Hi, so I was watching a movie on Lifetime and it was absolutely brilliant omg. So brilliant, in fact, that I decided to write a fic about it.
Title is from the song "Just One Yesterday" by Fall Out Boy.
Enjoy.
"The effects of the surgery will be slow to come, but you'll be seeing them in a week or two after the actual operation takes place. That is, might I add, dependent on what you decide. If you don't want to go through with this, Kendall, it's perfectly fine. Although your rate of naturally gaining back your memory is slim-to-none, and you should take this fact into consideration. With your aneurysm located where it is, you could be dead in a matter of two months. Drastic as it is, I would highly recommend you to have the surgery."
Two months.
60 days, roughly.
Two whole months.
I can't breathe, possibilities being thrown every which way at me. I need to concentrate.
I could die, the doctors say, either way. I could have the surgery and have a pretty good chance of survival, or I could die.
Or, the alternative. I could live out my short life with no recollection of the past four months, living off old memories.
Minutes pass. They seem like hours.
Eyes have never been so attached to me.
"You don't understand," I begin to say calmly as the two other people in the uncomfortably small room stare at me.
I take a deep breath, finally forming a full sentence, which something I haven't been able to do all day. "You truly don't understand, and I don't believe you ever will."
I'm sitting on a stool that could double as a wrestling implement and I'm trying to breathe.
Of course, here comes the irony.
"Mr. Knight, I don't think you understand your situation as clearly as you could be," the doctor informs me.
As if I didn't know.
I sit there, squirming on the short stool, and I want to peek a glance at my dearest sister.
I want to see her face of disapproval. She's way too young to be worrying about my health, let alone my mental health.
Soon enough, the doctor pushes his way into my thoughts once more, his voice loud and projected in my head. Meaningless words spewing from his meaningless mouth.
"Kendall, are you listening?"
My sister's unusually soft voice gives me a chance to redeem myself. I cough as a response, not looking her in the eye.
"If you're wondering, Kendall, the aneurysm is not going to halt your life. You can survive without your short term memory, but it may be hard. There are many surgeries like the one I mentioned earlier that can —"
He's trying.
He is trying his hardest.
Too bad I couldn't give a fuck.
I'm losing it, every second of every minute of every hour of every day. I just haven't lost it completely yet, sadly.
"Actually, no. I'm going to sit here in this same spot at the same time on the same day for months, but I'm never going to remember it. I'm not going to remember anyone I meet today, or tomorrow, or any day after that. I have to be guided in the mornings, I have to know who I've become, not the boy I was four months ago. I'm not 22 anymore, my mental age is more like 70. I'm not going to remember this conversation, and it fucking sucks when you both can remember every goddamn time I breathe. Not to mention I can't keep a steady relationship with anyone, and if I meet the love of my life later today?"
They open their mouths to answer me, but they don't have the time and certainly the patience to solve my problems.
I sigh and continue. "I won't remember unless I document it. I have to record what I'm saying, or else I wouldn't have a clue that I said all that. Honestly, I can't believe I said those words; I'm surprised they came out of my mouth like they did. You may know my medical records, and you may know how to "fix" me, but you won't know who I was before this shit happened, or who I could have been. I'm so sick of this life. I'm living in a rut and the only way I can change is if you let me. I need this, doc. I need this surgery."
I look up from my unneeded rant and realize they were both paying very close attention to me, listening to my scattered thoughts.
"Kendall, I scheduled this meeting to tell you that you're on the waiting list for the surgery, not just so I could tell you about it. Congratulations, you've made it in."
His kind blue eyes search me for any relapse. I'm staying strong as the moments go by and I want everything to be okay.
"It isn't something for you to be congratulating me on, is it?" my voice hitches and a snarl comes out, low and grainy.
"I think you should take the offer, big brother." Katie says slowly, looking at the floor. Her voice is yet again soft, unlike the harsh vibe the office is giving. With this comment, I feel my eyes begin to tear up, and I reach over to my little sister. My hand reaches hers and our fingers intertwine, letting me know things will be fine. Studying her, I realize she looks a lot older than she should be.
Her hair is piled at the top of her head, and the bags underneath her almond shaped eyes are a dark blue-gray, clashing with her light skin.
She looks tired, warn out.
Not how an eighteen year old should look.
I'm so sorry Katie. I'm so sorry your brother is such a screw up.
