"Hello, I Don't Know Who I Am," by B e c k a r c h, arranged by kenthel.
She sat across from me in a worn armchair with soft dark green fabric whose color was beginning to fade from overuse and the abuse it has received over the time it has been sitting in the currently shadowed corner. She didn't belong in such an old and battered seat that looked as though it was on its last legs, but in a straight-backed office chair. One that was black, leather, and mobile, placed directly in front of a window to the world and all the events going on in it accessible through the click of a mouse. She looked the part and it seemed to fit her like a glove; professional in a women's black jacket that pinched inward against her sides and matching a-line knee-length skirt which seemed to accent the length of her legs, making her seem taller, with low heels. Well prepared with Steno pad opened and pen poised deftly above it.
"Are you ready to begin?" Her voice was crisp and precise, but patient. She was observant, her eyes pointed and judgmental.
It was just a strange form of luck that found them examining me.
"Yes," I replied hesitantly, very conscious of myself in the line of her gaze. Looking down at the resting hands in my lap, I rubbed them against my jeans, attempting to rid them of anxiety-induced sweat.
Her stare was expectant when I looked up again and I drew a deep breath which temporarily soothed the knot of tension in my chest, allowing me to start.
"My name, or so I have come to assume, is Zexion and I have suffered from intense amnesia, or memory loss. This occurred on the day March thirteenth, in the year 2005. The day my conscious was reborn. I have no recollection of any event my person took place in prior to that date though I firmly believe that those experiences greatly impact my life today, as I retained a great deal of factual information, such as knowledge of language, history, and mathematics, and coordination. Imagine a time where you just think to yourself and realize that you're alive. You are living a very real life alongside billions of other people. You are feeling true emotions and thinking genuine thoughts. There is air in your lungs and blood flowing through your veins. This may not seem very profound, but these were my first thoughts and they were exciting. My eyes opened, then instantly widened at the room around me. There were all of these ordinary objects around me that were simply amazing and I knew what each of them was called. There were walls, fans, chairs, doors, books, and every other common object found in a household, but the first time you see something, it's unbelievable; alien. This was my destination after years of dwelling in darkness. I merely assume it was darkness, since there was an absence of thought, of knowledge, of comprehension, that I knew there must have been no light either, and no hope.
"With waking up that one morning three years ago, I escaped. Free of my own mental prison, and oh so free. I felt so light, I was dizzy, but, for the first time, I stood. Standing felt natural as I leisurely and unevenly placed my weight on my left leg. The pine floor was cool and smooth beneath by bare feet, which tingled with chill, and I could feel the subtle space in between the boards. After that, I took my first step forward, it was an entire new revelation. Movement, I can walk. I can maintain balance. It was a feeling that was dream-worthy as I practically swelled with pride and walked clear across the room, turned on my heel, and returned to my bedside.
"Life filled me with vigor, with energy, and most of all, curiosity. I felt as though I needed to see everything, hear everything, touch everything. I reached out with a newly discovered hand, grasped the blanket from my unmade bed, and brushed it against my face, taking in its softness with a feeling of comfort and warmth. I examined the tufts of fabric which made up the texture of the blanket and admired its bold royal blue color with my newborn eyes. I held it to my face and purposefully inhaled, taking in its pleasant, fresh scent of a recently washed article." I stopped, closing my eyes for a moment, reliving the memory, and sighing in content.
The woman across from me had her eyebrows arched with interest as she pressed for me to tell her what happened next. My thorough observation of each thing that caught my eye, even though it was literally was the next action I took, I chose to skip ahead to about an hour later to when I was toying with the light switch adjacent to the front door.
"I was being entertained with the light fixture on the ceiling by repeatedly turning it on and off like a child. In reality, that day more or less was my childhood. I was oblivious to the happenings in the outside streets, blissfully ignorant and innocent, watching with wonder as the filament with that lightbulb illuminated my world. It was then that I heard a click, that registered to me as the sound of a door opening, behind me as I whirled around to confront the new sound. What I saw then, was another person, the most interesting thing I had encountered yet. I stared at him with my mouth ajar, almost in fear with the shear amount of shock I was experiencing. During the time I had spent alone in this apartment, I had subconsciously created my own boundaries; somewhat like a 'safe-zone.' He had breached my bulwark; stepped into my sanctuary.
"Although my instincts perceived him as a threat, I also found myself instantly attracted to him. He stood towering over me with what appeared to be an edge of superiority. He met my frightened gaze with one of obvious amusement before he reached out to me with a long arm. I heard a voice commanding me to flee, but I was frozen in place. I fixated on his eyes, which seemed to leek his emotions, ones that I could characterize, inexperienced with. I jumped when his hand patted my shoulder gently and he blinked. I took that opportunity to take rapid steps backward until I was flattened against the far wall.
