Chapter 5: The Dangers of Falling Behind | July 2020 (Present Day)

Holly

It's with some embarrassment that I tell Benedict I have to leave the room for a moment to use the restroom. He's been speaking almost nonstop and with no interruption from me for the past hours, telling me the story of our meeting, and though I've been listening with more caution and effort than I've ever listened to anyone else in my life—as far as I can remember—I haven't been successful in actually remembering anything he's told me. And this fact makes me feel incredibly helpless and depressed, on top of my already reeling confusion and emotional fatigue from the weight of the story itself.

In the very least, I think he feels just as exhausted as I do, for when I meekly place a hand on his forearm and tell him I'll be right back, there's an expression of relief in his eyes alongside the more prominent distress which has filled those beautiful orbs more and more as he's continued speaking, that silken voice growing gravelly with effort and discouragement.

I get up from the couch, the loss of my weight making barely any difference, and I leave him there without letting myself glance back, as I pad silently through the door of the bedroom—our bedroom—and shut myself in the bathroom. After locking the door—a knee jerk instinct that I instantly regret doing, though I don't have the bravery to unlock it again—I turn to the sink and twist on the cold tap, cupping my hands and filling them with the frigid water, submerging my face, holding my breath, trying to become numb.

But it's only so long before I have to come up again, see my face in the mirror, my eyes, my body barely changed, but a few nearly imperceptible differences in the set of my jaw, the way it seems my face has been free of the stress I endured for my first seventeen years of life. It's an unfamiliar look, this face—one of peace and comfort, one of being protected, both my myself, and by another. I submerge my face a second time, and then pinch myself on the arm, the cheek, the neck. I slap myself across the face. But this isn't a dream. And none of my memories return.

After a minute I decide to turn the tap off, not wanting to waste water, though the rush of the tap had leant me a false sense of privacy. When I thought of losing memory before all this, I thought of the way the woods looks from a fast-moving train window. The way that the woods looked when I hopped a train from New Jersey to New York City at seventeen years old, to escape my father: a vague blur of color and depth, a knowledge of what is there, but an inability to pick out specifics. But this memory loss is different entirely. Here, there is not even a vague feeling or sense of the larger picture. When I had looked out the train window, I had been conscious of the fact that I was looking at woods. But now, I am only looking at shapeless, nameless gray.

I pull up the loose-fitting tank top that this future body of mine is wearing, and examine the scar on my abdomen, near my side—the scar from the gunshot on the subway, I know now, from Benedict's detailed retelling of the very early beginnings of our acquaintance. It's a wonder to me now, at eighteen, when I can't remember even setting foot in that fateful train car on that fateful day, that I would ever do something so bold as to jump forward and help to give care to a little boy. I can't imagine myself ever being capable of such a feat, and I can't blame him for describing me as a hero now, though, I'm sure, in the past (or, in the future, from my mental standpoint) I protested that term, hero, with all my might.

After a minute or two of staring at that gunshot wound, the flesh slightly disfigured from the surgery five years ago, my mind wanders to things unseen... The pregnancy. The news of which had caused me to lose all sense of time and coordination, which had caused me, ultimately, to lose consciousness earlier. It's difficult to accept the idea as fact. But, more complex than carrying the beginnings of a child inside of me is the knowledge of how that, too, came to be—the fact of this future version of me having a sexual relationship with Ben. And even more than the physical aspect, the awareness that pregnancy on its own signifies a relationship far deeper than I ever could have expected, is overwhelming beyond comprehension. In fact, I feel so overwhelmed on my own that I know the only option even resembling sanity in this situation, is to put the whole ordeal of it away until I can sort the rest of myself out and return to it later with a clearer mind. If a clearer mind ever becomes reality.

I let the shirt fall over my skin, the scar tingling when the fabric brushes against it, and I rinse my face again, steadying myself on the counter and breathing deeply to banish my lightheadedness, feeling nauseous from all of these horrors.

And as I let my breath come more slowly, and feel the cool of the beading water as it dries on my face, my thoughts wander to Benedict himself.

I cannot help but feel conflicted when I reflect on his nature. It upsets me more than anything that, though he's been fiercely exercising his very best efforts, no real memory has returned to me. I feel an instinctive familiarity with him, one which i cannot help. In the blurred landscape of five years, Benedict is the only thing which I can partially recognize at all. I don't know the story he's been telling, but the way he tells it, the sound of his voice—so rich and soothing, comforting as anything could be in this situation—as he speaks, the emotion in his eyes... That I do feel that I know, even if I don't remember learning it in the beginning.

Everything about him seems familiar and comfortable, in a way that is comparable to breathing air, to walking, to blinking. But I am so disconnected from him at the same time. For, though I trust him, my mind, my memory, has still never met him, despite his efforts to bring me—my twenty-three year old, present self—back to life. We are both equally helpless in the face of this nonsensical, inexplicable event.

