Who Corey Was

43

A thousand voices flew through my head, garbled and overlapping. There was no sense. It all just kept building and building. Rising in volume, building in pressure.

I sat bolt upright seizing my head as the memories stabbed daggers into my skull.

"Hey, hey. Take it easy." Xander appeared beside me, leaning over the edge of the bed.

I massaged my temples, wincing slightly. "I'm okay. It's just..."

"The memories?"

"Yeah." I grasped my shoulder as I suddenly recalled. "The bullet?"

"Your body healed. Forced it out. It was kind of creepy." He smirked, holding up the tiny piece.

I fought my own smile. "You're creepy. Jerk." I glanced around the room. TV. Dresser. Lamp. Bed. Some sort of hotel room. "Where are we?"

"Cheap motel just outside of Wyoming."

"Uh huh..." I paused, nodding slowly. "And how did we get here?"

Xander avoided my gaze. "I drove..."

"Grand theft auto, Xander? Really? Do you want the cops to find us?"

"Hey, technically I didn't steal it. I asked the guy if I could have his car."

"So, you compelled him."

"If that's what you'd like to call my natural wit and charm then yes."

I groaned. "You can't just go around compelling people, Xander!"

"Actually, I can." He gave me a cocky look. I scooted to the opposite side of the bed, throwing off the covers and standing to face him.

"Well, just because you can, doesn't mean you should."

He stood as well. "You were hurt, and it was the fastest way to get us to safety. You should be thanking me."

"Thanking you?"

"Yes. Our safety outweighs morals. I won't apologize for it."

"Yeah? Well..." I struggled to find backing for my argument, but in truth, there was none. I finally caved. "Thank you."

That cocky smirk returned to his face, and I stuck my tongue out at him. After a few moments of glaring, I sat back on the bed with a sigh.

"So now what's the plan? We lost our bags. We've lost our friends. Where do we go from here?" I blew a raspberry and flopped backwards.

"Well, you were out most of the day so it's too late to do much now. How about I go find us some food –"

"You mean steal us some food," I interrupted.

"—convince some kind strangers to give us some food," he amended, "and then we can strategize on a full stomach."

I rolled my eyes. "Fine."

And then I was left alone with my thoughts, sifting through the small pile of memories I had that was swiftly growing. It was hard to decipher what was Elizabeth St. Catherine and what was Corey Cochiti. What memories were real, and which were planted?

That's where Xander found me a few minutes later. I hadn't even heard his return; I was so muddled in my thoughts.

"What's on your mind?" he asked, flopping down beside me, our heads on the opposite sides of the bed as we stared at the ceiling.

"Who am I?" I finally asked. He didn't answer, so I went on. "What's real and what isn't? How do I know which memories are mine?"

He was quiet a moment longer. I couldn't see his face to tell what he was thinking. Then he spoke. "Are there any memories you know aren't real?"

"Of course. I know I'm not Corey Cochiti. I know I haven't been passed around in foster homes since I was a baby. But so what?"

"Okay. Are there any memories you know are real?"

That gave me pause. I thought hard for a moment. "I remember...playing. With a little girl." I could see her in my head, her long blonde hair and bright blue eyes. The spatter of freckles across her nose and the brightness in her smile. "And I remember reading to a little boy."

"Who are they?" Xander pressed gently.

I knew immediately. "They're my siblings."

"What are their names?"

"Laura. And Justice"

"And how do those memory feel compared to the memory of your foster parents?"

"These feel...rich. I remember the joy. I can feel the laughter. The love. But with my foster parents it feels...off...somehow. Like all the sadness and betrayal is there, but it doesn't feel right. Something is missing."

"There you go." He said it as if he'd just solved all my problems, but I wasn't done.

"There's more to it though. Like I know Corey's favourite colour was black, but I'm not sure if that's my favourite colour. Or Elizabeth's. Or...wait." I'd confused myself.

"This again?" he teased. "What happened to bright, fluorescent neon orange?" When I didn't laugh, he continued soberly. "Okay, well then I offer you this. Josephine said they would provide important memories in a T.R. and let your mind fill in the rest. Making you believe you're an orphan seems important, but do you think they'd bother to fill in your favourite colour?"

I turned that over a few times. "So, you're saying it's easier to see through the memories they plant than the things my brain has provided?"

I felt him nod. "It's hard for your brain to doubt itself."

"I think it's hard for them to cover up feelings too," I added. "Even if I can't remember something in entirety, I still get these strong feelings."

Xander didn't respond. We sat in silence thinking over what I'd said. Tears welled in my eyes.

"Xander?" I whispered.

"Hm?"

"My siblings are dead. Laura, Justice...they're dead."

Then I wept for the children that I could barely remember, the friends that I forgot, the brother and sister that I would never meet again.