The question

It is truly strange how one question can affect your entire life in ways you can’t even predict. How it can not only change your present, but may alter your future and any expectations for it that you may have had. What is most astonishing is the fact that it may very well be a question that had never crossed your mind before.

Jeremy lay in a hospital bed for the past five hours. He was connected to a machine that helped him maintain a stable breathing rate, supplying him with enough oxygen. His right hand had a long needle taped into it through which serum dripped into his blood vessels. The room was as silent as a temple. Outside the window, a green forest was shielding the stress and clamour of the nearby city. He lay still, to the extent that if you didn’t notice his chest move up and down, you wouldn’t know if he was even breathing.

His body was frail, full of scars and burns. He was lucky to be alive, but he did not know it. His head was wrapped in layers of white bandage, giving him the appearance of an Egyptian mummy. Yet, Jeremy lay there still and calm, as if nothing of what he had just survived had ever happened.

What he did not know, however, was what exactly did happen.

He opened his eyes exactly five hours and twenty-two minutes after he was intubated in that sanatorium.

Standing above his bed was a man sporting a very noble appearance in an elegant grey suit, with a cleanly-cut brown beard, small round spectacles and short hair that betrayed a hint of gray if you looked hard enough. He was observing him, monitoring Jeremy’s every move and patiently waiting for something to happen.

Jeremy had never seen him before.

At least that was what he thought.

But he could be wrong.

Amnesia does that.

As the man spoke, his voice, coarse and deep, echoed across the room, reverberated against the empty white walls.

“What are you doing here?”

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The Object

The voice echoed in the room magnifying the emptiness of the space. He could hear the metal in his boots dominating the wooden floor. It made him feel so small, lost in that vast space.

He was captivated by a person whose face he could not see. All he saw was two round black circles where his eyes would be. He knew it was a man because his robust figure betrayed his gender and the sound of his voice was deeper and coarser than any he had ever heard.

The footsteps and the slamming of an apparently very heavy door betrayed that his captivator had left.

Silence fell over the room. Together with the darkness that already lay there, the atmosphere was creepy to say the least.

He could feel his feet chained to the ground and his hands were loosely tied, enough to make things difficult for him.

His eyes begun to become accustomed to the darkness and he saw that the knot that had him bound down could be easily untied with a few tugging moves. But not having your feet free to move around made escaping a bit more tricky.

He looked around, trying to remain ahead of the panic that was rapidly overwhelming him.

There was an object right in front of him. It was within an arm’s reach. A black rectangular box.

He got up and stretched as far as he could, grabbing it tight.

There were markings on it. Faded letters. If you stared hard enough and looked back, they together formed the word “key”.

He had to get the box opened immediately before that voice returned. He banged it with the chains on his legs. But it was useless. A code was required to break open the lock. He looked around. On each of the four walls in the room was a number counting down from “5”. He tried “5,4,3,2”, but the lock did not open. It resisted any other such combination too. He then began randomly placing numbers in the lock, hoping something would click.

It did when the code formed “1,1,1,1”.

Was it that easy?

The box had a key inside. Which opened the chains on his legs. And then the door.

It was too easy.

It was.

Because when he opened the door the voice returned, louder than ever sprouting from a black mask and holding a chainsaw in front of his black eyeholes.

That’s when everything completely blacked out.

And that is when he finally awoke from the coma he was in for three weeks.

He remembered nothing.

Apart from the box with the key.

 

Also part of Daily Prompt: Object

The impulse of an act

“What happened last night?” Vivienne rubbed her eyes as she awakened in a jail cell. Her best friend was sitting right next to her. She had clearly been awake much longer; perhaps she had not even slept at all.

“You don’t remember?” Charlotte stared at her wide-eyed. She seemed furious. A bit puzzled too. And quite stressed.

“Don’t you remember anything about last night? Nothing? At all?” the panic in her voice was now evident.

Vivienne was still trying to wake up. The litres of alcohol she had consumed the night before were now catching up with her, causing an invisible hammer to pound on her head. She held her head up and calmly responded, “not a thing”. “What did we do?” her curiosity was pure and naïve. It was as if she was asking why the neighbor was piling boxes in his yard. As this did not affect her. As though she did not just spend the night in prison.

Charlotte was furious. And the more angry she got, the more Vivienne wanted to know what exactly happened the night before. She felt as if she was watching her favourite TV series and it had been cut-off at a cliffhanger scene.

“The last thing I remember is drinking shots at that bar by the river. Everything is a blank after that. What happened? Did we do something bad?”

“No honey, we were brought to prison for our own safety”. Charlotte was a master in sarcasm. And she performed best at moments when her rage overwhelmed her.

