The Runaway

The crisp golden leaves crunch beneath my boots. A stray cat, reduced to mere skin and bones, streaks past, fleeing a predator I cannot see. I plunge through the chilly autumn breeze, grappling with my flimsy coat, cursing under my breath. I sniff the air and grimace. I smell a storm.

I imagine myself getting drenched to the bone, trudging through these abandoned streets, shivering in a bus stop with a stranger. I imagine days of sickness, a battle with death, an escaped car crash. I imagine months stuck in that hospital, again, trying to figure out who I am, trying to painfully untangle the onslaught of memories. A tear-streaked face, a hunched figure walking away, a child’s laughing eyes…

I shake my head, disoriented by the sudden rush of images. They seemed so real. And yet… they could not be. I was discharged merely a week ago. I will not go back.

But what am I doing out here in this weather? I cannot remember what compelled me to leave the comfortable fireplace. I rummage through my pockets, trying to recall. And my fingers close around a ring.

I stop dead in my tracks, startled. Who would give me a ring? And why wouldn’t I remember? I take it out, slowly, carefully, as though trying not to startle an aggressive dog. The ring is gold, plain. It looks worn. Used. My fingers tremble. My body remembers something my mind does not. My heart grieves for something — someone — that my memories have given up on. It is a marriage ring.

They told me to stop trying. It shouldn’t matter what happened in the past. The only thing I need to care about is my future. I need to stop trying to remember.

What crippling nonsense. How could I know what I want to be if I do not even know what I was?

“You need to get off the streets, sweetheart.”

My head jerks upward at the voice. A man peers down at me, the top half of his face hidden beneath the shadow of his hat. I could just make out the slight smile on his lips. How did he come before me so quietly? Did I blank out?

“A storm is coming. Autumn storms can be nasty. You wouldn’t want to be out alone.”

He smells strange. Like, like… I struggle to find the correct word, but it eludes me. He’s too close to my comfort. I take a step back, and my hands inadvertently curl into fists. I am not afraid. He is just a man.

Besides, I am a master of jujitsu.

Or are you? A voice whispers in my head. The same voice that’s been sowing doubts in my head for the past few weeks, right after the — the… the what? But why would I think I am a master of jujitsu? The thought is so random, and yet so convincing, that I stand there gaping at him stupidly.

The ring cuts into my palm, and the pain brings me clarity. I need to show him that he does not scare me. I need to start focusing on the now.

“Yes, I know. Now move aside, please. I have urgent business to attend to.” The ‘please’ scrawls out of my lips like a cockroach.

The man’s smile widens, and he cocks his head. It is this simple gesture — the slight tilt of his hat, the careless smirk — that hits me with the force of a brick. I know this man. I know the hat he wears. I know why his hands are hidden in his pockets.

I take a step back, startled. I could have sworn, just seconds ago, that I did not know him. But as the feeling of familiarity settles in, so do other memories.

I remember him twirling the hat in his hands, his shoulders shaking in silent laughter as he tells me how he got it. I remember his eyes, hiding wells of some deep sorrow he never spoke of, but always so intelligent — oh, so intelligent! He always knew what to say. He always knew what was happening. He always smiled his way through his problems, cocking his head to the side as though perpetually amused.

And his hands…

“M-Marco?” I squeak, breathless. How could I have not recognized him?

He raises his eyebrows in surprise, taking a step back. “Do I know you?”

Of course you know me! I want to yell at him. You taught me to value what I have! You taught me to make use of my talents so that they would not choke me! You taught me to find myself!

But what talents do you have? What is it that you have that is so dangerous it would’ve killed you without this man’s help?

He looks at me carefully then, as I struggle to form words. He looks at me like he would a stranger — perplexed, and utterly without recognition.

“I’m sorry,” he says sheepishly. “You might’ve mistaken me for someone else. Although you did get my name right… But you really should get off the streets, you know. Our autumn storms are truly terrible. Are you new here?”

I shake my head vigorously, more to clear my thoughts than to deny his question. Wet brown leaves swirl past, pelting my face with debris. “I know you.”

“But I don’t.”

“You do! You’re Marco Ramirez, but that’s not your real name. You don’t want people to know who you are. But you told me. And you told me why you keep it hidden.”

The man reels back, as though I had slapped him. “How — how -” he splutters, but I cut him off. I do not know why he pretends. I do not know why he lies. But it angers me. This man who helped me so much, this man who sought my help in return — dares to claim I am a stranger?

“How could you not know me? After I helped you find — and arrest — the man sent to assassinate you, the same man who killed your family? After we flew to Japan to escape your government? After you taught me to rein in my abilities, lest they overwhelmed me?”

After we nearly found a life in each other? But I do not tell him that. I do not want to dwell on the could-have-been.

