Remember [Chapter 1]
By Lanei
The first thing I can remember right now is waking up today. I guess it wasn't so much as waking up as it was suddenly realizing I was conscious. Everything else about me—whoever I am—seems to be in relatively good condition: breathing, speaking, thinking, writing. Knowing, if that counts. I still know that two plus two equals four, that the sky is blue and that Shakespeare wrote "Hamlet" and "Romeo and Juliet". But the personal memories are gone. Should I start at the beginning? I'll try.
I woke up with my eyes shut, first acknowledging the soft surface pressing against the backside of my body before allowing the ambient light of the white room to reach my eyes. The ceiling I found myself staring at was abnormally smooth and spotless, and I almost mistook it for a white void. As I adjusted to the brightness (it was only bright relative to the darkness I had been trapped in only moments before), I could make out a wall to my left that… looked exactly the same as the ceiling. (How architecturally intriguing.) The side of my face pressed into the overstuffed pillow as I rolled over onto my right to take in the rest of the room.
There was a polished (white) door that lacked a handle in the opposite corner of the (white) room, about twenty feet away. A (white) cloth curtained a small area in another corner, and there was a simple (white) desk at the foot of the (white) hospital-like bed I was lying on. I pushed myself up into sitting position to get a better view and ignored the continuous soreness buzzing inside my head. Curiosity always getting the better of me, it took me a full minute to remember that this place wasn't at all familiar. The cascading effect of trying to figure out how I got here almost immediately shocked me into realizing that I couldn't answer the most fundamental of questions.
Who am I?
I tried to mentally search for any piece of information pertaining to who I was as panic began to crush me from all sides. I felt so close to grasping these memories too; it was almost as if I was trying to recall one of those dreams that are always just out of reach. I was being suffocated by the limits of my own mind. I didn't even hear the door slide open.
It was a man—early forties, perhaps—that had entered the room, dressed in a stiff, long (white) coat that partially covered his starched button-down shirt. I would have laughed at the contrast that his plain jeans presented if I hadn't been descending into a blind panic. Bursts of black fog crept into the center of my vision until I could no longer see or think coherently. Something cold was pressed onto the side of my neck, and then I fell into oblivion.
Subject Report [Transcription]
Date: 30 November 2043
Time: 10:23 (approx.)
Person of Authorization: R. Sanguetti
Analysis:
Subject awoke today at 09:16, twenty eight hours after the sixth and final dose of Neuroimpedafae-III was given. It seems our team has been successful for once in fully eradicating personal memories from the conscious and shallow subconscious mind of the subject, and we will begin neuromanipulation—in essence, implanting simple memories—as soon as the subject enters REM sleep.
I was strangely calm when I reawoke, despite the fact that I should have been experiencing a strong sense of déjà vu as I lay on the bed and found that I was staring at the ceiling.
"I apologize for the sedative," a voice remarked, not bothering to put sympathy behind his words. I turned my head sharply to the right to see the man sitting on a minimally designed white chair that resembled a hollow two foot cube with an absence of two sides. He stared at me, eyebrows furrowed. "How are you feeling?"
I stared back and felt the numbed panic floating leisurely through my veins. "What?" was all that I managed to choke out.
He leaned a little bit closer, adjusted the clipboard in his hands, and enunciated each syllable. "How—are—you—feel—ing?"
My 'What?' hadn't actually been intended as an answer or a request to repeat the question, but I couldn't explain that to him when I had several million other words spinning around my head. I squeezed my eyes shut, bringing dancing red blotches into my sight, and asked the first question whose words I could think clearly about.
"Who am I?"
I opened my eyes in time to see him break eye contact and look down at his clipboard. I was waiting for an answer and… I could've sworn that his mouth turned up at the corner, just for a spilt second. It had probably been an involuntary muscle twitch, or even just a hallucination—he had given me a sedative, after all.
He looked at me and raised his eyebrows, his rectangular wire glasses slipping down his nose a millimeter or two. His greying amber hair "It should… come back to you soon," he said, deep in thought. He paused for a few moments before continuing. "You've had quite a concussion. We've be—"
"From what?"
