AN: Don't own 'em, just love 'em.
This one is for Ryan. I took out all the sugar for ya, sweetie. Hope you enjoy!
Hello, they tell me my name is Nicholas Stokes and that I work, worked for the Las Vegas Crime Lab. But I don't remember that. I don't remember anything. My medical doctors tell me that I might never remember anything ever about my past life. My therapist tells me that nothing's impossible. He wants me to document everything, any little scrap of memory that happens to filter its way out of my subconscious. But at this point I don't know what might possibly be my own memory, or what my mind is trying to create into a memory from the information I discover from the people and physical objects in my environment. Memories, real or created, I don't know the difference now. I'm not sure it matters. I just want to know, everything, anything.
My friends have brought me scraps of information that they feel will help me. They've been putting them in a box, knowing that when I'm ready I'll start pulling out tiny pieces of my past life. Everyday someone visits, sometimes singly, sometimes in small groups. Almost every visit something goes into the box. The giver never mentions the fact it does, but the silence as people look into the box as it gets fuller seems heavy in the sterile, antiseptic room. I'm afraid to look in the box; afraid that the items will not carry any meaning for me.
They say they're my friends, my coworkers, but I can only believe that because they're still coming to visit. A casual acquaintance wouldn't still be coming after all this time; anyone who didn't have a stake in my remembering would have given up long ago. So they must be friends. The quiet older man who tells me he is my boss. The red-headed female who holds my hand and will sit for hours talking about her daughter. The tall dark skinned man with the green eyes, who turns on the television and sits with me watching whatever sporting event happens to be on that day. And a young dark haired woman with an almost granite-like countenance, who seems to think that if I just tried harder I would be able to remember everything, although she doesn't say it out loud. I suppose I must remember her on some level, or I wouldn't believe she feels that way.
But the one who comes the most often is the younger male with the wild hair and crazy shirts. He calls those shirts vintage, but that doesn't make them seem any more attractive to me. He seldom puts anything into the box, but he brings small gifts just the same. It might be an item from a fast food restaurant or CD for the player he brought the first week I was hospitalized. One day he even brought in a feather and asked if I knew to what type of bird it might belong. He looks at me with such longing that it makes my heart ache at times, even though I don't know if the ache is for something forgotten, or for the fact that he is hurting inside.
The gray-haired man told me I was in an accident and that I was the only one severely injured. Some teenager was speeding and took a curve too wide, crossing the center lane. He said I turned my vehicle off the road and into a tree to avoid hitting the oncoming car, probably saving the teenager's life, and that of his companions. I don't remember what I was driving at the time, although the one called 'Greg' says that I was driving one of the departmental vehicles that was built like a tank.
My parents have come to visit, and my mother broke into tears when I didn't remember her. When my father told me they wanted to move me back to Texas I told him no. Not remembering my family would make their more frequent visits due to proximity harder on them, than on me. Distance would make it easier for them, I don't need what I don't remember.
But I do find that I miss the young man with the crazy hair when he misses visiting more than one day in a row. I've come to look forward to his joking ways and his silly stories about his family and childhood. At this point I know more about his childhood and family than my own, but that's okay.
I may never remember my own life before the accident, but at some point I hope to find the courage to pull that box to my bedside and begin to look through the accumulated memories resting inside the crowded interior. When I do find that courage, I hope that I'll be able to count on 'Greg' to be sitting beside me. There's something about that young man that nags at the back of my mind. Hopefully some day I'll remember what part he played in my life before the accident, if he was more than just a co-worker, but for now I'm content with his visits and his laughter. I just hope he doesn't give up on me.
AN: I've been holding on to this one for awhile now. It's not my usual fluff, perhaps that's why I hesitated to post it sooner.