Wondering Minds

I don’t know who I am.

The city was always moving, a blur of sounds and action that I found myself getting lost in at times. It was easy, throwing myself into the crowd and pretending that we were all faceless forms with no issues, just going through the motions together. But life went on, and we had to go separate ways at some point, and then the reality of our situations crashed back over us.

I have no true memories, or at least, nothing coherent enough to count as one.

I worked at a restaurant downtown, one where the owners didn’t ask too many questions about my past and paid me in cash every two weeks. I didn’t ask about how they stayed in business, and they didn’t ask about my lack of identification. It was boring, sitting there for hours with no one coming in, but it paid the bills and kept me out of trouble.

I wonder sometimes, who someone is without their memories?

My apartment was small and smelled of damp no matter how much I cleaned it, but the locks were solid and the landlord didn’t care about the envelope of cash he received at the beginning of each month. I was forced to surround myself with people that didn’t care about my past, or lack thereof. It was lonely. I feel like an empty shell sometimes, just going through the motions of life without any true purpose or passion. I think I might have had dreams, once… but those were abandoned along with my past self.

I know my old life is out there, but am I the same person who lived it?

For years, no one came looking for me- or if they did, they had a hard time of it. It makes sense, after all. I forgot my name, I changed my hair, I was forced to get a new apartment… if anyone was looking for me, the old me, they’d have a hard time doing it. I told myself that that person was dead and gone, they disappeared after the incident (of which I had deemed whatever event made me this way). Whoever they loved and cared about meant nothing to me, not anymore.

I am me, that’s all that matters.

A lot of my time was spent questioning my existence. I had no friends, no family, no hobbies to keep me entertained. I wondered how old I was. I wondered what my name was, and if I was anyone’s namesake. I wondered if there were still people looking for me, and if so, what were they like? I wondered what my parents looked like, and if I resembled them at all. I wondered if I had siblings, and if so did we get along? I wondered, I wondered, I wondered…

I have meaning.

After two years, I saved enough of my cash in an old pillowcase to move into a better apartment, after which I started a new job in a better part of the city. I did great there- turns out employers love when their workers have no sense of self and can throw themselves into work 24/7. Some of my coworkers thought I was crazy or trying too hard, but I didn’t mind. Working gave me something to do, and it kept my mind from wondering.

I am not a shell.

After three years, I decided to stray from my path of faceless forms early. A coffee shop had opened up a block away from my bus stop. I had never gone into any of the shops before, usually going straight from work to home to work to the store to home, rinse and repeat. I never had a reason to go into those shops, as I always felt out of place amongst the other customers as they read and typed on their computers or talked into their phones. I wasn’t one of those people.

I am still a person.

A shiver ran down my spine as I crossed the threshold into the cafe. I told myself it was a draft from the door opening, my eyes scanning the menu above the heads of the people in front of me. The line moves fast. As I step up to the counter, a glass shatters on the ground, and the cafe falls into a tense silence. There’s a man standing behind the counter, his face frozen and pallid, hand cupped around an invisible mug.

“Have we met before?”

The words slip before I can stop myself. I know it’s impossible, I would remember such a face as his, and I know I’ve never stepped foot in a coffee shop like this… but something about his eyes, the curve of his nose, the hair brushing the tops of his ears-

“But…”

His voice is deeper than I would have thought. His eyes scan the cafe, as if looking for something. Finally, his gaze falls on me, my question still lingering in the air.

“Come with me.”

Despite my better judgment, I allow him to lead me out of the cafe and into a small side alley where I assume they take their breaks. He hasn’t taken his eyes off me since they landed, and a strange itch starts to form down my spine. I’m not used to being seen.

“How are you here?”

The words come out soft, as if taking all of his effort.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

His eyebrows furrow.

“But you said… you recognize me.”

I cross my arms tightly over my chest.

“I don’t… I don’t know why I said that.”

His stare seems to bore into me and I shift on my feet.

“You still don’t have your memories.”

My head snaps up, my eyes glaring into his own.

“How do you know about that?”

I take a step away from him, toward the mouth of the alley. His gaze falls into something softer, something sadder- regret.

“Because I’m the one that took them.”