The Way I Remember: Ian's Journal

Episode 14

07:50 PM

"We are what our thoughts are." Yeah, no kidding. That saying always made me laugh. Like, does it mean that people don't usually know that their thoughts are, like, them? They're funny. I'm thinking about it because what am I if I don't know what my thoughts are? If I don't know what they mean. What does it make me? When I do something and don't know I did it, does it contribute, in any way, to who I am? What makes me ME when I don't have any thoughts or memories? And what if that something was bad?

I've held that shovel before. I remember its weight and how it felt to pull it out of the ground. Now, I can feel how strongly my mind's trying to reject those memories. It's hidden them too deep for me to find. I used to think it was because it was protecting me. That it didn't want me to suffer anymore. Someone beat me up, I went into panic mode, and that feeling was traumatic enough for me to hide the memories. "Good job, brain," I'd say. I was thankful that mental pain was taken away. I still had the physical one to deal with.

But I know another feeling that's also very powerful. Shame. What if I was so ashamed of what I did, that I decided to get rid of the traces? To wipe out my own memory, so that nobody ever finds out the truth. Including me. What if I was the bully and the other person was just trying to protect themselves?

"Ian, you sound irrational. You wouldn't hurt anyone, you know that." Bobbie keeps telling me. But do I know that? I don't think I can be that sure anymore. What if my anger issues are bigger than I thought? What if I had episodes like that before, but I always blackout and forget? I could be dangerous not even knowing about it. How do I find that out? Who do I talk to? I could be mentally ill. Bobbie says that I am, for thinking like that. And maybe he's right. Maybe I am overthinking and got it all wrong once again. But if I'm not wrong, and I don't do anything about it, it might happen again. Somebody else might get hurt. Besides, isn't it my responsibility to inform the police when I suspect a crime was committed? Even if I might be snitching on myself.

I feel childish for being so stubborn that it was only my problem and that I needed to take care of it myself. No, that problem involves not only me but other people that we need to find. And that makes it a group project. So I think I should tell the police what I know and see what they have to say. I'm only a kid with a memory loss and they're adults, who's job is to find criminals. Maybe it will lead them to me, maybe not. At that point, I just want to know what's going on. More specifically, I want somebody else to tell me what's going on, cause I've given up. I'm out of ideas, I'm interpreting everything wrong, and I'm simply lost.

A part of me wants to leave it all unfinished. To forget about it once again, and this time I wouldn't look for answers. But if there's a chance, even a little one, that some parts of my flashbacks are real, that my dreams about someone being in danger were real, I can't just stop now. If that's true, and that someone is still in danger and I didn't help them, or worse, I was the danger... I don't think I could ever live with that. There are just so many possibilities of how this ends, I'm getting lots of information that doesn't seem to add up and I'm tired of feeling so confused.

"What if I did something bad, Bobbie?"

"I don't believe you did, Ian."

"Yeah, but what if? What if I'm not who you think I am?"

"No, I think I know that. You're the same guy who always stood up for other kids in 1st grade, the same guy who could understand someone else's grieve and not blame them for the way they cope with it, the same guy who's always there for me when I need him. You're not a bad person, Ian. You're my friend. And if you did something that's not very Ian of you, then I'm going to be there with you, because I know who you are."

I'm going to go to the police tomorrow morning. I think I've gotten as far as I could by myself. Now I need help.

09:20 AM

Mrs. Baker made us waffles for breakfast. I think that's the reason why her son prefers it when I stay over at his place because we both know she makes them mainly for me. She's very sweet. I'm not the best at expressing my feeling, but I hope she knows how much I appreciate her hospitality.

We've finished eating and we were ready to go. We just had to stop by my place to take my ID. It will probably come in handy.

"Mom, are you home? I'm going out, I should be back in a couple of hours." I informed her. Not that she cares.

"Oh, okay." Yeah, she doesn't care. "You got a letter. I left it on a counter." What? A letter? Like, a real one, not online? Who does that anymore? I went up to the counter. I think that's actually the first letter I've ever received.

Wow, someone has very neat handwriting. I turned the envelope to see who's it from and I was surprised, to say the least, but in a good way. Butterflies in my stomach. At the back of the envelope, I saw very artistically written my favorite letters to look at.

Nathaniel Blake.