As I stare at myself I try to puzzle out what could have actually happened to make me forget so much, so suddenly. Though I try (and it's not difficult to remember the passages, as, in my head, I've only just been reading them a week or so ago), I can't recall any medical explanation for this sort of thing. All of the types of amnesia which I've studied are either different entirely from this, or are related to age and head wounds. I am too young and healthy for any of the known types to be the case. I wonder if, in an extremely rare case, this sort of thing could result—impermanently—from stress at my environment. Perhaps it could have something to do with the rigorous and quick changes to society under the Coronavirus, which Ben has taken great pains in explaining to me. Perhaps it could have resulted from shock at the pregnancy...

But no matter how many times I attempt to give my affliction a name, a purpose, a textbook definition and explanation, I can only fail to do so, can only work myself deeper into confusion and anger.

From all of these roiling thoughts and feelings, however, surfaces the most chilling fact Ben has given me over the past hours: the fact that, when we were sitting on that bench in the park across from the pond and the ducks, I spotted a man in a hood, watching us, and that this man was my father.

Suddenly, I find myself down on my knees, bending over the toilet with my knuckles white as I clutch the seat—and then, even more quickly, I find myself becoming sick, over and over, terrible, recurring waves of stress and weakness overcoming my body. It passes in enough time that I have reason to believe it's a result of the pregnancy. But despite the ridiculous ease with which I can simply press down on the handle and flush the evidence of the sickness away, the evidence of my inner distress lingers, and I don't have the strength to get up from the bathroom floor, instead slumping against the opposite wall and starting to sob, giving up on keeping myself silent for the sake of dignity.

Benedict arrives outside the bathroom door—or, at least, makes his presence known there—a few moments later, with a light knock and a dampened, sorrowful, "Holly? Let me help you..."

He coos so that I have no choice but to get up from the floor with difficulty, and to rinse my mouth out between gasping sobs, all the time supporting my weight by leaning on the toilet, leaning on the towel rod, the countertop. Trying to restrain my crying but failing and knowing that continuing my efforts to do so is foolish and also selfish, given Benedict's own turmoil, I give in and open the door, going through the doorway on wavering legs, to slump against Ben's waiting chest.

After a moment of surprise at my actions, he embraces me back, tentatively, and eventually more tightly, until I am wrapped up entirely in his arms, his heavenly scent, the heavenly gentle strength of his body, and my cries ebb. I can feel something so warm and familiar in his embrace, and I return it eventually with my own, until my tears stop coming, and I can breathe again. We remain there for a good time after, though, and there's something terribly painful and terribly wonderful in this embrace. It's something that I want back. Something that I once had. Hell—something I had just yesterday.

At length, I manage to draw back from him slightly, still holding onto him for life, as he continues to hold me close to him with his gentle hands, only separating my body from his enough to look up into his face. I can see that tears have come into his own eyes, and a horrible sadness is inside of him, which devastates but also affirms me, for it means we are together.

"I feel terrible for not remembering," I tell him, barely whispering for the hoarse tightness of my throat. The words are directly from my hateful, deserted heart, and they almost send me back into helpless sobbing, but he brings me back to his chest in such a way that I cannot help but exhale in relief.

"There is nothing to forgive," he tells me, his voice sounding low and honest in his chest, against my warm ear, pressed against his soft shirt.

After standing there for an immeasurable length of time, we pull ourselves away from one another, very cautiously, one limb, one joint at a time, and stand apart. He suggests that we have some lunch, if I think my stomach can handle it, and I agree that trying to eat a little something might help my system to balance itself out. Like ghosts, edging past and beside each other along the hallway, we go into the kitchen, and even as we settle into the ironically domestic task of preparing sandwiches, I can't help but let in the inkling that there's something terrible he's avoiding.

Benedict

How am I supposed to tell her?

This is the question that won't leave my mind, encircles and cages it, stalks my every thought and emotion as I put myself to the task of making a ginger tea for her stomach while she finishes plating the sandwiches. I can look at her from time to time out of the corner of my eye, but then have to turn back to the kettle, incapable of holding her in my eye for long before becoming plagued by a terrible inner trembling. I am tempted, terribly, to lie to her. To skirt around the horrific subject which my mind obsesses over, the next significant event to take place in the story of our conjoined pasts. If I could only cause her less pain in the story of her past—or her future, I suppose—then I would choose that option. But knowing the injustice I would do by lying to her, even to protect her from short-term anguish, I know that the only thing for me to do is to tell the truth.

I gaze at her again from across the expanse of the kitchen, the angle of her shoulder, the curve of her side, the way her neck bends as she focuses. I wonder what is contained within her head, that strong, beautiful head which I've come to look at again and again like that of a statue, observing and admiring her beauty, wondering at what mysteries might lie within her. As I'm sure, she is wondering what mysteries lie in mine. As she turns her head slightly to the side, in a way that makes me know she feels my gaze, a tingle of longing takes hold in the pit of my insides, and I have to turn my head suddenly to keep from crying out in a quiet, private pain.

