chasing beginnings down a never-ending road;
Summary: /It's fleeting - a fleeing snapshot of some time in the past, and it slips away before your very eyes. It's the first time you've remembered anything from your prior life./ A story of love, bitterness and regret, circulating around Hermione's memory loss.
"Hello, hon." You sift through your mind to see if you can recall the woman's voice. You can't.
She sits down when you don't say hello back, "Do you remember me?"
Silence. You count the rhythm at which she taps her pen on the desk - the wood is shiny and golden brown - in front of you: Tap - tap-tap - Tap-tap.
There is no sound other than the tapping of her pen and you realize she's waiting for you to speak (as if you have anything different to say.)
Your teeth skim your upper lip and you don't smile, "No."
That night, you have a routine. It nags at the edge of your mind - as if you could possible remember it from before this numb, bleak time - and you hope that tomorrow will be different.
Fluff the pillow until it is perfectly rectangular - multiply the length times the width now.
Run a brush through your hair exactly fifty times - 2 times 25 is 50. 5 times 5 is 25. It factors just right.
File your nails to perfection - I swear, Ron, you've chewed them down to bloody nubs.
You don't know who Ron is, or where you might have met him. It's just a flat memory that comes along and drifts into your thoughts and makes you wish you could remember something...anything.
"Do you think I'll remember tomorrow?" You ask when the nurse comes in to give you your medication.
She gives you a shocked look - you don't tend to talk much so when you do it's a big deal - and then says, "Think positive; I'm sure you will."
You don't.
One day - several weeks later - you are sitting in a chair in your room and reading a book.
The book is Huckleberry Finn - because you think it's your favorite book and the pages are all faded and ripped from constant use.
You flip a page - the last page had 263 words and this one has 1...5...10... - and then you hear noises from the corridor. You look at the clock. It's 1:43; there are never any patients roaming around at 1:43 for their daily walks and the doctors don't perform their checkups until 2:05. Something is off.
"I'm afraid she's not very stable," one of the nurses says - you don't remember her name or what she looks like.
More mutterings. You tense in your seat.
"Hey, darling," the nurse who spoke before walks in and says. You read her name-tag; it says Ramona. "You have some visitors."
Visitors, at this hour? "This is my reading time," You reply nervously. Ramona's shirt has exactly 34 polka dots on it, all the precise shade of fuchsia.
"Can you talk to them for just a minute?" Ramona asks. "They say they know you very well."
They say they know you very well. You don't like visitors but if they can tell you about yourself then you might make an exception. You nod to let Ramona know it's okay.
Two men walk in - men are evil creatures; all they do is hurt you, make you bleed, make you hurt - and in your mind you see yourself writhing under a man cloaked in black. Then the image is gone. "Hello," you say.
"Hullo," one man says, seating himself beside her. His hair is black as night, with thousands of strands neatly framing his face. "I'm Harry."
You swallow, noting the flecks of brown in his jade eyes, "Nice to meet you, Harry." Harry - two syllables; very simple.
Harry's forehead wrinkles - there are six wrinkles on his forehead (and that factors into 3 times 2) and they're about three inches across - and he folds his hands together, "Don't you - I mean -"
"Blimey, 'Mione." The red-head exclaims, peeling off the wall. His bright blue eyes - Haven't you ever been to the beach, Ron? It's a Muggle paradise - resemble the ocean and she watches them make three circuits around the room. "You really don't remember us?"
You don't say anything, making sense of the name he used. Obviously it's a nickname but you're not sure what it's short for. Anxiously, you wind your bushy hair between your fingertips - twist once, twice, three times.
They leave several minutes later with disappointment etched into their faces. The red-head turns to you at the last moment, saying, "We'll drop by soon, all right, Hermione?"
A name. An actual name - your identity, to be precise.
You nod goodbye.
The next morning you wake up, your hair blanketing the pillow.
Blimey, 'Mione. It's fleeting - a fleeing snapshot of some time in the past, and it slips away before your very eyes.
It's the first time you've remembered anything from your prior life, the first time the smothering whiteness that consists of your life has been tinged with a memory - it's frightening and hopeful; count to ten and find all the factors.
You brush your hair exactly fifty times.
Two men visit - one has hair as black as night and the other fiery red locks. You feel like you should remember them - it's right there (Blimey 'Mione) but you just can't.
After awhile the man with the black hair goes out into the hallway with the nurse and they begin conversing in quiet tones.
"I hate when people whisper behind my back." You tell the red-head and instantly hope floods his eyes. It's the first time he's heard you talk. "It makes me feel imbecilic."
He smiles from ear to ear, "You're far from it, 'Mione." There it is again, the fleeting memory you knew was real.
The way the ginger talks about you makes you sense you were a die-hard study-a-holic back in the day. You feel as if you should miss it, but you can't find the memory or emotion to connect with his implications.
