CHAPTER I: Remember the Name

This is ten percent luck
Twenty percent skill
Fifteen percent concentrated power of will
Five percent pleasure
Fifty percent pain
And a hundred percent reason to remember the name

"3 SUICIDES AS OF TODAY! WE'VE GOT THREE SUICIDES!" yelled a nearby newspaper boy. The repetitiveness would have gotten to me if it weren't for my current predicament.

"I hate this so much," I muttered to myself, sitting on a bench alone at the local park. Convenience-store-bought cappuccino and newspaper in hand, dark shades, you'd think nothing could stop a girl like me… except you "can't get anywhere with the darn global economy in the way." I hated it. Escaping the United States and my parents for a foreign land seemed exciting enough. Attending Oxford instead of Harvard seemed less bland. I was an adult anyway, it was my choice. It was my choice to run away from the life I was used to.

But I was a pretty naïve young adult. I just didn't think about what I would do after graduate school. Back then, I thought figuring out how to get money to pay the student loan AND the rent could wait. I thought I still had the support of my parents, but I guess putting me on their phone's Auto-Reject list counts as being disowned. Sure, I got a worthless MBA. But it's not like some top-notch company's willing to post an ad in the Job Search section. All you see there are jobs for caregivers.

How boring, I thought, sipping the last bit of my cappuccino and throwing both that and the newspaper into the nearest trash bin. I couldn't imagine myself as a caregiver, or in any position in the medical field. Neither was I born to be flipping someone else's burger, or trimming someone else's £5mill rose garden. The internet wasn't helping either. Craigslist was a pain in the ass. I seem to find a decent job when someone else picks it up.

Damnit. I hate it when I get overly passionate about something.

"Selena? Selena Seim?" someone yelled from a distance behind me.

Turning around, I saw a portly figure running towards me, along with a man a little less skinnier than him. The skinny one had a limp and cane with slightly grayed hair, the other had a full head of color with the exception of a major balding area on the top. I found it weird and tried my best to conceal my surprise when they finally reached me. It wasn't normal for anyone to remember or call out my name. I was probably one of those people you glance at for a second, my face being tucked away in the dim recesses of one's brain.

Slightly disheveled and gasping for breath, the two took a moment in my puzzled state to get some strength back. In between pants, the portly one said while extending his hand for a shake "It's me, Stamford. Mike Stamford. I was your guidance counselor back at Oxford."

"OH! Mike! Yes, hello." I said, shaking his hand.

Mike went through this short reminiscing phase. "How long has it been since you sat in my office? Six to eight years? I got fat. Heard you've been in the business of searching for money. What happened? Didn't you go for that MBA?"

"Yeah. I went for it alright. Big help it was." I said with some slight sarcasm, raising my eyebrows at the man with the cane. "Who's he?"

"Oh this is Dr. John Watson. Went with me to Barts during my younger years. Invalided from Afghanistan." At this, "Dr. John Watson" and I shook hands and exchanged formalities briefly. "Anyway, what have you been doing?"

"I've been looking for a job more recently. Stupid economy. Can't find anything that's decent in the papers or online. I'm also looking for a flat mate. Can't afford the apartment I'm living in now, rent has skyrocketed thanks to my whole damn problem. Can't afford going back to Los Angeles. Can't afford to face my parents. I'm stuck in a rut." I said, unleashing my tirade of wining at Mike. Back at when he used to work at Oxford, he was probably the best guidance counselor there. He still is willing to lend an ear today.

John looked up a bit. "Really? I need a flat mate too."

"Haha. You two aren't the only ones looking for a flat mate," chuckled Mike.

I raised my eyebrows even higher. "Hmmm? Who's the other one?"

"Nice place…" I murmured, walking into what seemed like a chemistry lab. Except it was bigger than the average college or high school facility. There was already another person in the room: supper skinny, late twenties to his early thirties, dark suit. He was experimenting with something under the microscope, maybe an intellectual type. I think I was the only one to really pay attention to him, and he seems like an interesting person.

John walked around a bit, looked through some of the cupboards. "It was different in my day."

"You have no idea," muttered Mike.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine." asked the gentleman.

"Well, what's wrong with the landline?"

"I prefer to text."

"Sorry, it's in my coat."

Awkward silence…

Finally John piped up. "Ah here, use mine."

"Oh…errr… thank you."

More of an awkward silence…

"These are a couple of friends of mine. John Watson and Selena Seeeiiim…" Mike drolled on, feeling like he should fill in the gaps of conversation with his exaggerated pronunciation of my last name.

Nodding at my direction, the man started texting. I was expecting some more of that awkward silence. I wasn't expecting him to actually talk to me. About… them. No one does that.

"How are your parents?"

"…Sorry?"

Ignoring me, he looked up at John this time. "And you? Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"…Afghanistan-"

"My parents are perfectly fine, thank you-"

"-How did you know about Afghanistan?"

John and I had some overlapping babble coming from our confused mouths (Mike, apparently, was having a hilarious time watching our facial expressions). In the meantime, a girl walked in with a mug of joe. She had light brown hair, probably same age as me, and had this friendly feel. I figured we could be friends if I talked to her.

"Ahhh, Molly. Coffee, thank you… What happened to the lipstick?"

"It wasn't working for me."

"Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth's too… small… now."

"…Okay…" Molly sighed, and walked out the door a bit flustered. The man made sure that she'd gone before he went back to his little interrogation.

"How do you feel about the violin?" he asked, both John and I this time.

John still looked dumbfounded. "I'm sorry, what?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on… and would that bother you? Potential flat mates should know the worst about each other."

I turned on Mike. "You told him about us?" He knows I don't like it when people talk about me. Makes me wonder what they've said.

"Not a word Selena. Not a word on both of you."

"Well, then who said anything about flat mates?" asked John, shifting uncomfortably.

"I did. Told Mike I must be a difficult man to find a flat mate for. Now here he is, just after lunch with two old friends. One is clearly coming back from military service in Afghanistan and the other in a bit of a patch family-wise. Wasn't a difficult leap." He said, grabbing his coat and scarf.

John decided to repeat his question, the one about how he knew about Afghanistan, but our potential flat mate completely ignored him. He told us about this flat he found, a place he had his eye on. Mentioned he was looking for three, since even though he gets a discount it's still over what he, and maybe two people alone, can afford. John and I were to meet him there tomorrow at 7:00 PM. Said something about a riding crop in the morgue…

"Is that it?" John asked.

Right when our flat mate opened the door, he looked exasperated at having to turn around and answer even more questions.

"We've only just met, and we're going to look at a flat," the soldier continued.

He raised his eyebrows. "Problem?"

"We don't know a thing about each other. We don't know where we're meeting; we don't even know your name." I proclaimed, stepping in.

Walking up to me and staring me down, he said "I know you were born and raised in Los Angeles, and left there pursuing a MBA at Oxford. I know you have an estranged relationship with your parents. Possibly because in your childhood they've dictated every single thing you were to do and interfered with your personal life, also because you supposedly grew up as their biggest disappointment. A lot of bickering went on with them. You have an older sister. You refuse to associate with her because she's the spitting image of what you could have become."

"Yes, thank you for explaining my emotional and traumatic childhood in front of the security cameras."

"And you," he twirled around, turning on John. "I know you're an army doctor and have been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him. Probably because he's an alcoholic. More likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic, quite correctly I'm afraid," he said, nearly walking out the door before he popped in again.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221b Baker Street," at which he winked us. "Afternoon Mike."