"Tommy?" I question. He looks at me, eyes hopeful. I look past him, to Theresa, my daughter, "Theresa?" She looks up, tears spilling over her face, as she cups her jaw. Why was she crying? "Why are you crying?" I ask, "What happened? Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine, Dad," she says. I try to rise from my chair, but Tommy puts a hand on my knee.

"You're not fine!" I shout, "Someone hurt you! Was it your brother?" I turn on him, livid. He backs up, beginning to protest. I stand up, ready to wallop him for hurting his sister, when she steps in front of him, eyes flashing angrily.

"NO!" she screams, "No, Dad! You did this!" She points to the bruise forming along her jaw. "You hit me! I was trying to help you and you hit me! And the other day, you shoved Tommy into the wall!"

I shake my head, startled at her sudden ferocity, flinching back into the chair as she gets in my face. Tommy tries to calm her, but she shakes him off, before continuing, "And you know what, Dad? I CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE!" She stops, breathing hard, her chest heaving. "I can't take it anymore," she says, wiping her eyes and shaking her head, "I can't do it." She turns and walks out of the house, the door slamming behind her.

I try to follow, "Wait, Theresa!" Tommy puts his hand on my shoulder. I turn to him, "Tommy, what happened? What's going on?"

Tommy looks at me sadly. "Dad--" he starts, then stops and sighs heavily.

"What?" I ask, becoming frustrated with the lack of explanation.

"Dad... I think it's time you move to a nursing home."

What? A nursing home. What for? Why? I'm doing fine! I look at him, "Why?"

He squats down, "We--Theresa and I--can't take care of you anymore, Dad. You're forgetting us, and sometimes, you get frustrated and... we just... can't deal with it anymore."

My anger piques, "So you're just going to abandon me? Is that it? Leave me alone? Where is your mother? What does she have to say about this?"

"Dad... Mom died five years ago."

My thoughts are racing. My wife died? When did this happen? Why did no one tell me? There's no way she could be gone. I jump out of my seat and begin yelling, "Marlene! Marlene! Where are you?"

I wander throughout the house, trying to find my wife, going through the bedrooms, bathroom, and kitchen. I make it back to the room with my chair, and see a man sitting on the floor, his head in his hands.

"Who are you?" I shout, "Why are you in my house? Get out of my house!"

He says nothing. Just gets up, and tries to direct me somewhere. I shove him off, "Let go of me! I want to sit down!" He let's go, and I sit. Who is this man? Why is he in my house? Where are my keys?