Unremembered |H.S|

4.0 - Marked

"The only reason we didn't tell you about it," Dr. Schatzel says as he dances his hands around in some kind of apologetic gesture, "is that we didn't want to overwhelm you." This overwhelms me. I hear the faint, rhythmic beeping of my heart monitor start to speed up. "You had no right to keep it from me. It's mine."
        The doctor puts a hand on my arm in an act I assume is meant to calm me. "Relax," he coaxes. "The police are having it analyzed in the hope that they can possibly identify where it was made or purchased. They thought maybe it could help us locate your family. Don't forget that we're all on the same side here. We're after the same goal. And that's finding out who you are."
        I can feel the rage building up inside me. "I don't believe you!" I cry out. "If we were all on the same side, you wouldn't be stealing my stuff and not telling me about it. You wouldn't be making me lie in this bed for two days when there's absolutely nothing wrong with me." I shove the covers off my legs and sit upright.
        "Violet," he urges. "You really need to calm down. It's not good for you to be getting so worked up. We were going to bring you the locket once you had stabilized more. You've been through a very traumatic experience and your system is—"
        "My system," I interrupt, fuming, "is fine! I'm already stable! In fact, I've been stable since the moment I arrived here." I launch to my feet. "See!" I yell, motioning to my fully functioning body, covered by a wispy piece of pale blue fabric. "Perfectly healthy. You and your parade of nurses and specialists are the only things that have been making me unstable. And yet you insist on keeping me here anyway. When are you going to start believing me? THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH ME!"
        I yank the suction cup from my chest. The machine next to my bed screams in protest. Kiyana looks anxiously to Dr. Schatzel, who eyes the emergency call button on the wall. I point at the IV needle in my arm. "This?" I tug the cord free and let it fall to the ground. "Completely unnecessary." Then I pull the air tube from around my face. "And this is ridiculous. I can breathe perfectly well on my own. Better, now that I don't have a tube up my nose.
        "And what is the purpose of this?" I flick my finger against the strip of white plastic wrapped around my wrist. "Hospital ID bracelets are standard procedure for all patients," Dr. Schatzel responds.
        "Well, then," I say, ripping furiously at the flimsy button clasp. "I won't be needing it anymore, will I? Since I'm clearly not..." My voice trails off as the plastic snaps and the bracelet falls from my wrist, revealing the small patch of skin underneath. It's pink and slightly tender from my struggle but that's not the part that concerns me. That's not the reason I gasp and collapse back onto the bed the moment my eyes catch sight of it.
        "What is this?" I ask, my voice no longer thunderous. It's now weak. On the verge of breaking. Kiyana leans forward and examines the inside of my wrist. I expect her to react as harshly as I did, but her expression remains neutral. "It looks like a tattoo," she says casually.
        "A what?"
        "Relax," Dr. Schatzel assures me. "It is a tattoo. No reason to get hysterical." I gaze downward once again and run a fingertip across the inside of my wrist. Across the strange black line that stretches horizontally parallel to the crease of my palm. It's about an inch and a half long and razor thin. And it seems to be etched right into my skin.
        "What's a tattoo?" I ask, glancing hopefully between them.
        "It's a permanent marking of sorts," the doctor is quick to explain, sliding back into his professional and informative demeanor. "Some people choose to decorate their bodies with them. Oftentimes people choose favorite animals, or Chinese characters with a special significance, or names of people who are important to them. Other times, people choose designs that are..."—his chin juts ambiguously in the direction of my wrist—"... more obscure."
        I look at the mysterious marking. "So that's all this is then," I reply, infusing my voice with certainty. "A decoration. Something I chose at some point in my life."
        Dr. Schatzel offers me a half smile. "Most likely." But I can tell he doesn't believe that. I can tell, from the way he averts his gaze and nervously shifts his posture, that he's already considered this option... and ruled it out.
        Because if he's even half as reasonable as he looks, he's probably come to the same conclusion that I'm coming to right now. As I examine this strange, black mark that's stamped into my skin like a label. Like a brand.
        It certainly doesn't look very decorative.