UNREMEMBERED (Unremembered Trilogy #1)

1: Anew

Today is the only day I remember. Waking up in that ocean is all I have. The rest is empty space. Although I don’t know how far back that space goes—how many years it spans. That’s the thing about voids: they can be as short as the blink of an eye, or they can be infinite. Consuming your entire existence in a flash of meaningless white. Leaving you with nothing.

No memories.

No names.

No faces.

Every second that ticks by is new. Every feeling that pulses through me is foreign. Every thought in my brain is like noth­ing I’ve ever thought before. And all I can hope for is one moment that mirrors an absent one. One fleeting glimpse of familiarity.

Something that makes me . . .  me.

Otherwise, I could be anyone.

Forgetting who you are is so much more complicated than simply forgetting your name. It’s also forgetting your dreams.

Your aspirations. What makes you happy. What you pray you’ll never have to live without. It’s meeting yourself for the fi rst time, and not being sure of your fi rst impression.

After the rescue boat docked, I was brought  here. To this room. Men and women in white coats flutter in and out. They stick sharp things in my arm. They study charts and scratch their heads. They poke and prod and watch me for a reaction. They want something to be wrong with me. But I assure them that I’m fine. That I feel no pain.

The fog around me has finally lifted. Objects are crisp and detailed. My head no longer feels as though it weighs a hun­dred pounds. In fact, I feel strong. Capable. Anxious to get out of this bed. Out of this room with its unfamiliar chemical smells. But they won’t let me. They insist I need more time.

From the confusion I see  etched into their faces, I’m pretty sure it’s they who need the time.

They won’t allow me to eat any real food. Instead they de­liver nutrients through a tube in my arm. It’s inserted directly into my vein. Inches above a thick white plastic bracelet with the words Jane Doe printed on it in crisp black letters.

I ask them why I need to be  here when I’m clearly not in­jured. I have no visible wounds. No broken bones. I wave my arms and turn my wrists and ankles in wide circles to prove my claim. But they don’t respond. And this infuriates me.

After a few hours, they determine that I’m sixteen years old. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to react to this information. I don’t feel sixteen. But then again, how do I know what sixteen feels like? How do I know what any age feels like?

And how can I be sure that they’re right? For all I know, they could have just made up that number. But they assure me that they have qualified tests. Specialists. Experts. And they all say the same thing.

That I’m sixteen.

The tests  can’t tell me my name, though. They can’t tell me where I’m from. Where I live. Who my family is. Or even my favorite color.

And no matter how many “experts” they shuttle in and out of this room, no one can seem to explain why I’m the only sur­vivor of the kind of plane crash no one survives.

They talk about something called a passenger manifest. I’ve deduced that it’s a kind of master list. A register of everyone who boarded the plane.

I’ve also deduced that I’m not on it.

And that doesn’t seem to be going over very well with anyone.

A man in a gray suit, who identifies himself as Mr. Rayunas from Social Services, says he’s trying to locate my next of kin. He carries around a strange-looking metal device that he calls a cell phone. He holds it up to his ear and talks. He also likes to stare at it and stab at tiny buttons on its surface. I don’t know what my “next of kin” is, but by the look on his face, he’s hav­ing trouble locating it.

He whispers things to the others. Things I’m assuming he doesn’t want me to hear. But I hear them anyway. Foreign, un­familiar words like “foster care” and “the press” and “minor.” Every so often they all pause and glance over at me. They shake their heads. Then they continue whispering.

There’s a woman named Kiyana who comes in every hour. She has dark skin and speaks with an accent that makes it sound like she’s singing. She wears pink. She smiles and fl uffs my pillow. Presses two fingers against my wrist. Writes stuff down on a clipboard. I’ve come to look forward to her visits. She’s kinder than the others. She takes the time to talk to me. Ask me questions. Real ones. Even though she knows I don’t have any of the answers.

“You’re jus’ so beautiful,” she says to me, tapping her fi nger tenderly against my cheek. “Like one of those pictures they airbrush for the fashion magazines, you know?”

I don’t know. But I offer her a weak smile regardless. For some reason, it feels like an appropriate response.

“Not a blemish,” she goes on. “Not one flaw. When you get your memory back, you’re gonna have to tell me your secret, love.” Then she winks at me.

I like that she says when and not if.

Even though I don’t remember learning those words, I under­stand the difference.

“And those eyes,” she croons, moving in closer. “I’ve never seen sucha color. Lavender, almos’.” She pauses, thinking, and leans closer still. “No. Violet.” She smiles like she’s stumbled upon a long-lost secret. “I bet that’s your name. Violet. Ring any bells?”

I shake my head. Of course it  doesn’t.

“Well,” she says, straightening the sheets around my bed, “I’m gonna call you that anyway. Jus’ until you remember the real one. Much nicer soundin’ than Jane Doe.”

She takes a step back, tilts her head to the side. “Sucha pretty girl. Do you even remember whatcha look like, love?”

I shake my head again.

She smiles softly. Her eyes crinkle at the corners. “Hang on then. I’ll show you.”

She leaves the room. Returns a moment later with an oval- shaped mirror. Light bounces off it as she walks to my bedside. She holds it up.

A face appears in the light pink frame.

One with long and sleek honey-brown hair. Smooth golden skin. A small, straight nose. Heart-shaped mouth. High cheek­bones. Large, almond-shaped purple eyes.

They blink.

“Yes, that’s you,” she says. And then, “You musta been a model. Such perfection.”

But I don’t see what she sees. I only see a stranger. A person I don’t recognize. A face I don’t know. And behind those eyes are sixteen years of experiences I fear I’ll never be able to re­member. A life held prisoner behind a locked door. And the only key has been lost at sea.

I watch purple tears form in the refl ecting glass.