Page 67 of Fallen Petal

“Christopher,” I repeat, tasting the name just like I did with Jayson when he first shared it with me. “Christopher.”

He side eyes me, looking slightly annoyed as I keep repeating his name. There’s a spark of familiarity every time it rolls over my tongue, but nothing more than that. A spark, short and not bright enough to provide a light I could follow. It may be true that I’ve known this man before, but is he saying the truth about us being close?

“Why are you doing that?” he wants to know, sounding bothered. “Why do you keep repeating my name like that?”

“It... it helps me remember,” I reply, lowering my gaze as I’m washed over with a wave of shame. “Names, things, words—if I focus on them long enough, I sometimes manage to remember.”

He nods. “So, it’s not all lost then? You can access your memory if you just try hard enough?”

“No, it’s not like that,” I say, shaking my head. His words hurt. It sounds like he’s blaming me for this, as if the ability to remember just depends on my sheer will to do so.

If only it were that simple.

But maybe there is some truth to it? After all, there was a way for me to look behind the wall that’s been erected inside my head. The images were hazy and lacked detail, but they were still, still providing hints to the things that have been taken from me.

Taken, because I wanted them gone.

Maybe it is true that I’m denied access to most of my memories because I don’t really want to remember.

But why would I want to forget someone who has been a close friend to me all my life? Why would I want to forget this Christopher guy?

And if what he says about Jayson is true, why am I still alive? Why did I never feel like my life was in actual danger? And what was the girl’s role in all of this? I could feel that the connection with her was deep and genuine. If she really was a friend, why would she help a murderer to get me? Or did she simply not know that was what she was doing?

Is this so hard to believe, because Jayson is a master at brainwashing people or because it simply isn’t true? My instincts tell me it’s the latter, but I don’t trust myself.

Right now, at this very moment, I don’t trust anything—or anyone, for that matter.

And that includes this policeman next to me, my alleged savior who claims he rescued me from a murderer.

“How did you find me?”

He stops the car at a red light, letting out a sigh as he turns to me.

“Malia came to the station and ratted him out,” he says.

“Malia?”

His eyebrows furrow as he shakes his head.

“Malia, your best friend. Oh for fuck’s sake.”

I flinch when he slaps the steering wheel with such force that it must cause him pain.

“You’re really blank this time, aren’t you?” he asks, disgust lacing his expression. “That fucker made you forget everything.”

I try to ignore the insulting tone in his voice.

“The black-haired girl,” I say. “Her name is Malia?”

He rolls his eyes when he nods. “That’s right.”

“So, she’s okay?” I press.

He arches his eyebrows in surprise. “Yes, of course she is. Why wouldn’t she?”

I sigh with relief. A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth, the first in a while. That’s one less thing to worry about. Despite everything else, she is okay. And her name is Malia.

“Malia,” I whisper. “Malia.”

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