It’s only when I look at him closely that I see the fear in his eyes. His fingers tremble as he plucks the hat off his head. The amusement of a few seconds ago no longer plays on his face. My words have terrified him in a way that the assassin never did.

“Who told you about my family?” He asks in a carefully controlled voice, but the sweat beading on his forehead gives him away. “And how do you know there is an assassin after me?”

I shake my head in exasperation. “Is? Is? Why would they send another assassin after you? Your government promised to leave you alone if you promised never to return.”

Thunder rumbles overhead. A car speeds past, trying to get home before the storm hits. A dog keeps barking furiously, and I wonder vaguely if the cat had escaped its clutches.

Marco fidgets where he stands, speechless in shock. I am furious at him. I have spent weeks trying to remember people’s faces, and when I finally do remember, this man dares to pretend I am delusional?

But no, that’s not what he thinks. I gesture to him to follow me — I am not too eager to wait for the storm — and he follows reluctantly, too curious to refuse. He does not think I am delusional. I know him too well. He sees the conviction in my eyes, hears the frustration in my voice. He knows I am sane.

The rain plummets down from the heavens with such abruptness and brutality that we are drenched within seconds. We scramble towards shelter, a bus stop with a rickety roof that still leaks water on to us. I shiver involuntarily, hugging myself. Marco shifts next to me, his hat back on his head, unnaturally quiet. He is trying to remember, I think.

When he finally speaks, I expect him to explain to me why he does not know me or what caused him to forget me. Perhaps a concussion that wiped certain memories.

But what I hear sends a chill down my spine.

“It’s you, isn’t it?” he whispers. “The girl who escaped the facility. How did you travel so far? We — we couldn’t trace you.”

“What facility? What the hell do you mean?”

“The research facility. The one that — that…” He hesitates.

“What?!” I demand. I cannot make sense of it. I never escaped any facility.

Or maybe you did. And you don’t remember.

He clears his throat. “There is a facility where you can have specific memories taken from you, with your permission. People who’ve experienced unimaginable trauma — they can have a chance at a new life. But the experiments weren’t exactly successful, because the subjects lost all of their memories.”

“And people were all right with it?”

“Of course not. Nobody knew about the facility.”

“But then, how would they give permission — ”

He looks away, his jaw clenched. When he whispers, I have to strain to hear him over the storm. “Not all the time.”

As the implications of that ominous statement settle in, I jerk away from him, stepping right into a puddle.

“You — you stole people’s lives — ” I splutter, my horror leaving me incoherent.

“Listen. We only chose people who had gone through unspeakable things. We wanted to give them another chance. We wanted them to lead happier lives, without constantly living under the shadow of their trauma. You need to underst — ”

I back away into the rain, too horrified for words. This man — this monster — was responsible for my lost past? But his hand shoots through the sheet of rain between us and latches on to my arm. He pulls me closer, surprisingly gentle.

“Wait. Let me tell you the truth, then you can decide. The truth will help you. Please. You have to trust me.”

The truth will help you. He’s told me that a million times, as we hunted the assassin, as we ran from his government. But I struggle to understand what is going on. If my past has been erased, then how do I remember him?

His words tumble on top of each other due to his urgent need to convey them.

“When I told you the experiments took all memories, I didn’t mean it left people like empty shells. The experiments took their past and replaced them with their future. I think… I think that what you remember about me, all the things you believe happened — that isn’t your past. That’s your future.”

I cannot comprehend his words. I am still holding on to the ring, trying to find some semblance of sanity. How can one ‘remember’ what is to happen? How does your brain know the future? I look down at his hands — his deeply scarred hands, ugly lines crisscrossing his skin like cobwebs and disappearing into his sleeve. They will stop at his elbow.

He follows my gaze. He sees me staring at his damaged hands without a hint of horror. He knows I’ve seen them before.

He takes a deep breath. “You wouldn’t know your entire future all at once. It’ll come to you in fits and starts, sometimes gradually, at other times like a flood. But do you know what that means? It means we’ve uncovered something groundbreaking. We’ve been believing that our brain learns with experience, that it collects memories. But that’s not true. Our past, present, and future — they’re all predetermined. They’re all written in our heads. They become a part of our consciousness only when our bodies live through the experience. But they’re still there, within our brains. We just hadn’t unlocked them.”

The coughing started then, soon followed by the sneezes. I had allowed myself to get soaked in the rain. As the thunderstorm worsens, I know how this evening will go. I saw it the moment I smelled a storm coming. I just hadn’t realized what it meant.

I look at my friend next to me, still gripping my arm as though to stop me from running into the storm. No, not my friend — a stranger. If what he says is true, we have never met.

But if what my memories tell me is true, then we are to end up saving each other’s lives countless times — after we travel the world escaping a government that will be bent on murdering a man who will, before long, threaten to spill its secrets. A man who will allow himself to learn, regret and right his wrongs.