The next day you ask your nurse - Ramona, her name-tag reads - for a dictionary.
You're not exactly sure why you want a dictionary but there's a sense, a distant thought in the recesses of your mind telling you to get reading.
You finish reading the whole dictionary that night, and mumble the names of the Greek gods.
Two weeks later (14 days, 336 hours) two men visit you.
"Do you remember me?" The red-head wonders, leaning his elbows on his knees.
You count eighteen freckles splattered across his face - What are you, the freckled eighth wonder of the world? - and sigh. "Not quite. But I get this feeling that tells me I can be safe around you and that I used to know you. I just can't remember how or when." It's the most you've ever said to anyone other than your counselor.
He brightens, "When I hear you talk like that it's almost like you're back." You don't move a muscle - bad, bad, bad; there are six pills lying on your nightstand, each engraved with the letter C; it's no good bringing up the past.
"I wish I was back too." You tell him quietly, not knowing if you mean the words or not.
"So, how are we doing today?" The doctor asks.
You scowl. You can't remember him, even as hard as you try, "The same."
He studies you - the light catches the left side of his right eye and leaves a crescent moonbeam on his left cornea - and then says, "I hear you've had two visitors coming to see you lately."
You blink - once, twice; two men...the image dances so close and then skirts away. "I don't know if I remember them."
The doctor's smile grows and he pats your hand on the top of the desk - cells jump from his skin to yours in that brief contacts; thousands and millions of cells. "That's the best news I've heard all day."
A red-head pops into your room some weeks later and brings with him an unfamiliar girl - "sometimes I think you're my sister, Ginny." - with wide chestnut eyes and faltering breath.
You're reading the dictionary, "Did you know that C3H5(NO3)3 is the formula for nitroglycerin, a highly explosive substance?"
The girl chokes on a sob and the red-head, whom you assume to be her brother by his protective and yet wary stance smiles grimly, "Even after losing your memory you manage to retain your study habits."
You say nothing at first - you can almost touch a memory because you hear the words over and over in your head: Blimey 'Mione, Blimey 'Mione, Blimey 'Mione; it matches his exact tone and that's how you know your brain is screwing things up. "I can almost remember you," you tell him instead.
The girl bites her lower lip, "Hermione?"
You just stare at her. There is a name - there are fifteen black dots in her auburn irises; you think you've heard the name before but it just won't connect.
"Come back to us," the girl says. "Come back to us." Your eyes narrow - doesn't that girl understand? You can't come back; something is blocking you and you can't push it away.
"I can't." You want to add how you wish you could remember but you cut that part out.
You go to sleep that night but don't actually close your eyes. You still hear the sobs from the girl as she and her brother leave the room, those heart-shattering, gut-wrenching sobs.
And it's all your fault.
The realization scares you, terrifies you - divide ten by five to get two; a nice even number...simple, like life should be.
"Will I ever get my memory back?" You ask the doctor at your weekly checkup.
You're not sure why you're asking; it's just, you keep hearing these sobs in your head and you don't know what they connect to but they propel your decision all the same.
"Define 'getting your memory back,'" the doctor says, lacing his fingers together.
You pause. It's uncomfortable to talk this much about the blank expanse of your life - "Hermione, you have to come back to us! Please! Please!" "Ron, she's already gone." - because it's so empty and frightening you hate bringing it up. "Will I ever go to sleep and wake up the next morning remembering what I did the day before and the day before that?" You finally ask.
The doctor clears his throat - you see several blisters blossoming on his chapped lips - and says, "It's rather scetchy at this point. If you don't have another attack then there's a possibility you could regain all your memories. But -"
"-I could stay like this forever and never remember anything." You finish his sentence without meaning to. It's always the same answer.
"What's your name?" You ask the red-head one afternoon while you're lounging in a chair and sipping lemonade.
He hesitates and then meets your questioning gaze, "I thought you might - "
"You thought I might remember your name?" You ask for him and he nods in response. "I can't. I'm sorry."
He sighs, "I shouldn't have gotten my hopes up." Silence follows, not the normal peaceful kind; more of a tense, uncomfortable silence.
"Your name?" You prod. You're not completely sure why it's important to you - three, six, nine, twelve; space out evenly and neatly - but you won't stop to think on it.
His blue eyes - now bustling like a storm - pause on your face and with a wistful look he reaches out and skims a hand over your hair, "It's Ron. Ron Weasley."
You practically jump out of your seat in shock - there are three children standing in the snow, doubled over in laughter; now they sit by a fireplace and discuss wet kisses - and for the slightest moment you remember everything. He's your best friend, at least until this happened.
"I know - I know you," You cry in a tone so emphatic he twitches in surprise. "You - you and Harry - we're friends - we - no, no - it's - it's going away!" The memories are submerging and you're grasping for them but your fingers can't manage to keep more than one before they've dissolved.
