What to paint

Chapter 8

The ginger saw you again. He introduced himself then but to his surprise you had no idea who he was. He kinda stood there as you asked why he was talking to you.
"I'm Childe? The Harbinder?"
"Harben- what?" you questioned him. "You know the Fatui?"
"No? I don't?" you took a step back holding your book closer to your chest.
"You went to the meeting? Two days ago?" You shook your head as he continued, "You painted it?"
You continued to back up. "I paint everything?" You didn't know what to say, but you had a feeling you couldn't out run him. Should I try to? It could work. At least to get someone in between you. You turned and ran.
"Hey wait!" He called out. You turned the corner.
You herd his footsteps. He was following you. You ducked down and into a maids cleaning cart. You watched as he passed by. His footsteps becoming ferther away. You stepped out looking down the way he went. He was looking left from right for you. You ran again. You're foot steps echoed too loudly and you cursed yourself and he turned around and saw you slipping into your room. You slammed the door locking it as fast as you could. He fiddled with the door nob and knocked. You didn't answer. You took a breath to calm down, and sat at the foot of your bed.
You'd soon forget that you ran away from the ginger.
You decided to look through the canvases in your room. Piles of them lined your room. You had a frotrune of painting and other art supplies in the room. So you dug in. A portrait of a goddess sitting atop a throne. A painting of an empty ballroom, a banquet hall where the table had collected dust. The collection of paintings reminding you of nothing. You could have sworn that you had painted what you were trying to remember. You may not have known what it was, you knew you'd recognize it instantly though.
Even though you sorted and searched through every painting, every canvas, and every sketchbook. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Not one single thing was what you needed. Even clawing at the stuff under your bed and in your closest. You found nothing. You wanted to scream. Wanted to cry. You wanted to remember. You pulled at your hair, nawed on your fingers. How could someone forget something so important? Nothing was there. Just emitionless paintings of scenes you didn't care about.
You grabbed your book and left through your room. You weren't watching where you were going so you fell and tripped onto the floor. The pencils and pages fell. Some tore, bent, the charcoal snapped and stained your sleaves. A ginger haired man rushed to help you.
He pulled you up and looked over your limbs before collecting your things. His gloved hands gently tugged the clumps of charcoal from your skin and clothes.
"I'm so sorry," he spoke to you.
"I wasn't looking at where i was going." you took your things from him. "Its my fault... Umm." you trailed off, "what'a your name?"
His eyes snapped up from the bruises on your knees to your face. "You don't know me?"
"No?"
"I saw you an hour ago?"
"I don't remember that?" You exchanged awkward and confused looks.
"I'm Childe, we've met breifly a few times before."
"I'm sorry, I really don't know who you are." Once again you fled. You walked away from the man, looking over your shoulder to see if he was still following you. Unlike last time he stood there. He watched you grip onto your things and walk away from him.
He knew he had met you. Twice now you've claimed to have never met him. He realized as you left you didn't know him. You didn't know him because you couldn't remember him. It all made sense. The day at the banquet, you had been painting but when Scaramouche approached you with a drink you had asked for you seem surprised that he brought you one.
He didn't follow and walk the way you did. He left the opposite way and down a corridor of offices. He didn't even knock as he entered one. He didn't give a proper greeting to the man in front of him. He hardly even glanced at Scaramouche surrounded by piles of books and papers.
"Care to explain that person from the dinner?" He asked, leaning against the doorframe.
"What do you want?" Scaramouche looked like shit in comparison then he usually did. His hair was messy, he looked like he hadn't changed in a few days, and his clothes were wrinkled.
"They can't remember a thing," he sighed dramatically, "I've talked to them a few times, yet they don't recognize me in the slightest."
"Leave them alone." Scaramouche stood up, he tossed the pen across the floor. "Don't harass them anymore, or I'll kill you."
"Answer my questions."
Scaramouche sighed and sat back in his chair. He took his hat and set it off to the side. "No memories, new or old. The worse case of amnesia anyone has ever seen. Retro and anterograde at the same time." he put a hand to his faced and pinched the bridge of his nose. "We've made progress but it's not much. Everything they knew, they can't retrieve." he held out a stack of papers. "We're not even sure it's a good idea to let them remember."
Childe took the papers and read them over quickly. "How did this even happen?"