Well. That was terribly embarrassing.

I mean, believe me, I've done dumb things in my lifetime--climbing the school roof, for instance--but that one was really dumb. It turns out, that when I was uploading this, I clicked the wrong document on my computer.

Stupid. I know.

Well, I apologize, to my first reviewers, who were a little bit confused. To 4rm me to you, and iheartchicago; I'm terribly sorry you had to read that stuff. It was one of our old Forensics speeches. Yeah, A Dopey Fairytale. Have you heard of it? I doubt that. It's utter bullshit. One of the main reasons I quit in the first place.

And don't worry, dearies, I was not at all offended by your comments. It is a bit confusing, when you click on a fanfic, and end up reading a skit instead.

So, instead, I'd like to present to you... the real reason I updated so late last night... the one thing that I've been working on for these two weeks.

::drumrolls::

ROUGH DRAFT. The stuff at the beginning is kind of like a commentary, by Suze. There will be more commentaries, throughout the whole story...so as to explain more of the plot.

Other than that, everything is written in Jesse's POV. It's also in present tense, because it's easier for me to talk 'guy' that way.

Disclaimer: You know what this is supposed to say. Interpret it in your own way. As long as that way doesn't get me sued.


To Angela and Christina.

My first ever MEDiATOR BUDDiES. Don't ever doubt how special you guys are. I don't care if Marieke, Yessy, Elly and Michelley get hooked. Or if Jocelyn gets the whole set. I'll love them always, but--

You were my firsts. And that means the world to me.


Chapter one.

"It's a strange feeling, when your heart remembers ...what your mind cannot."

(flashback)

It was about three a.m. when I first stepped outside, the moonlight shining brightly through the pine trees around my house, casting a distorted shadow across the lawn.

Shivering, I zipped up the front of my windbreaker and closed the door. Gently, so as not to wake any of my family members. If anyone were to find out where I was going at an hour like this, I'd have a lot of explaining to do.

Moving just as quietly, I traveled slowly down the narrow path of the driveway and began my long walk in the direction of the mission. It was around 11:00 when I received the call, and by then, the inhabitants of the Carmel Hills had already long since gone to bed, their lights shut off, drifted to sleep alongside the chirps of the crickets, hiding the grass.

I was just a few blocks away when I saw him, standing beside the drooping branches of the willow tree on 6thAve, his arms folded across his chest, an obtuse look in his eyes.

I didn't say anything, just stopped walking, to acknowledge his presence. No words should have to be wasted. Tonight was the last night I would see him this way again.

He took hold of my hands and lowered his gaze to meet mine. He was a foot taller than me, and I was 5' 8" in my ankle boots. "Querida..." he murmured.

I nodded. Shivering slightly as he lifted my hand and kissed it, stroking the back of it with one callused thumb.

"Are you..." he whispered, "are you absolutely sure you want to go through with this? I'm not saying that--well, it's just that, I--"

I pulled my hand away and lifted a finger to his lips. "I'm sure," I said, "I want this, Jesse, more than anything in my life."

It seemed to calm him down, what I said, since he then pulled me close and kissed me gently on the lips. It was soft, sweet, and definitely memorable, but all the while I couldn't help thinking, wondering...if this was the last one.

I knew I shouldn't have doubted it. After all, where would we be if we didn't have faith in what we believed in? And when Father Dominic told me about the procedure, I was the one who agreed right away.

It's just that...I didn't know. I didn't know if everything was truly going to be okay. There were a millions things that could go wrong with just the ritual alone, and then afterwards...

Madame Zara had spoken to me about it, many years ago, back in Brooklyn, that summer when I turned thirteen. My 'one true love' as she so elegantly put it, the one that would last me 'until the end of time.'

But...how was I to know that Jesse would love me back, again, if he lost everything, even his memory?

I didn't. I could only hope.

-----

A heavy silence drifts through front seat our 98' Honda Civic as I peer outside the window, watching the mass of cars on the highway with a curious feeling, almost like fascination. The many automobiles on the highway have stopped for one car, and one car only. The driver of which was apparently drunk, so early in the morning.

From the far end of the highway, I can hear the incessant shouting of the victims of the crash nearby…and I blush, almost, at the sort of language they are using.

My father, neatly dressed and clean-shaven, sitting in the driver's seat with his morning cigarette, says nothing. It's the way it's always been, for as long as I can remember. He hasn't said anything, not one word, to me, since the accident.

That's what they're calling it, I suppose. An accident.

I don't remember any of it. But that is, according to the doctors, what is to be expected. They told me I was driving under the influence of alcohol. My mother prefers that 'I was led astray.'

Astray. Right. Well, I guess I'd have to have been, to be smoking as much pot as they inferred that I was. Alcohol and pot. Way to make your mother proud.

But the strange thing is, I don't think I had ever done that. Drinking and driving, I mean. And especially not the drugs.

