Unremembered (Unremembered #1)(2)

And that doesn’t seem to be going over very well with anyone.

A man in a grey suit, who identifies himself as Mr Rayunas from Social Services, says he’s trying to locate my next of kin. He carries around a strange-looking metal device that he calls a cellphone. He holds it up to his ear and talks. He also likes to stare at it and stab at tiny buttons on its surface. I don’t know what my ‘next of kin’ is, but by the look on his face, he’s having trouble locating it.

He whispers things to the others. Things I’m assuming he doesn’t want me to hear. But I hear them anyway. Foreign, unfamiliar words like ‘foster care’ and ‘the press’ and ‘minor’. Every so often they all pause and glance over at me. They shake their heads. Then they continue whispering.

There’s a woman named Kiyana who comes in every hour. She has dark skin and speaks with an accent that makes it sound like she’s singing. She wears pink. She smiles and fluffs my pillow. Presses two fingers against my wrist. Writes stuff down on a clipboard. I’ve come to look forward to her visits. She’s kinder than the others. She takes the time to talk to me. Ask me questions. Real ones. Even though she knows I don’t have any of the answers.

‘You’re jus’ so beautiful,’ she says to me, tapping her finger tenderly against my cheek. ‘Like one of those pictures they airbrush for the fashion magazines, you know?’

I don’t know. But I offer her a weak smile regardless. For some reason, it feels like an appropriate response.

‘Not a blemish,’ she goes on. ‘Not one flaw. When you get your memory back, you’re gonna have to tell me your secret, love.’ Then she winks at me.

I like that she says when and not if.

Even though I don’t remember learning those words, I understand the difference.

‘And those eyes,’ she croons, moving in closer. ‘I’ve never seen sucha colour. Lavender, almos’.’ She pauses, thinking, and leans closer still. ‘No. Violet.’ She smiles like she’s stumbled upon a long-lost secret. ‘I bet that’s your name. Violet. Ring any bells?’

I shake my head. Of course it doesn’t.

‘Well,’ she says, straightening the sheets around my bed, ‘I’m gonna call you that anyway. Jus’ until you remember the real one. Much nicer soundin’ than Jane Doe.’

She takes a step back, tilts her head to the side. ‘Sucha pretty girl. Do you even remember whatcha look like, love?’

I shake my head again.

She smiles softly. Her eyes crinkle at the corners. ‘Hang on then. I’ll show you.’

She leaves the room. Returns a moment later with an oval-shaped mirror. Light bounces off it as she walks to my bedside. She holds it up.

A face appears in the light pink frame.

One with long and sleek honey-brown hair. Smooth golden skin. A small, straight nose. Heart-shaped mouth. High cheekbones. Large, almond-shaped purple eyes.

They blink.

‘Yes, that’s you,’ she says. And then, ‘You musta been a model. Such perfection.’

But I don’t see what she sees. I only see a stranger. A person I don’t recognize. A face I don’t know. And behind those eyes are sixteen years of experiences I fear I’ll never be able to remember. A life held prisoner behind a locked door. And the only key has been lost at sea.

I watch purple tears form in the reflecting glass.





2


COVERAGE


‘Mystery continues to cloud the tragic crash of Freedom Airlines flight 121, which went down over the Pacific Ocean yesterday evening after taking off from Los Angeles International Airport on a non-stop journey to Tokyo, Japan. Experts are working around the clock to determine the identity of the flight’s only known survivor, a sixteen-year-old girl who was found floating among the wreckage, relatively unharmed. Doctors at UCLA Medical Center, where she’s being treated, confirm that the young woman has suffered severe amnesia and does not remember anything prior to the crash. There was no identification found on the girl and the Los Angeles Police have been unable to match her fingerprints or DNA to any government databases. According to a statement announced by the FAA earlier this morning, she is not believed to have been travelling with family and no missing-persons reports matching her description have been fled.

‘The hospital released this first photo of the girl just today, in the hopes that someone with information will step forward. Authorities are optimistic that . . .’

I stare at my face on the screen of the thin black box that hangs above my bed. Kiyana says it’s called a television. The fact that I didn’t know this disturbs me. Especially when she tells me that there’s one in almost every household in the country.

The doctors say I should remember things like that. Although my personal memories seem to be ‘temporarily’ lost, I should be familiar with everyday objects and brands and the names of celebrities. But I’m not.

I know words and cities and numbers. I like numbers. They feel real to me when everything around me is not. They are concrete. I can cling to them. I can’t remember my own face but I know that the digits between one and ten are the same now as they were before I lost everything. I know I must have learned them at some point in my eclipsed life. And that’s as close to a sense of familiarity as I’ve gotten.