chapter one
The next few weeks were a motion blur. I couldn’t tell you any key events; it was just check-up after check-up, questions after questions, treatment after treatment. My mom sent me to a therapist, who was helpful in the only logical sense that she was a professional. I don’t remember the woman’s name—I still tend to block things out—but I do remember her vibrant red lipstick. Her questions were, to be frank, basic procedure. She wasn’t the best at grasping my subconscious thoughts, sometimes I thought she wasn’t even good at perceiving what I bluntly said, but my mom’s financial status couldn’t really afford anything better.
At least I got to skip school. She—my not-so-therapeutic therapist—believed any school influenced pressure could be bad for my recovery, which I could understand. So, for around a month, I let my body decay as my mind tried to heal. I remembered a couple things through those vacant weeks, nothing very important though.
“Everything counts! One minute you’ll remember your favorite color and the next the whole first grade! Just keep trying, Isaac!”
Well, I’ll tell you first grade wasn’t very eventful, except for the moment I learned Santa was a fictional character and decided to blurt it to my whole class. The school got complaints and before my miniature self knew it, the complaints traveled back to my mom. I don’t understand how that’s crucial information, I’d like to forget it as a matter of fact, but I told my therapist anyways.
She rewarded me like you might reward a dog after not shitting on your new carpet. Or like rewarding a toddler for breathing. I didn’t feel very accomplished, but I guess my snippets of grade school were worthy of gold stars and special meals.
Then, my memory was in good state. Not in total recovery, but just enough to get out of the house and go into a very fearful place by the name of high school. Through the rummaging of my brain’s contents, I couldn’t pick out any trace of friends or a girlfriend or even a boyfriend. At first I thought it would come in time, but after a while I wondered if there was even anything to remember. I asked my mom about it once while eating dinner. She kept picking her food when answering the questions and wouldn’t look me in the eye, so I eventually got the point.
“You never seemed to talk about anyone, or bring anyone over. You probably have friends, Isaac, you’re just not a very open person. Besides, you’re a teenager, it’s your job to isolate me from your personal life.” She laughed nervously and stood up from her chair. She amassed the dirty dishes and quickly made a beeline for the sink. I leaned against my chair and pondered the probability of my old self having friends.
Friends are a pretty crucial aspect of life, especially for kids my age, so wouldn’t I remember my ol’ pal Jimmy who only wears khakis, or Sally who would hurt me physically as a sign of affection? But no; as far as I’m concerned, I’m all alone.
So high school wasn’t something I was looking forward to. I was like a freshman on their first day; fearing egg attacks and athletic seniors. I remembered my schedule odd enough. I remembered my locker combo too, if only I could remember which one is my locker. I’m a sophomore, average grades, sometimes below average. I ride the bus, which is a gruesome part of any school experience if you’re an outsider.
I waited for the bus on the corner of my street. I was wearing worn out jeans, dirty sneakers, and a long sleeved shirt. The temperature did not agree with my choice of attire, but I was too busy reading the profanity scribbled on my street with chalk to worry about the humidity.