It just, doesn't seem like me.

But then again, I don't really know me, do I? At least, not according to the doctors. Not anymore.

It's weird, isn't it? Amnesia, I mean. You don't really think about how hard it is, how hard it would be, until you're it's own victim. Because that was what I am, I suppose. Just another misfortunate to be played with.

My name is Jesse de Silva, and I am suffering from stage 2 Amnesia.

Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?

Of course it does. Just as much as 'My name is Jesse de Silva, and I am a recovering alcoholic.' Or 'My name is Jesse de Silva, and it's been four days since my last cigarette' would.

Because that's what Amnesia does to you. It makes you like some therapy patient, someone who needs 'help.'

Not that it did, anyway. Help, I mean.

Actually, I just quit therapy two months ago. Yeah, it wasn't going anywhere. All it consisted of was me sitting in a smelly old chair for three hours every week, desperately trying to keep myself from launching at the guy in front of me. The one who kept asking, "And how do you feel about that?"

Because really, the only feeling I had in that cramped up little office was anger. And confusion, after awhile.

Therapy didn't help me. It didn't restore my short-term memory, or anything. It didn't fix up the holes that were now left in our family. It couldn't change the way my sisters look at me.

And it never gave me any hope, whatsoever, of returning to normal again.

I guess that's why we moved out here. That, and the fact that the neighbors were gossiping about me every morning. News traveled fast, in Lansing, Illinois. And since we hardly ever got any news at all—besides the time when those Hell's Angels came to town—anything was everything.

That's why my father wanted to leave, I know. And as for me… I need to start over. I couldn't take the way they were treating me. My friends, I mean. My classmates, my peers. As if I was now a bomb that could go off at any moment. Someone who needed to be kept under constant supervision. Someone who you couldn't just talk to.

But if I had thought, that by leaving Lansing, and moving out here to the West, that it would change anything, I would be horribly wrong. Maybe my friends weren't here to isolate me, but there was always my family.

I witness further proof of this as I turn to look at my father. His eyes are hard, staring out beyond the dashboard at the scene before us. He looks at the wreckage with one feeling, and one feeling only. And I know what he wants to say. That was you, you know. That's how you would have been, if you had got off easy. But no, you learned the hard way. God spared them, but he didn't spare you.

Why?

And honestly, I don't know why. I can't even comprehend, what I might've done, in my long-term memory, what sin would bring this upon me. How ostracized I am, from the people around me. The fact that in what might have been my senior year, I am retaking junior classes. The way that they look at me now, whenever I say something strange. How careful my mother is, in my vicinity.

Whatever it was, that I had done so terribly, I am paying for it. Dearly.

----

I look to my father, in hopes of starting up a conversation. Father and son bonding sessions, according to Stephanie—my only real friend, back in Illinois—are the key to a healthy relationship with your dad.

But I can tell, already, just from the expression he is wearing, that there is no need to talk. At least, not to him. Nothing left to say, apparently. I had received the lecture twice before, early that morning. Not from my father, though. He doesn't talk about it. Never, at least, not to my face. Sometimes I hear him discussing it with my mother, late at night…and that's how I know; how ashamed he is of me.

So it was mi madre, who gave me the pep talk this morning. As is expected of everyone in our family, I am to be the polite, studious and honorable student at this new school of mine, and overall, the kind of son I apparently have been for the past seventeen years. Seventeen years. I am nineteen, as of this October. Maybe last year didn't count.

Finally, after what must've been an hour, the traffic starts moving. We start up slowly, but the arrows on the speed-O-meter rise up, higher and higher, until finally we are traveling at 45 miles per hour.

In downtown Carmel.

Now I haven't been here too long, but I'm pretty sure that you're not supposed to drive that fast in a small town like this. Especially in what appears to be one of it's top tourist attractions.

Yet here we were, driving as if stop signs actually said, 'pause.' I chuckle. And he wonders where I get it from.

The car slows down a few minutes later, before I had even a chance to gaze upon the scenery. Which is sort of disappointing, in Carmel. It's gorgeous here. So much that it almost makes you want to forget everything. All the pain, all the trauma, the unresolved issues that brought us here, to this hick town. Almost enough to really start you over. To rinse your palette clean.

Almost.

We pull into the parking lot of a large building. Peering through the window, I note it's beautiful architecture as I unfasten my seatbelt. The building is large, and vast, with many levels and a gigantic church bell hanging from a high tower, no doubt for mass on Sunday mornings.

Wordlessly, I unbuckle my seat belt and grab my book bag, preparing to sling it over my shoulder. As I place my hand on the handle of the car door, I hear my father utter the first words he's said to me since I woke up from the accident.

"We're here."


Well, yeah. If you're a little bit confused, keep reading. The plot will even out after a few chapters.

Chapter two will be up sometime at the end of this month. I've got to focus now, and study for finals.

Ciao, mi amici!!