Never Forget

CHAPTER ONE: Refresh

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“Miss Logan, can you tell me what’s the last thing you remember doing, before waking up in the hospital?”

I sat in a bleach-white room, furnished with nothing but a simple glass desk and two white, plastic chairs. My eyes wandered, though there honestly was not much to see. No dust, no cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling, no smell for me to crinkle my nose at. There was not even a reflection on the pristine, white floor.

“Miss Logan, this would go much smoother if you would just answer my question.”

Did you not need patience to be a therapist like her? Or were they called counselors? You know, those people meant to treat the crazies?

“Your Aunt and Uncle are very worried about you; they really want you to get better.”

I finally let my eyes settle on the lady in front of me; her eyes pleading, posture impatient. Her left hand was placed on her lap, while her right hand tightly gripped the black ball-point pen poised over a clipboard. She was dressed in scrubs, all-white as if it would somehow sanitize her from whatever germs she could get by being here. By speaking to me like she was doing now.

“Miss Logan, you’ve been in here for about a week now. Don’t you want to go home?”

Of course I did. I needed to. Because though I had absolutely no recollection of anything other than my name, my age, Aunt Becky, Uncle Peter, and the basic stuff like walking and talking, I would dream at night of this box; this large, unidentified cardboard box that I just knew I would find at home (wherever that was). It was filled with something important; something that I knew would help me. What that something was, I had no idea. Help me with what? No clue. But it felt like I was at the brink of knowing, that the answer was there…just not really.

But I couldn’t tell her that, right? She would probably think I’m crazier than I already am, if I really am in the first place. But aren’t I, since I’m admitted to this place meant for crazies, for people that have a mental illness or another? I didn’t think I belonged here, but why couldn’t I remember anything? The lady before me mentioned something about parents—what parents? And school—what school?

I didn’t know any parents, and I didn’t know any school. As far as I was concerned, I was nothing before I woke up. But somehow, I had a name, and I was a ripe age of thirteen, my birthday being a month ago. Aunt Becky and Uncle Peter had been there, worried faces and dark circles beneath their eyes—but all I knew of them were their names and how they looked like. Everything after was all just a blur, and before I could grasp the entire concept of my memory loss I was here, at the Cahn Royal Psychiatric Hospital, eating the tasteless food they offered and sleeping in their blank-canvas rooms, in hopes of somehow getting “better”.

“Miss Logan, I seriously suggest that you—”

“Nothing,” I finally said.

“What?” she asked, taken aback by my sudden answer. I wondered how she got hired in the first place; wasn’t she supposed to be able to keep up with random spouts of information?

“I don’t remember anything.”

“Now, dear, you must remember something.”

“No, I don’t. It’s just…blank.” Kind of the like the walls and floor, I added as an afterthought. Except black. All black.

“What is your favorite color?” she asked as she jotted something down on the clipboard in front of her.

“I don’t have a favorite color.”

“Favorite food?”

“I like sweet things,” I said, recalling the only half-edible thing I’ve had since being here, which was a small piece of fluffy vanilla cake. It had been a staff member’s birthday, or something.

She continued to scribble down on her clipboard. “Do you have a favorite season?”

I didn’t remember what it was or if I even had one in the first place, so I made it up. I thought of the blasting AC they always had on in the recreational room, so gathering what little confidence I had, I answered, “Winter.”

The lady nodded. “This concludes today’s session,” she said quite abruptly.

I watched as she spoke into her walkie-talkie, indicating her session with patient number one hundred and fifty-seven was done, that they could bring someone in to escort me out. The door opened. Three people came inside; only one took me by the arm and the other two walked in front and behind us back to my room. The fear that I was going to attack and runaway was evident in the tense and awkward air around us.

As I sat on my made-to-perfection bed, I stared out the caged window and saw only a parking lot and a forest some kilometers away. We were put into isolation, almost as if we subliminally contaminated the outside world.

I wondered if I was ever going to go back home (wherever that was), and if I even had one in the first place. I wondered how much more “sessions” I was going to have until the lady deemed me not crazy, or not crazy enough to leave.

I wondered why I couldn’t remember anything.

And I also wondered what was in that box.

Yep, still putting off that rewrite of Unexpected Places, haha. Hope you liked this chapter! If you spotted any spelling or grammatical errors, let me know. Thanks for reading, and please review! xxo