It's Tuesday afternoon. I've set myself up at the dining table with a half-used notebook that's curling at the edges, a ball-point pen which periodically decides to pretend its run out of ink, and, what Trin would label as the most important tool, a fresh cup of tea.
It's not the kind of place I'd usually find myself. I'm not the type who journals, jots down notes or even makes lists (aside from shopping ones).
This atypical situation, like many others as of late, came about because of Trin.
At the top of the page I've written: MY MEMORIES. And underneath it: retrograde amnesia.
That's what Trin told me it was.
Or rather, what she supposed it 'might' be. Trin preferred to avoid certainties, regardless of how thorough her research.
She'd called yesterday to lecture on this latest theory and prescribe me new homework.
She told me that some drugs can cause retrograde amnesia, meaning that they can make you forget or distort the memories from even before they were ingested. Or more likely injected, in my case.
She said that might be in part why my memories are such a mess.
There was also the likelihood of a psychological aspect at play – a form of selective amnesia played out by my subconscious to protect me.
She told me a great deal many other things she'd uncovered which were more or less irrelevant to me. Like the fact that many drugs used to spike drinks caused retrograde amnesia, which was why it was often so difficult to identify the perpetrators.
It might seem a bit harsh or odd to shrug that off as irrelevant. But in my case, I know who the perpetrator was.
Sully.
Even if she didn't physically jab a needle in my arm or force a tablet down my throat, the order would have originated with her.
I wonder when exactly they'd tried to tranquilise me. Before or after I'd hijacked a gun? And where on earth had I even snatched it from? Could it have been Sully's?
I guess it backfired on them then, for a gun would have been meant to ensure their safety and security; yet it had brought about her demise. I suppose that's the thing about weapons. It's a fine line between safety and danger, a simple matter of where they're pointing.
I wonder if retrograde amnesia really is the fundamental cause for the gaping holes in my mind. But the question still remains, how much from before the shooting, and even after, have I forgotten?
Is it really more so because of an external factor and less an unhinged mind? Perhaps I'm not so near the brink of insanity as I feel...
Trin told me I should try writing down what I know about that day at the lab, try to see how much I can remember, whether I can knit any pieces back together.
But my list is rather feeble, and filled with far more questions than answers
Date:
Time:
No. time at the lab:
What room I was in:
- Usually started in front waiting room, then taken to Set A – office, then a lab room, then...?
Events:
- Things as usual at first? 'Participated in testing'?
YOU ARE READING
Our Contract of Distrust
Mystery / ThrillerNadia Kathellen's world revolves around death. At work and at home. That's all she knows for certain. It's the reason she's trapped in a marriage with a man she hardly knows. The reason for her never-ending work at the factory. She knows it all...
