Unremembered |H.S|

2.0 - Coverage

"Mystery continues to cloud the tragic crash of Freedom Airlines flight 121, which went down over the Pacific Ocean yesterday evening after taking off from Los Angeles International Airport on a nonstop journey to Tokyo, Japan. Experts are working around the clock to determine the identity of the flight's only known survivor, a sixteen-year-old girl who was found floating among the wreckage, relatively unharmed. Doctors at UCLA Medical Center, where she's being treated, confirm that the young woman has suffered severe amnesia and does not remember anything prior to the crash. There was no identification found on the girl and the Los Angeles Police have been unable to match her fingerprints or DNA to any government databases. According to a statement announced by the FAA earlier this morning, she was not believed to be traveling with family and no missing-persons reports matching her description have been filed.
"The hospital released this first photo of the girl just today, in the hope that someone with information will step forward. Authorities are optimistic that..."
I stare at my face on the screen of the thin black box that hangs above my bed. Kiyana says it's called a television. The fact that I didn't know this disturbs me. Especially when she tells me that there's one in almost every household in the country.
The doctors say I should remember things like that. Although my personal memories seem to be "temporarily" lost, I should be familiar with everyday objects and brands and the names of celebrities. But I'm not.
I know words and cities and numbers. I like numbers. They feel real to me when everything around me is not. They are concrete. I can cling to them. I can't remember my own face but I know that the digits between one and ten are the same now as they were before I lost everything. I know I must have learned them at some point in my eclipsed life. And that's as close to a sense of familiarity as I've gotten.
I count to keep myself occupied. To keep my mind filled with something other than abandoned space. In counting I'm able to create facts. Items I can add to the paltry list of things that I know.
I know that someone named Dr. Schatzel visits my room every fifty-two minutes and carries a cup of coffee with him on every third visit. I know that the nurses' station is twenty to twenty-four footsteps away from my room, depending on the height of the person on duty. I know that the female newscaster standing on the curb at Los Angeles International Airport blinks fifteen times per minute. Except when she's responding to a question from the male newscaster back in the studio. Then her blinks increase by 133 percent.
I know that Tokyo, Japan, is a long way for a sixteen-year-old girl to be traveling by herself.
Kiyana enters my room and frowns at the screen. "Violet, baby," she says, pressing a button on the bottom that causes my face to dissolve to black, "watchin' that twenty-four-hour news coverage is not gonna do you any good. It'll only upset you more. Besides, it's gettin' late. And you've been up for hours now. Why doncha try to get some sleep?"
Defiantly I press the button on the small device next to my bed and the image of my face reappears.
Kiyana lets out a buoyant singsongy laugh. "Whoever you are, Miss Violet, I have a feelin' you were the feisty type."
I watch the television in silence as live footage from the crash site is played. A large rounded piece—with tiny oval-shaped windows running across it—fills the screen. The Freedom Airlines logo painted onto the side slowly passes by. I lean forward and study it, scrutinizing the curved red-and-blue font. I try to convince myself that it means something. That somewhere in my blank slate of a brain, those letters hold some kind of significance. But I fail to come up with anything.
Like the slivers of my fragmented memory, the debris is just another shattered piece that once belonged to something whole. Something that had meaning. Purpose. Function.
Now it's just a splinter of a larger picture that I can't fit together.
I collapse back against my pillow with a sigh.
"What if no one comes?" I ask quietly, still cringing at the unfamiliar sound of my own voice. It's like someone else in the room is speaking and I'm just mouthing the words.
Kiyana turns and looks at me, her eyes narrowed in confusion. "Whatcha talkin' about, love?"
"What if..." The words feel crooked as they tumble out. "What if no one comes to get me? What if I don't have anyone?"
Kiyana lets out a laugh through her nose. "Now that's jus' foolishness. And I don't wanna hear it."
I open my mouth to protest but Kiyana closes it with the tips of her fingers. "Now, listen here, Violet," she says in a serious tone. "You're the mos' beautiful girl I've ever seen in all my life. And I've seen a lotta girls. You are special. And no one that special ever goes forgotten. It's been less than a day. Someone's gonna come for you. It's jus' a matter of time."
With a satisfied nod of her head and a squeeze of her fingers, she releases my lips and goes back to her routine. "But what if I don't remember them when they do?" Kiyana seems less concerned with this question than the last one. She smooths the sheets around my feet. "You will."
I don't know how she can be so confident when I couldn't even remember what a television was. "How?" I insist. "You heard the doctors. All of my personal memories are completely gone. My mind is one big empty void."
She makes a strange clucking sound with her tongue as she pats the bed. "That doesn't make any difference. Everybody knows the memories that really matter don't live in the mind."
I find her attempt at encouragement extremely unhelpful. It must show on my face because Kiyana pushes a button to recline my bed and says, "Don't be gettin' yourself all worked up, now. Why doncha rest up? It's been a long day."
"I'm not tired."
I watch her stick a long needle into the tube that's connected to my arm. "Here, love," she says tenderly. "This'll help."
I feel the drugs enter my bloodstream. Like heavy chunks of ice navigating a river.
Through the mist that's slowly cloaking my vision, I watch Kiyana exit the room. My eyelids are heavy. They droop. I fight the rising fatigue. I hate that they can control me so easily. It makes me feel helpless. Weak. Like I'm back in the middle of the ocean, floating aimlessly.
The room becomes heavy.
I see someone in the doorway. A silhouette. It moves toward me. Fast. Urgently. Then a voice. Deep and beautiful. But the sound is slightly distorted by whatever substance is pumping through my blood.
"Can you hear me? Please open your eyes."
Something warm touches my hand. Heat instantly floods my body. Like a fire spreading. A good kind of fire. A burn that seeks to heal me.
I fight to stay awake, wrestling against the haze. It's a losing battle. "Please wake up."
The voice is far away now. Fading fast.
I can barely see the face of a young man. A boy. Hovering inches above me. He blurs in and out of focus. I make out dark hair. Damp against his forehead. Beautiful green eyes. A crooked smile.
And without thinking, without intention, I feel myself smiling back.
I open my mouth to speak but the words come out garbled. Half formed. Half conscious. "Do I know you?"
He squeezes my hand. "Yes. It's me. Do you remember?"
The answer comes before I can even attempt to respond. It echoes in some back corner of my mind. A faraway flicker of a flame that is no longer lit. A voice that is not my own.
Yes.
Always yes.
"This wasn't supposed to happen." He speaks softly, almost to himself. "You're not supposed to be here."
I struggle to make sense of what is happening. To cling on to the unexpected surge of hope that has surfaced. But it's gone just as quickly as it came. Extinguished in the dark void of my depleted memory.
A low grown escaped my lips.
I feel him moving around me. Fast, fluid motions. The tube that was in my nose is removed. The IV is gently pulled from my vein. There's a faint tug on the cord attached to the suction cup under my gown and then a shrill beeping sound fills the room.
I hear frantic footsteps down the hall, coming from the nurses' station. Someone will be here in less than fifteen steps.
"Don't worry," he continues in a whisper, lacing his warm fingers through mine and squeezing. "I'm going to get you out of here."
I suddenly shiver. A chill has rolled over me. Slowly replacing every spark of heat that was lingering just under my skin.
And that's when I realize that the touch of his hand has vanished. With all my strength, I reach out, searching for it. Grasping at cold, empty air. I fight to open my eyes one last time before the darkness comes.
He is gone.