I want to hold her so badly, to pull her body close to mine, the way I did outside the bathroom just minutes ago, but for her to know my body, to have no fear of it. I want to touch her lips with mine, to show her how much I love her, to cherish her physical form. But I know that doing so will take time and trust. It would be impossible now to show her the bodily affection we'd grown accustomed to before this morning... the physical oneness we'd shared all the way until last night, the night before I returned this morning to find her changed, to find her gone, as though I'd never been in her mind. Which, given the sheer intensity with which I love her, makes me feel as though I'd never been at all, in any capacity, in or out of her memory.

If only she could recall all of what we've survived side by side, recall the tenderness of just last night... Last night... The touches of skin, of lips and hands, that intense gentleness we've worked so hard to achieve and sustain—

"Ben?"

I resurface from my thoughts at the sound of her voice, and turn to look at her, standing there with the sandwich plates in hand, turned to me, looking as though she's been trying to get my attention for a long while, and I haven't' been hearing. The tea kettle is whining.

After a few uncomfortable half-formed statements and movements, always avoiding one another's bodies and eyes, we find our way back to the couch in the sitting room. We sit down and she nibbles at her sandwich quietly, while we are surrounded by our books. They are the evidence of our inner kingdom of common thought and love, each book a building block, whose significance she can no longer recall—some of which I'm sure she cannot even remember reading at all.

Eventually, she's nibbled through half of her sandwich and then abandoned it on the plate, and she sips on her tea, looking like she thinks she might be ill again. Frequently she looks up at me and manages the whisper of a smile, but there's something in her eyes that tells me she knows she can't quite trust me at the moment. She's wondering about me behind that delicate forehead, she knows I'm in the process of making a decision that could be to her grave, grave detriment.

"Holly," I say to her once she's looked up at me in this manner and then back down into her tea as though hoping to find the contents of my thoughts there too many times for me to bear. She looks up at me again as I speak, but in a different manner, expectant, hopeful, wanting very, very badly to trust. And I know I cannot betray her. "There's something I'm going to tell you soon, and you're not going to enjoy hearing about it."

"I know," she tells me, simply. She looks at me curiously, the fear in her eyes clearing slightly as she realizes I won't tell her a lie by omission, and then a new fear entering in its place, a new fear of what the past might hold. She stops drinking her tea and instead situates the cup on her protruding knee, warming her trembling hands round the sides of it. I situate myself on the couch, trying to be offensive in my stature, and I start again, working my way up to the point of pain, the point of no return.

"After I left New York, we kept up a steady correspondence. I returned to work, and you, come second semester, changed your major to English, and started writing again. You were overjoyed, you told me you hadn't felt better in all your life. You even sent me some copies of your stories."

At this, I see her face light up in equal parts hope and terror, and I smile a little, knowing that, before me, she'd never shared any of her writing with anyone. "Was it any good?" she can't help asking me, and I let my smile become warmer, deciding against holding my deep emotion for her back.

"It was far more than good," I assure her, and she smiles lightly, settling back into the couch and telling me to continue with her eyes. I savor the look of contentment on her face, knowing that, now, I have to crush it.

"And then..." I manage with a shaking voice, her eyes darkening instantly. "February came. I was in London filming a special episode of Sherlock, and you were starting out physical therapy with Alexandra, taking advantage of the early spell of spring in New York..."

Author's note:

First and foremost, I want to let you all know in advance that there are going to be some intense situations in the next chapter. I'm not making anything too explicit, but sexual assault will be strongly referenced, and I don't want to startle anyone. Thus, this warning. Please reach out to me if you want to discuss the events that will take place! I'm happy to have a conversation with anyone who needs support.

On a lighter note... I am a little embarrassed to tell you that I screwed up the timeline I originally had planned for this story. Yikes. *hides under covers* ...I had the wrong dates for the filming of Doctor Strange, which is the film set Benedict is supposed to be working on in NYC for this story. (If anybody has found a list or schedule of filming dates or the like for Benedict's movies, I would be abundantly grateful to have it). I've already worked the rehearsals and performances of the London National Theatre's Hamlet (wow... just... A stunning production) into some upcoming chapters, but I realize now that it was actually in the summer of 2015, before the filming of Doctor Strange in November. So... oops.

I think I'm going to go ahead and write it the way I was planning it, but there will be a little lapse in the timing / logic that you guys will have to forgive me for. This sort of mistake on my part irritates me to no end, and I can only hope that you won't be too thrown off by it! Next chapter will be set in the early spring of 2015, and I will probably end up mentioning Doctor Strange again at the end of 2015 in the story's timeline.

I'm super sorry for this slip-up and for ranting about it! But I'm glad I caught it before things got too serious!

Hope you are all holding up wonderfully,

Une-papillon-de-nuit

20 July, 2020