Ron is already up and running through the door, yelling for the doctor, but your eyelids have already drooped - "if she experiences too intense of an emotion her body temporarily shuts down; you have to avoid that as much as possible." - and you're gone.
Drifting. Dreaming. Sinking.
When you wake up the morning light is filtering through the drawn curtains - there are two cobwebs in the top right corner of the room, drifting with the air-conditioning unit.
Your mind is attempting to cover up what really happened - "I know - I know you - we're friends!" - but there's an inkling in the very back of your conscious that tells you something occured, something drastic.
And that's when it happens. A memory drifts to the surface of your thoughts, the first memory in a long time, and brings with it a precious piece of the past: Ron...Ron Weasley.
"How long have I been out of it?" You question the doctor, feeling that there is something tangibly different about the slumber you broke free from, something more forceful than the normal peace of sleep.
"Two days," the doctor tells you and you catch your breath - "I know - I know you - no, no - it's - it's going away!"
Turning to look up at the doctor - he sits at 6'2 and walks with a slight limp on his right foot - you murmer, "There's a memory - it's - it's of one of my closest friends. His name is Ron - Ron Weasley."
You already know what the doctor's reaction will be but it's interesting to watch his pupils dilate and his fingers knot. For the first time there is a shred of hope for your recovery.
Blimey 'Mione.
A red-head comes to visit you and leans against the doorframe.
"Who are you?" You ask him and you can almost touch the memory of ginger hair.
He shuffles closer, "It's Ron, 'Mione. Ron Weasley, remember?"
He doesn't expect you to sit up and say, "I do remember you."
A grin stretches across his freckled face and it makes you happy to see him like that - lips meet fervently and your fingers stroke ginger hair, knotting in it as his lips trail down your neck.
A girl with ginger hair visits you and those haunted chestnut eyes seem eerily familiar - "Come back to us!"
"My brother says you remember his name," the girl mutters, seating herself on the bedside chair. Her cheeks are hollow, wasting away.
You pause, connect the pieces. "Your brother is Ron." It isn't a question and by the paling of her cheeks you know you are right.
"Do you - do you remember how you left us?" The girl wonders quietly.
Your eyes narrow - Skin slides against skin; "Please stop!" You beg the hooded man as he kisses a sloppy trail down your chest. "Please don't ruin me like this! PLEASE!" Ignoring you, he rips open your blouse and starts on the button of your jeans - and your hands begin to shake.
You have the same nightmare every single night and the voice in the back of your head tells you that it's not just a random girl you see writhing under a man in the blackened corner of an alley - you scream as he begins to shed his own clothing, tears blinding you as you struggle to get away. It's you.
"Get out," You growl, unable to take the memories any longer. It only reminds you of how much you lost that night, your virginity being the least of it. That man broke you - your body, your heart and your soul, you know instinctively. That man is the reason you are here now, fighting to regain even a shred of your memories. "Get out now!"
The girl gets up and moves slowly towards the door. "He raped you, didn't he?" Her voice is barely above a whisper.
You turn your head and manage a tiny nod, "Yes, he did." Tears burn your eyes because though you can't exactly remember that night the emotions you experienced remain fresh and volatile.
The girl leaves you to your own misery.
A boy with hair as black as night visits you several days later - you see his teeth bite his lip as he sees you and figure he must know you - when you are just lying on your bed and staring at the ceiling.
"Hermione." What you assume is your name slips from his mouth, rolling off his tongue.
"Don't ask me if I remember you, because I don't," You respond immediately.
"I know." He just sits there and stares at you for a long time, memories shifting like shadows behind his irises. To him, though, they are shadows; shadows of the past. "I know."
One day you're sitting on the floor and thinking, or meditating for part of the time, when you get an inkling of a memory - "Luna, don't hog the pudding all to yourself!" - and call for the nurse.
"Is everything all right, deary?" The nurse asks and you read her name-tag; it says Ramona.
You smile, just the tiniest curling of your lips, "I would like some chocolate pudding, please."
Ramona can only bite back a laugh for a moment - you note that her teeth are slightly off white - and then responds, "All right then, Hermione. I'll be right back with that pudding."
You find that you adore pudding.
Ron pops his head through the door and you find that you remember not only his name but what he looks like.
"Where was I raised?" You ask him, determining that you would like to discover your past, at least through Ron's eyes.
"England," he answers.
"Hmm." You ponder his answer for a second. "Where am I now?"
"America," Ron tells you. "The hospital we first took you to in London had never seen a mental disorder like yours and so they recommended this one."
Silence. Your next question is more personal, "Do you know what exactly happened to me that night? I can recall the emotions but no images, per se." It's so hard to ask that but you find it necessary.
Ron's face tightens and then a mixture of sadness and anger boils in his oceanic eyes. "You were walking home from a Muggle convention -"
"What do you mean by Muggle?" You interrupt.