I wake up in a place I've never been. My heart is racing, and I'm worried.
I don't remember a time in my life when I was ever this worried.
Observing my surroundings, I find a manila folder propped up against the clock on the night stand besides the bed I'm in. The folder has "Read for knowledge!" printed neatly in thick red marker across its beige surface, and I'm curious.
I lean over and pick it up, noting to myself that it is written in my sister's handwriting.
Fluttering as it opens, the folder has a lot of information for its thin size.
I sit up and begin to skim the pieces of paper, finding things out I knew and never knew about myself.
"Your name is Kendall Donald Knight, and you are twenty-two years old. You should already know that, I think. I'm Katie, your sister. That is also something you should know. Something you don't know, though, is that you're forgetful. You don't remember anything that happens day after day, because you had an illness that kind of messed your memory up.
Here's some stuff that I think you should know:
You live on the second floor of your apartment building, which happens to be the oldest building in the city.
Your apartment number is 2J. You picked this certain apartment because your favorite number is two and your favorite letter is J.
You put your keys in the same spot everyday; the lime green key is to your car, which is to the red 4-door parked outside. You also engraved "KK" on the driver's door.
The blue one is for your apartment, and the orange one is for your mailbox.
You love to sing and write songs, while you can also play guitar, bass, and violin. The songs you've penned are on the music stand right outside your bedroom door. It's pretty much your one and only passion. You already know this, I hope.
You have a job! Cool, right? At the local music store. You teach people how to play the instruments I listed above ^. After you walk outside, the store is literally across the street.
Lucy - your co-worker. NOT your girlfriend. I had to make that clear to you last time you hit on her, because she hit YOU afterwards. It was funny. I laughed.
The pen you use to record conversations is right beside this folder! You press the on button to record and the off button to end it. Self explanatory, right?
Logan is still your best friend, and he is still seeing Camille. In fact, they're engaged! With a child on the way! Just don't bring it up to Logan. It freaks him out. Oh, and his number is still the same as it's been since he first got a phone.
So is mine.
If I'm missing something, just let me know and call me.
Love you big brother."
I just want to know what happened to me. Of course, she doesn't tell me, she only beats around the bush.
As much as I want to call her, I don't. Instead, I get up to pee.
While I eat some cereal a couple minutes later (supposedly my favorite brand is some hippie shit- could have fooled me), I check out my work schedule. The whole damn thing is extremely heinous, and on this particular day, I work 9-4. Which is, ironically, in a half an hour. I really don't want to do this.
Ten minutes later, I'm huffing and puffing as I put on my uniform, which is just a purple polo (with the company's name on it) and tan khakis.
I walk into the store with a fake smile on my face.
"Good morning, Kendall," a girl with red streaks in her long black hair says to me.
She's smiling, which must mean something. I'm sure we're good friends.
Her name tag says Lucy.
Lucy, not my girlfriend. Lucy, who has apparently established her place as my co-worker, not my girlfriend. Lovely.
"Hi there."
Nodding at her, I take off my jacket.
"Where do I put this, again?" My eyes are darting all over the place and I'm suddenly quite anxious. Dammit.
Oh, she's talking.
"Um, yeah. Just come around here and I'll show you around, I guess."
Then Lucy takes my hand and drags me around the small store and I figure that it's an everyday ordeal, as her voice is very dull as she points out things I take notes on.
"I'm really sorry, again, Lucy. I'm sure you must hate me for making you deal with this everyday," I chuckle, placing sheet music back on the correct rack.
She runs a hand through her hair and sighs, looking at the stack of inventory at her feet. "It's no big deal, Kendall. I promise."
I look at her oddly, trying to get an idea of what she's thinking. "Are you sure? I mean, I should really be writing these things down because I know it can get repetitive-"
I'm stopped by her warm hand, curling around my own.
"Look, I wouldn't be leaving you with the store if I didn't think you were capable of handling it by yourself," she's smiling a wide grin, making me shiver. I examine her hand on mine, wishing something-anything- could be answered.
"What exactly do you mean, Lucy?" A simple question could never solve all of my problems, let alone one.
She cocks an eyebrow and laughs. "I have to go somewhere. I'll be back in a couple hours."
The nexct thing I know, she's walking out the door, leaving me to fend for myself.
Everyone knows you're supposed to travel in packs in the wild.
Shit.