“Sweetie, you got hammered last night. You literally drank a bottle of wine on your own at Spencer’s house, then when we went for Mexican you had half a pitcher of Margaritas, and it was you who insisted we go for more drinks after that. We conceded mainly because you were so upset after seeing Weston again after so long. So we went to that bar by the river that you remember. And we said we’d have one drink. But the waiter took a liking on us – probably you, that is – you were so… friendly and cheerful with everyone; it was bound to get misunderstood.”

“It’s not my fault I get overly excited when I drink!”

Charlotte raised her eyebrows at her. “So, what happened?” Vivienne felt she was listening to a story, not a recount of what she had done the previous night.

“We had three rounds of shots and you had another couple of glasses of vodka. You started to get dizzy so the guys suggested we leave and get you out to the fresh air. That is when we went to the bridge and you saw the wooden boat right under it…”

“Oh no…” Vivienne knew where this was going. She knew herself too well. And her drunk self was even worse. Or rather, more unpredictable and impulsive than her normal self could ever be.

“What did I make you guys do?” she questioned in full embarrassment.

“You ran down and literally stole the boat for a moonlight stroll. We had to get in too, to control you. But you started feeling woozy and rocked the boat, overturning us all in the freezing river. It was your screaming that brought the police.”

“And they arrested us for that?” Apparently, it was not a good enough reason.

“Oh no, sweetie. They arrested us because you threw up on one of the police officers and then slapped the face off the other one because you hallucinated into thinking it was Weston. That’s what we got arrested for.”

“But why are you here then?”

“Because I’m so stupid to care so much for you, I didn’t want to leave you alone in this state of yours. Who knows who else you would molest.”

“So, I wasn’t left alone at all after that?”

“Well, just for a couple of minutes when I went to call Justin. He’s bound to come bail us out any minute now. We’ve already been here for six hours.”

“OK. So in those few minutes, I didn’t…you know… do anything else, did I?” Vivienne was genuinely frightened. It is scary not remembering part of your life and the actions you may have taken during that time. Especially if they will affect your present or future.

“I sure hope not.” Charlotte knew her friend too well, but loved her the same nonetheless.

Their discussion was interrupted by a prison guard coming to let them out.

“Is Justin here?” asked Charlotte.

“No,” the guard replied. “I made some calls.”

“Why?” asked Vivienne surprised.

“You said you’d only go out with me if you weren’t in here, didn’t you? And I do think we would match. Don’t let my job fool you, I told you I am a trained lawyer. I just can’t get a decent job just yet”.

Vivienne gulped. Her face was heating up and her stomach was churning the previous night’s alcohol.

Charlotte laughed. At least the lawyer-turned-prison-guard was cute. He was young, tall, handsome and athletic. He couldn’t be that bad.

A few days later Vivienne did go on that date with the prison guard, whose name was Leo, by the way. She was blown away at how different he was outside the prison. And so was he. She was careful not to drink too much this time. But she was equally cheerful. It was the excitement of realising that sometimes it is on an impulse that your true desires are revealed and you are pushed into taking the actions that otherwise you would talk yourself out of.

Do you remember?

“Do you remember that time at the lake, when you fell and as you sat on the frozen ice it broke, and when I came to help I fell in? We were laughing so hard, we had forgotten all about how painful it was!”

                “No. I don’t remember.” Her face was cringing, as she desperately tried to recall the memory.

“Do you remember our first dance? It was that song you still love; it was during a full moon, during our dinner at that French restaurant you chose. You were wrapped in my arms and looked into my eyes, and that is when you first told me you love me. Do you remember? I was in tears when I told you back how much I love you too.”

                She began to cry. She could not remember. No matter how much she tried, her mind was blank. It was as if this all happened in a movie she once saw and now had forgotten. Her head hurt from trying too hard to remember something that was no longer there.

“Do you remember the time you told me you were truly happy? We had gone sailing and a miscalculation on my part – let’s call it that – caused the boat to topple over. We fell into the sea and you began to splash around, jumping all wet and soggy over my shoulders and grabbing me so tight. I could feel your laughter resonate in my chest.”

                “No,” she said tearfully. She could not remember the incident at all. She remembered nothing.

On the contrary, he remembered everything. Every detail. Every experience. Every feeling. Every laughter. Every tear. Every moment. Every word. So vividly.

He always thought memory was a choice, but after her accident, he began to reconsider this perception. It was not her fault. It was not as if she chose to forget.

But he didn’t know what was worse: the fact that he remembered everything, or that she remembered nothing at all.