"I—we're not certain. I was hoping that you would be able to provide that information—it's quite...significant to our investigation."
"Wait, what investigation? Where am I? What is this place? Who are you?"
"I'm Doctor Sanguetti—I apologize for the little information I'm able to offer you at the moment, but it is best that I not contaminate or influence any memories that may come back to you. We're looking for clear data, if you will. Unbiased information."
"But this doesn't look like a regular hospital… What—why—"
"This is all I can give you. You're safe here, don't worry about that. I'll be back tomorrow. My assistant will probably be in here every couple of hours or so to see how you're doing and provide meals, and just shout out if you need anything." He wrote something down on the paper attached to his clipboard.
"Can I— Am I allowed to leave this room?" I could have guessed the answer.
"I'm sorry. Not today."
And those were his last words before he got up swiftly and left the room. The door seemed to anticipate his exit. The room fell into silence, contrasting with and increasing the intensity of my thoughts from within. It was too much (and too little) to comprehend.
I've been trying to figure out what situation I could have possibly gotten into for the past hour, and I'm completely stumped. It doesn’t help that I can't recall a thing about who I am, how I got here, my friends, family—any part of my life. I never realized concussion incidents could be so selective to one part of the brain.
The panic hasn't quite come back, although I think I can feel the sedative wearing off. The heartbeat in my ears provides the closest link to seconds of the real world. How long will I be here, anyways? Days? Weeks? Months? Years? Until the end of my life?
I can't think about this any longer. I can't think, and I can't remember. So I go back to my one and only—if not temporary—escape. Sleep.
I lie back down and close my eyes, gradually losing grasp on time. This time, I don't try to remember who I am, or what I was.
For now, I try to forget. Forget the last hour. Forget my new reality.
And then it enters my mind like snow drifting through the trees, like wind washing away the stale air of hot summer valleys.
For one single moment, I know who I am.
The next heartbeat scatters it all away—except for one lone piece.
Karyenne.
The first thing I can remember right now is waking up today. I guess it wasn't so much as waking up as it was suddenly realizing I was conscious. Everything else about me—whoever I am—seems to be in relatively good condition: breathing, speaking, thinking, writing. Knowing, if that counts. I still know that two plus two equals four, that the sky is blue and that Shakespeare wrote "Hamlet" and "Romeo and Juliet". But the personal memories are gone. Should I start at the beginning? I'll try.
I woke up with my eyes shut, first acknowledging the soft surface pressing against the backside of my body before allowing the ambient light of the white room to reach my eyes. The ceiling I found myself staring at was abnormally smooth and spotless, and I almost mistook it for a white void. As I adjusted to the brightness (it was only bright relative to the darkness I had been trapped in only moments before), I could make out a wall to my left that… looked exactly the same as the ceiling. (How architecturally intriguing.) The side of my face pressed into the overstuffed pillow as I rolled over onto my right to take in the rest of the room.
There was a polished (white) door that lacked a handle in the opposite corner of the (white) room, about twenty feet away. A (white) cloth curtained a small area in another corner, and there was a simple (white) desk at the foot of the (white) hospital-like bed I was lying on. I pushed myself up into sitting position to get a better view and ignored the continuous soreness buzzing inside my head. Curiosity always getting the better of me, it took me a full minute to remember that this place wasn't at all familiar. The cascading effect of trying to figure out how I got here almost immediately shocked me into realizing that I couldn't answer the most fundamental of questions.
Who am I?
I tried to mentally search for any piece of information pertaining to who I was as panic began to crush me from all sides. I felt so close to grasping these memories too; it was almost as if I was trying to recall one of those dreams that are always just out of reach. I was being suffocated by the limits of my own mind. I didn't even hear the door slide open.
It was a man—early forties, perhaps—that had entered the room, dressed in a stiff, long (white) coat that partially covered his starched button-down shirt. I would have laughed at the contrast that his plain jeans presented if I hadn't been descending into a blind panic. Bursts of black fog crept into the center of my vision until I could no longer see or think coherently. Something cold was pressed onto the side of my neck, and then I fell into oblivion.
