So I’ve just come out of a hospital. The doctors say I was in a helicopter crash and had been in a coma for about 3 months. I have to take their word for it because apparently I have amnesia. Of course, I’m having trouble remembering my life before now. Having said that, I do remember a few things. For example, my name’s Bradley; my girlfriend’s name is Sophie and her favourite song is called Remembering Sunday.
That’s all I remember, really.
I’m currently in a black traditional London taxi. We’re heading for Hound Street which is what the doctor told me. I live there or some shit? Not too sure. On my way, I’m trying to decipher the blurry memories I can see. I’m looking into distance, trying to remember. It’s no use. My brain has just given up.
7 minutes of wasteful thinking later and we arrive.
"Here’s your stop, Mr. Havering." The taxi driver had a deep, mellow voice which was rather distinctive. Plus I now knew my full name; Bradley Havering. He glared at me for a few seconds and I was unsure what was going on. "Are you going to pay then?" he questioned, with a disgruntled tone.
"Sorry um.. I uh.. How much is it?" I asked hesitantly and confused.
"9 pounds."
He was still glaring at me as I reached into my pocket and pulled out the 9 pounds he was wishing for. I thanked him as I got out of the car and shut the door. He started to drive off.
"Wait!" I shouted. He stopped his car forcefully and looked at me in his side-view mirror. "Which house is mine?"
"Number 18, Mr. Havering. Good day." His black cab disappeared into the distance. I turned around to find a house. It’s bricks were a worn-out orange with a wilting wysteria climbing up the right side which was hindering the view out of a window. I saw the front door was battered. I walked up to the white wooden entrance and noticed the hinges were shiny. They looked new which wasn’t what I could say for the rest of the exterior.
I opened the door and was immediately bombarded with letters. I bent down to see all the different mail spread out across the floor. Either I was really popular or I had a couple of debts to pay. I went through to the kitchen, once I’d found it, and put my brown, fake leather bag on the unit. It was all pretty clean, apart from some water which was spilled on the granite table in the centre of the room with a glass standing beside it. To be honest, most of the house was clean. I hope I’m an organised, neat guy and not one who hires a maid.
I walked up the stairs and looked in each room, trying to remember what was what. I did a little checklist in my head as I discovered each place.
“Bathroom, airing cupboard, bedroom.”
I walked to the fourth and final room and opened the door which seemed to be pretty hurt. There were splinters poking out of it with a heavily indented mark at about foot height. I wondered in and knew what I was looking at immediately. Photos of a girl with brown hair scattered everywhere. Some photos of myself with her were in places too. She must be Sophie and this must be my room.
There was a blue double bed in the corner which was next to a large window looking out onto a park with thick, nylon curtains pulled open. A wooden bookcase was opposite my bed full of books. I had a look at some titles; “Through The Looking Glass”, “George Speaks”, “The Bloody Chamber”. No idea if they were good reads, but they weren’t dusty so I must have regularly read them.
Once I’d done looking at all the interesting things, I noticed a piece of paper. It was sitting on my pillows and was folded three times into a square. It sat by a mobile phone which I presumed was mine. I opened the note and read what had been written:
"It’s time for all this to stop. All the crying and all the worrying is driving me insane and I can’t live without you okay? We are fighting all of the time and whenever I try to win you back I’m just making your life worse and if I don’t do anything I’m making my life worse. I’m sorry I think it’s best for us both. Bye Sophie."
I threw the piece of paper on my bed and stopped. My eyes were stuck open. I was heavily breathing.
“No. I didn’t, I… I thought I hadn’t…” I couldn’t seem to get out the words, swallowing on my saliva more times than a homeless man gets ignored when asking for money. “There was no helicopter crash, was there? It was all me.” I said out loud with a panicked tone to my voice. “The hinges on the front door are shiny because they’re replacements - the police bashed down the door because it was locked; all the letters on the floor that I had seen weren’t popularity or finance, they were goodbye letters; the spilled water in my kitchen was from someone getting me a drink of water urgently; the marks on my bedroom door were foot height because someone had to kick it down; there was a phone next to the piece of paper because I was talking to someone before I did it. They knew something was wrong and alerted the police. They saved my life.”
I don’t know who saved my life but I’m glad they did. I’d obviously attempted suicide, and I may not remember why, but I don’t want to remember. I want my memory to never return.
