The Unfamiliar

I find myself sitting in the living room recliner. The leg rest is down. I’m upright, staring straight ahead at a picture of a man and woman with two kids huddled together, wrestling and laughing. I’m waiting for some sort of recognition, some sort of reaction to this picture. Is it important to me? I feel it should be. There are images in my mind of these people, lots of memories of them, yet they stir no emotions. Surely, they are important to me. Surely, they play a large role in my life. I can’t shake the feeling.

I’m not sure how I got here. I have plenty of memories of being a child and going through adolescence. I remember college and meeting the woman in the picture; our marriage, the birth of the two kids, and buying this house. But the memories seem alien to me. Like they are not mine. I don’t remember feeling that way before. Before what? I don’t even remember sitting down in this chair. My mind is aware that I’m in the chair, but it is different than it was before. I don’t feel the chair as one does through the sense of touch, but rather by observation.

There’s an odor in the air. My brain says it’s food and nothing to worry about. It cannot ascertain what type of food. Smelling isn’t what it used to be. Air used to pass through my nose to the back of my sinus cavity where I could almost taste something. Now there’s no response to sensation, it’s more like an alarm system now. I have memories of smells and tastes. I wonder if my sense of taste has changed like my sense of touch and smell.

The kitchen is less familiar than the living room. There’s something less personal about it, something less comforting. Maybe it’s the lack of memorabilia and keepsakes. Maybe it’s that it is white and shiny whereas the living room has warmer colors. Speaking of warmer, although I can no longer feel it, I know it is warmer in here – by exactly two degrees. Both the oven and stove are on, each generating heat. That is probably why. The woman in the picture walks in to stir the stew. She says, “Good, you’re up. They said it would take a while for you to get acclimated to your surroundings again. Why don’t you take a walk around the house and familiarize yourself with things again.”

They? Again? Who are they? I don’t reply to the woman. I turn and head into the hallway where there is an onslaught of pictures hanging on the wall, trying to remember her name as I do - Jenny, Penny, Peggy... Peggy? Yes, Peggy. She’s Peggy.

Down the hallway there are pictures of the kids at various ages sitting, smiling in front of pale blue backgrounds. They are similar poses for both kids, very generic. They’re lined up by age. There are more of the girl than the boy. Their names evade me. I concentrate hard, unlocking the memories in my mind, but nothing comes to me. There is a picture of Peggy in a white gown standing with the man from the living room picture; the man I assume is me. I’m sharply dressed. We look happy. I recognize it as our wedding photo. Yet no sentiment is stirred by the recognition of it. There are other pictures, some like the picture I was staring at in the living room. They are pictures that really stir no memory of the day, they just remind me of the people that I feel estranged to. One picture really catches my attention. It's of me in military dress. A memory tries to push its way to the forefront but can't quite fight its way through.

I enter the family room where the TV is blaring. The kids are stretched out on the sectional. They notice me and say, “hi, dad,” looking at me like they are seeing me for the first time, like they are not sure of me, or how I am going to react. I say hi in return. We stare at each other in complete silence for what feels like forever. I turn and leave without saying another word.

Looking down the hallway, I see the front door. Tunnel vision sets in as the idea of running out and never coming back sounds like a reasonable option in my head. I start walking quickly towards it when Peggy steps out in front of me from the kitchen. “How are you feeling, Steven? Are things starting to feel familiar?”

I take my eyes off the door and look her in the eyes, but don’t say anything. She lets out a boisterous laugh then settles with a smile. “It’s okay. I’m sure this is all weird to you. Why don’t you go upstairs and have a look around up there.”

The stairs are opposite the front door. As I round the banister, the urge to run overwhelms me. I look over my shoulder to see Peggy watching, waving me on with a smile, so I abort my plan to flee. Along the staircase wall there are more pictures. I recognize the people who my mind tells me are my parents. Part of me questions it like it's not my memory of them. They are definitely people I recognize, people I have met, but the relationship doesn’t match up, just as it is with Peggy and the two kids.

At the top of the stairs there is another hallway. At the end of it there is an open door. Inside is a room that looks comforting, relaxing, and familiar. I go inside. I feel a little more at peace for some reason inside this room. The colors are soft, the light is natural, and the air is cooler by a degree.

Off to the side there is a bathroom. I go in there to splash water on my face. I look in the mirror and see that I am for certain the man from the pictures. I look closely at my face, outlining my features with my fingers, asking, “Who are you?”

Then I feel something curious behind my left ear. I push on it, and my face pops loose in front of my left ear. I swing my face open to the right, revealing wires and microchips.

Who are 'they?' What have 'they' done?