Unthinkable

Unthinkable ~ Chapter 13

I woke up at 6:00 AM on a Saturday to the ringing of my cellphone. There was no caller ID. Strange.

I propped my body up on weak elbows and cleared my throat. "Hello?"

The grogginess in my voice matched the drooping eyelids and tilting head that adorned my body. Right after I heard the first few words, though, my features jerked alive.

"Who is this again?" I rubbed my eyes to make sure I wasn't dreaming, and then my eyes narrowed. It was the hospital. And they were "concerned" about the condition of my memory deficit.

Bullshit.

"What seems to be the problem?" My voice sounded steady and professional. I tried to keep myself from grinding my teeth as the voice on the other end of the line continued in a disgustingly emotionless tone. I tried not to laugh bitterly when they continued on, saying that they were still unsure about the severity and treatment and would may need to run some tests on me. 

Not this again.

"In order to ensure that we know absolutely everything we possibly can about your ailment, and for the benefit of our future research endeavors, we'd really like to conduct a few harmless procedures. We can even just observe--"

I let a wisp of air leave my lips and shut my eyes. "What are the specific procedures?"

"First, we would probably want to conduct CT, PET and MRI scans, blood tests, then a couple of questionnaires and trigger experiments, and maybe--"

"Trigger experiments?" I raised an eyebrow at the affirmative response on the other end of the line. "Does that include traumatic experiences?"

"Well, to tap into all parts of your memory we may--"

"So, you're willing to make me relive the darkest aspects of my life for some dumb research project? Besides, I've already had those scans when I first got into the hospital."

"We would want to do a few more just in case we missed anything. And the triggers help us learn more about your own ailment..."

"Why would you need blood tests then?"

"That would be to determine whether or not certain other aspects of a person's physical health correlates with their mental health."

"And that has nothing to do with helping me, right?"

The robotic professionalism that laced her voice was starting to fade under the pressure of all my questions. "Well--"

"Others, right? And I suppose I would be a shitty person to not really want to be sliced open for other people."

I heard her tone become tired and defensive, but it only made me angrier. "We wouldn't be slicing anyone. I don't really understand what you're--"

"I've been scanned and checked and tested on several times while I was in the hospital and I really doubt any more procedures can help you anymore. I've come to face the fact that no one has a fucking clue what's wrong with me and I'm figuring things out on my own. I don't need to be poked and prodded anymore for your benefit."

"It would be for your benefit too! For the benefit of others who suffer--"

"Yeah, right. What are the odds that all that pain and time and strain would actually find a solution for me? And one person can't help you guys figure out the answer to every kid's memory loss situations, it would just be one statistic in your never-ending book of numbers and you'd just be making guesses from then on. So what if I'm a B blood type with no parents? Surely that means every B-type teenage girl living with their aunt will jump off a balcony and end up with some sort of amnesia if they survive. Or maybe the fact that my blood pressure is slightly higher than usual contributed to the fact that I can't remember shit about how I fell. And to even try to make any sort of research breakthrough, you'd need to tear me apart to get all the information you need. Or maybe I'm just crazy! Maybe I need serious psychiatric help!"