"'Dude, what's your problem?' he asked with me with mild irritation in his voice. His voice, the dramatic change in volume and pitch towards the end of the sentence expressed his confusion in his deep voice. The first words I ever heard," I paused and shrugged, "I wish they were a bit more profound, but it was the first indication that this being in front of me was also capable of thought. He seemed so radical to me at that moment. He hadn't even spared a glance at the lightbulb, or the desk, or even the blanket. I rationalized with myself then that it was because he was so much more captivating than this room. A visual feast for my absorbent mind, I took in every inch of him in a matter of intense, studious seconds. That day, he had been wearing black Converse brand sneakers with purple laces, dark blue jeans that faded a bit towards the knee, with a black short-sleeved shirt that had the image of a ray of rainbow going through a prism and leaving it in a single beam of white. To top it off, quite literally, was his bright red hair which was made of defiant, vibrant spikes. And last, but certainly not least, his eyes. His eyes were green."
The young journalist shifted in her seat, from hunched over to sitting up and stretching her back and reclining against the armchair. Her expression was contemplative as her eyes appeared distant for a few moments, but soon returned to their norm - alert; perceptive.
"Was he the gentleman I had encountered on my way up the stairs?"she questioned, her voice curious. As she asked, her head had tilted towards the left ever so slightly. I replied simply with a nod, and she continued, "Is he your lover?"
"No, he is not, although, that is a common misconception. While we are roommates, we are not romantically involved. The attraction that I described was not one sexually motivated, but more magnetic. It was like his aura was reeling me in with its cockiness, its boldness. I admire Axel and I respect his lifestyle," I answered calmly.
She nodded slowly, mouth opened in the shape of an "o" before she hastily crossed out a note from her Steno pad. Taking a moment to review the notes she had already taken, she relaxed and then asked, "After going through this loss of your early life and childhood, how do you see yourself?"
What a peculiar and mildly bewildering question she had asked me. At that point in time, only one way of answering it came to mind.
"There is one object in this house, which you may have noticed on your way in, that kept my attention more than any other here, even longer than the ever-appealing light switch, and that was the mirror. I had caught a fleeting glimpse of it out of the very corner of my eye - a flash of light. I stopped in my tracks, being as it were I was in the process of scurrying over to the humming refrigerator, and I turned curiously over to dark green painted wall instead where hung a black iron frame which held a mirror. I watched it from an odd angle, only seeing the reflection on the far part of the opposite wall and I could remember the words behind the concept of 'mirror.' My mind bombarded me with facts about their uses and how they were made. With my inexperience, a mirror was merely an object with a surface that has good specular reflection; that is, it is smooth enough to form an image. A perfect reflection of light.
"I took as step towards it, the produced picture changed, and continued to as I approached it. Finally, I was directly in front of it. There was a man watching me from within the metal outline intensely. He was young and pale. His blue eyes gazed with a look of thirst from beneath unkept dark hair whose bangs were predominately covering the right side of his face. Then, he reached out to me, extended his hand to touch mine against the sleek surface and we both smiled.
"This idea may seem irrational, but I believe that the man in that mirror was who I was before my memory lapse, or failure. He was a man with a purpose, his passion for knowledge burning brightly. That was what my past was like. Forever chasing information to claim as my own." I envisioned that person across from me, recalling my first thoughts of him. "He was never a stranger, but a close friend, a familiar, someone who I was comfortable with. We knew and understood each other, noticed our similarities and excepted the differences. I suppose he is the governing voice of my subconscious. I hear his faint, articulate sarcasm playing within the bitter reaches of my thoughts. On several occasions, that voice has saved me from humiliation, injury, and even death. There was this one time where I was thinking foolishly about the outcome of leaping from the top of this building and I heard a distinct statement. 'An airplane would take a running start.' I wonder if I would be speaking with you today if I hadn't backed up to attempt a sprinting jump before realizing that the fall would most definitely end with my immediate death."
Before she could question me again, I said expressively, "I posses all this information, all these thoughts and it's complicated enough as is without going out of my way to search for more. That is how I think now, with the idea of that if I know so much, maybe I could ease the tension if I let some of it out. While I'm still overflowing with thought, through this, I feel as though it has taken the edge off, so to speak. I'm hoping that with the becoming an author, my ideas would pour out of me and onto the paper. My current work, while fictitious, conveys the inner stirring of my mind and, perhaps, upon completion, will ease my restlessness and allow me to sleep at night."
I continued to speak for a short period of time after that, but then I noticed her check her wristwatch and I knew that our talk was over. She raised herself to her feet, flattened the wrinkles out of her skirt, and closed her Steno pad, placing her pen into the rings. She professionally thanked me for my time and shook my hand in the same manner in which she used to introduce herself: brief and firm. The name she had told me was Celia, though I would not pin that to her as a label. Celia, to me, was trapped within the uncomfortable clothes, makeup, and rigorous time schedules that the woman I spoke to was chained with.
Light was seeping into the room, orange with the approaching twilight, leaving long black shadows across the floors. Dust particles were visible as they moved on nonexistent wind, clearly displaying the difference between natural and artificial light as you'd never see dust under the shine of a lamp. Out the westwardly facing window, the sun was slowly sneaking behind the building across the street as the area steadily became darker and darker. The reporter had left a while ago, leaving the apartment like a hollow and without a trace of her short occupancy. I hadn't been gentlemanly with her - I didn't walk her to the door. I wondered if she planned on reading my book or even to mention it in her article about memory loss and found myself doubting it with mild disappointment. I sat in my chair with my head resting on my hand, staring out the window, becoming increasingly out of tune with the world and materializing into the land of my own imagination.