His face blanches, "Um, that's another story for another time." Silence, hanging over you and him. You feel as if this conversation should be taking place at night when all sorts of creepy things run about, according to the nurses, not in broad daylight.
Ron clears his throat when you don't answer him - you don't see it necessary. "You were walking home from a convention when - when someone jumped out at you, supposedly, and dragged you into an alley. Then he - he -" Ron squeezes his eyes shut and you remember feeling terrified and lost and confused.
"I know what he did to me," You whisper.
"I'm sorry I couldn't be there in time." Ron's eyes gleam with tears and you realize just how much that night hurt him. "When we saw you so - so battered and broken - I - I -"
"I understand, Ron." You lace your fingers with his. "I understand."
Neither of you bring up the conversation again.
The girl visits again. You don't remember anything but that you've seen her before and those haunting chestnut eyes plead with you in your sleep every night.
"I'm Ginny," She says before you can begin. "I just thought you might want to know that."
You're not sure what to say so instead you pull her into a hug and traces the freckles on her upper back, neck and shoulders - there are forty-two.
"How old was I when I lost my memory?" You ask her, her scent still drifting across your skin - "Sometimes your brothers think you were born on a broom, Gin." - and her tears slinking down your rosy cheeks.
"Nineteen," Ginny says, fingernails piercing pale skin.
You spend the rest of the day giggling over stupid things and painting your nails a vivid crimson with a touch of gold.
It's night - although to you time is mainly irrelevant - and you curl up in Ron's arms by the only window in your hospital room. You're counting the stars in the sky because maybe if you count them all then a miracle will occur - you lose count at 1,020.
His fingers brush yours - he lies you down, kissing you gently, "'Mione, how did you ever manage to fall in love with a Weasley?" "I didn't just fall in love with a Weasley; I fell in love with you, Ron." - and something bounds in your stomach.
"Sometimes," you say, "I think there was something more between us."
Ron's eyes are blue like the ocean with smooth, rippling waves, "There was."
He kisses you softly and you taste bittersweet reunion.
You're this close to breaking free of the prison encircling your mind when everything goes wrong.
You're walking the hallways of the your floor at the hospital and bantering with the nurses when a familiar shape slides out of your room and towards the elevator - fingers grope and you scream for him to stop but he won't listen.
Ignoring the confused expressions on your nurse's face - you read her name-tag; it says Ramona - you hurry to your room and stop in the doorway, your eyes blind to your surroundings.
There, on the bed, lies a crumpled, ripped shirt. It's the shirt you were wearing the night he broke your mind.
You barely hear yourself screaming and the fact that you're falling doesn't even register until you hit the floor and your head cracks against the ground.
Everything goes black.
When you come to all you're aware of is that one second there is crackling pain shooting up and down your spine like spikes of electricity and the next second - "Ron, you really shouldn't; she might find out about m- well, you know." "I'm not going to let her suffer, Harry." - you're perfectly fine.
Your eyelids flutter open and you see two men standing beside your bed. "Do I know you?" You ask them blearily and their faces darken.
They're gone before the day is half over and you feel like something huge is missing - you just can't touch it now; count: 1, 3, 5, 7, evenly spaced.
"What happened?" You ask your doctor that evening.
He smiles a sad, sad smile and tells you, "You hit your head, slipped into a coma, and as a result totaled your chances of ever regaining your memories."
You say nothing but inside you are screaming. "How old was I?"
"You were nineteen," he tells you and you wonder how he knows that but at this point you're too tired to care.
You ask the nurses for nineteen notecards and a pen that night and, seating yourself on your bed, you begin to write and write and write.
You write what you think your nineteen years of life were, what friends you had, if you ever discovered true love, and only one memory tingles on your fingertips as you write.
When you are done you leave them on a pile on your nightstand and grab a postcard. Sadly, absentmindedly, you write a message on it to the staff and when you are done you sign it: I wish I knew what my identity was.
The next morning Ramona goes in to check on her patient and only finds a stack of notecards on Hermione's nightstand. A postcard on top reads: Please deliver these to Ron Weasley, whoever he may be. I have a feeling he was important in my life.
Miles away, on a desolate, rugged road someone totters across the road, her bushy hair fluctuating in the wind. A Ferrari zips around the corner, the driver too busy slurping down a Bud Light as if his life depends on it to notice the girl crossing the street.
He hits her. Blood splatters the road and soaks into the earth.
Her last thought is this: I loved you, Ron Weasley; didn't I?
|fin|
oOo
So, I worked on this for three days and I have to say...I'm actually proud of it. Yes, it changed to third person at the end but I felt that was the easiest way to close the story. I apologize if you found it gruesome but I wanted to cover a serious topic and thought it came out pretty good. Reviews are welcome.