Subject Report [Transcription]
Date: 30 November 2043
Time: 10:23 (approx.)
Person of Authorization: R. Sanguetti
Analysis:
Subject awoke today at 09:16, twenty eight hours after the sixth and final dose of Neuroimpedafae-III was given. It seems our team has been successful for once in fully eradicating personal memories from the conscious and shallow subconscious mind of the subject, and we will begin neuromanipulation—in essence, implanting simple memories—as soon as the subject enters REM sleep.
I was strangely calm when I reawoke, despite the fact that I should have been experiencing a strong sense of déjà vu as I lay on the bed and found that I was staring at the ceiling.
"I apologize for the sedative," a voice remarked, not bothering to put sympathy behind his words. I turned my head sharply to the right to see the man sitting on a minimally designed white chair that resembled a hollow two foot cube with an absence of two sides. He stared at me, eyebrows furrowed. "How are you feeling?"
I stared back and felt the numbed panic floating leisurely through my veins. "What?" was all that I managed to choke out.
He leaned a little bit closer, adjusted the clipboard in his hands, and enunciated each syllable. "How—are—you—feel—ing?"
My 'What?' hadn't actually been intended as an answer or a request to repeat the question, but I couldn't explain that to him when I had several million other words spinning around my head. I squeezed my eyes shut, bringing dancing red blotches into my sight, and asked the first question whose words I could think clearly about.
"Who am I?"
I opened my eyes in time to see him break eye contact and look down at his clipboard. I was waiting for an answer and… I could've sworn that his mouth turned up at the corner, just for a spilt second. It had probably been an involuntary muscle twitch, or even just a hallucination—he had given me a sedative, after all.
He looked at me and raised his eyebrows, his rectangular wire glasses slipping down his nose a millimeter or two. His greying amber hair "It should… come back to you soon," he said, deep in thought. He paused for a few moments before continuing. "You've had quite a concussion. We've be—"
"From what?"
"I—we're not certain. I was hoping that you would be able to provide that information—it's quite...significant to our investigation."
"Wait, what investigation? Where am I? What is this place? Who are you?"
"I'm Doctor Sanguetti—I apologize for the little information I'm able to offer you at the moment, but it is best that I not contaminate or influence any memories that may come back to you. We're looking for clear data, if you will. Unbiased information."
"But this doesn't look like a regular hospital… What—why—"
"This is all I can give you. You're safe here, don't worry about that. I'll be back tomorrow. My assistant will probably be in here every couple of hours or so to see how you're doing and provide meals, and just shout out if you need anything." He wrote something down on the paper attached to his clipboard.
"Can I— Am I allowed to leave this room?" I could have guessed the answer.
"I'm sorry. Not today."
And those were his last words before he got up swiftly and left the room. The door seemed to anticipate his exit. The room fell into silence, contrasting with and increasing the intensity of my thoughts from within. It was too much (and too little) to comprehend.
I've been trying to figure out what situation I could have possibly gotten into for the past hour, and I'm completely stumped. It doesn’t help that I can't recall a thing about who I am, how I got here, my friends, family—any part of my life. I never realized concussion incidents could be so selective to one part of the brain.
The panic hasn't quite come back, although I think I can feel the sedative wearing off. The heartbeat in my ears provides the closest link to seconds of the real world. How long will I be here, anyways? Days? Weeks? Months? Years? Until the end of my life?
I can't think about this any longer. I can't think, and I can't remember. So I go back to my one and only—if not temporary—escape. Sleep.
I lie back down and close my eyes, gradually losing grasp on time. This time, I don't try to remember who I am, or what I was.
For now, I try to forget. Forget the last hour. Forget my new reality.
And then it enters my mind like snow drifting through the trees, like wind washing away the stale air of hot summer valleys.
For one single moment, I know who I am.
The next heartbeat scatters it all away—except for one lone piece.
Karyenne.