The Last Message

Chapter One:

I suppose I've always known him. He's been in my life since I was a child. But in the same breath, I've never remembered him until this moment. But that's the way it goes between us. Just a series of moments. A few hours of clarity in between the years of real life.

I look to the image in the mirror. A beautiful, confident women dressed in white. She thinks she's happy, she doesn't remember the life she's missing. But I can see on her arm, written in blood, a reminder of that forgotten life. I look, and I look, and I remember.

I was seven years old the first time I saw him. I know, because I wouldn't watch the moon landing until I was eight. I lived on great deal of land, at least half an hour from town, with lots of space to run and get in trouble.

On that day, I played by the creek bed, squelching in the mud and looking for little fish in the murky water. Mother wasn't far off, so I knew better than to leave the shallow section between the willow and boulder mound.

The water was chilly, but the day was warm. Probably the last nice day before summer would die and wake with autumn in its place. I saw him maybe a dozen times that day, his body limp beneath the willow. Something always turned my head and I forgot as easily as the leaves fell from overhead. I didn't understand then. How could I know there was magic to make me forget something I had only just seen?

I had just decided to return to Mother's side when a most peculiar sound caught my attention, low and full of pain. I clambered from to water, peeking around the willow tree. I remembered then, as I saw his body yet again, that he had been there all along. I approached, realizing the pitiful sound was coming from him, even though I couldn't see a mouth. Perhaps he looked grotesque; I think most people find him to be so. But to a child, he was little more than a curiosity. I reached a small hand to touch his face, the skin stretched so tightly across his bones. He flinched at my touch, those sunken eyes waking up. He started to growl, but it turned into yet another twisted cry. Two sets of eyes flew to the blood soaked shirt and tattered black jacket.

At my age, the most blood I'd ever seen came from the last tooth I had pulled. I didn't know blood could fill a white canvas so completely or smell so acrid with age and exposure. My hand instinctively went to the injury sight, but it was caught up in his before I could make contact.

His hand was fat and unshapely as it wrapped around mine, but I didn't pull away. I studied the four fingers, stretching my own free hand to its full spread. I looked back and forth between the two, widely different hands and giggled aloud.

His eyes sought my face and I wondered inwardly how much laughter this strange man had ever heard in his life.

"How do you count?" I asked, awestruck. Why, with only four fingers on a hand, he could only count to… I paused, using my own fingers as a quick reference. Eight! He could only count to eight!

He watched my counting fingers with peculiar intensity and released a rumbling sort of sound I took as his own sort of laughter. I imagined his skin pulling into a smile, but I don't think he could have done it even if he wanted to. Forget about counting, how did he eat without a mouth?

I promptly asked him and was met with yet more rumbling laughter. For a moment, I thought he might speak and answer my question, but it was overrun by more pain noises. I began to really worry after my new friend.

"Where does it hurt? Here?" I pointed to the largest tear in his shirt, still leaking blood.

He nodded, and pointed to several other injury points I hadn't yet noticed. Some were small round holes spattered across his body, but one was another gash like the first. I studied them carefully, trying to decide what to do. Whenever I came home with cuts and scrapes, which was often, Mother patched me up with antiseptic and Band-Aids and a kiss better. I immediately resolved to do the same for him.

"Stay here," I said. "I'll find you a Band-Aid and then you'll get better real fast. You'll see."

I stood, but his misshapen hand caught mine once more.

"Don't go." His voice was throaty and guttural as his laugh had led me to believe it might be, but it didn't frighten me. I was actually pleased he had spoken at all. I was afraid he didn't know how. "You'll just forget."

"I won't. I promise."

And with that, I bounded away. All memory of him vanished. I stopped in my tracks, confused. I had been going to get something…. I had…. No. I was going to find Mother. That was it.

"Turn around."

I shrieked at the sound, but when I turned my memory came rushing back. There my friend lay, tired and hurt just as before. How had I forgotten?

"I'm sorry. I won't forget again."

I turned. But the same process happened again. I forgot, his voice called me back, and I instantly remembered. I tried two or three more times until tears of frustration pricked at my eyes. Things in school were never this hard to remember. 2 and 3 made five. Yellow and red made orange. But every moment I wasn't looking, it was like he had never existed.

"Don't cry, little one. I won't call you back this time." His voice grew more labored with each raspy breath and his eyes looked heavy with exhaustion.

"But then I'll just forget again."

"That's all right."

"No, someone has to bring you Band-Aids and medicine and kiss you better!"

He laughed again; it was getting easier and easier to imagine a smile on his face.

"Thank you, but I won't be getting better anytime soon. Even with a kiss and a Band-Aid."

"Then, I'll take you to the doctor. Please, you'll get better. I promise. The doctors are good at fixing things."

"No, no, my little friend. I'll be just fine here."

"Then help me remember," she pled, with wide innocent eyes. He shook his head and ruffled her hair.

"You're a stubborn one. What's your name?"

"Coralie."

"Well, Coralie. You need to run home and forget this ever happened, will you do that for me?"

I began to cry with greater energy and I felt my little girl heart breaking in my chest.

"But I don't want to." The tears mixed with snot and I was positively convinced I would drown in the mess. I wiped at them, but it was useless, really.

He sighed, whether from pain or exasperation I wasn't sure.

"All right, you want to remember me?"

I nodded vigorously.

"There's a bed of flowers across the creek from here, you know the ones?" I nodded again and he continued. "Good. I want you to run to them as fast as you can, pick three, count to five and then go home. When you put the flowers in a vase you'll remember me."

"Really?"

I wasn't old enough to understand he nodded only to keep himself from telling me the truth.

"Now, go on. Be quick about. And don't forget the vase."

I smiled a last goodbye and started for the flowers. Of course, I forgot again. Even when I stopped to pick the flowers for no reason at all, I couldn't remember. And this time there was no voice to remind me. I returned home, placed the flowers in the vase, ate dinner with my family, and did all the things I usually did. But as I got into the bathtub that night, there was a blood stain on my knee that I hadn't noticed before.

The memory of my friend hit me like a rush of cold air. I gasped aloud, deciding then and there I needed to return to the creek right away. But the soapy water was doing its job too well; in a matter of seconds the blood was washed away and with it, my memories.

A/N So pretty much I've dropped off the fanfic radar for months as my 100 songs or Assassinations readers well know. But I've recently had a lot of time unexpectedly open up and I hope to get back into writing, both fanfic and original work. This is the first chapter in a short piece which I think will be about 6 chapters or less and be completed by the end of February. I wrote it as a favor for a dear friend who requested a love story involving a silent and a human. With any luck, you should see regular updates of this story and any of my others. Reviews and favs are much appreciated! Thanks!