Rebuilding

Can't Recall

I woke up to the sound of repetitive beeping. I slowly opened my eyes, checking my whereabouts. The walls were white, except for a beige stripe every once in a while. I closed my eyes tight, now aware of the monstrous headache I was suffering from. When I opened my eyes again, they fell on a boy who was sitting on a chair in the corner of the room. He had chocolate brown hair styled in a fringe, and it looked like it hadn’t been properly washed in days. He held his head in his hand and rubbed his temples with his thumb and forefinger. His eyes were closed, but I could make out deep purple bags under them. The boy clearly hadn’t slept for days, and it looked like he was dozing off slightly.

            I tried to sit up a bit more, but groaned in pain when I realized it hurt too much. I must have groaned more loudly than I thought, because the brunette boy picked his head up and opened his eyes. They were a deep brown, much like his hair. They seemed to hold a naturally rich and warm feeling, but at the time they were filled with worry and stress.

            “Phil! Oh my god, I can’t believe it!” The boy jumped up from his chair and rushed to my bed. “Hey, how ya feeling?” he asked soothingly.

            “Uh, okay, I guess. My head hurts like hell,” I choked out, my voice hoarse. The boy leaned down and put his arms around my back, pulling me into a hug. Out of instinct, I shrunk away from his touch. The boy pulled back and looked at me, confused.

            “What’s wrong?” he asked, fear in his voice.

            “I’m sorry,” I began to speak, but just let my voice trail off. I had absolutely no idea how to string the words along to continue the sentence.

            “You don’t know who I am, do you?” he choked out, taking a few steps back, his breath quickening. Before I could answer him, the boy rushes out of the room, terribly distraught. What was I supposed to do? There I was, lying in a hospital bed with absolutely no recollection of what had happened to get me there, and I hadn’t the faintest idea who the upset boy was in my room. Think, Phil, think. Well there was one thing, at least I knew my name. I rattled off the names of my parents, my brother, where I went to school; and that’s where it stopped. I knew I had grown up in Rossendale, and judging by the view out the window I must have moved London at some point. I knew my times tables, I knew the name of the queen, but I couldn’t recall a single experience.

            My concentration was broken by the boy, who came back into the room in silence. His eyes were puffy, and it looked like he had been crying. We sat there in silence, him occupied with a phone, me occupied with trying to force my memory back. After about twenty minutes with no luck, a doctor came into the room.

            “Oh hey, you’re up. How ya feeling, Phil?” That was the second time someone had asked me that in the past half hour. What was I supposed to say? Yeah, I feel great, and I don’t mind the fact that I have no idea what the hell is going on?

            “Uh, I’m alright, I guess. What, uh… happened, exactly?” The doctor picked up a clip board from the foot of my bed.

            “You were hit by a car. Bumped your head pretty hard. I take it you don’t remember much,” the doctor said, his voice calm but blunt.

            “Not really,” I responded.

            “I figured this would happen,” the doctor said, looking at the clip board. The boy with the brown hair and brown eyes spoke up from the corner.  

            “Is it gonna come back, doctor? His memory?” There was a sense of pleading in his voice, as if the answer was up to the doctor.