Page 81 of Amnesia

She didn’t answer.

“Am,” I said, stepping into the living room. The fire was still crackling, but she wasn’t there. Starting to worry, I went into the kitchen and breathed a sigh of relief.

“What are you doing in here?” I murmured, coming up behind her at the window, wrapping my arms around her.

She didn’t relax against me; she felt rigid and aloof.

“Did something happen?” I asked, gazing around. Everything was fine. Another thought plagued me. “Did you have a memory?”

Pivoting from the glass, her eyes landed on mine. I wasn’t prepared for the accusatory spark in them.

“Is this me?” she demanded, holding out an old photograph.

My stomach plummeted. I didn’t even have to glance at the picture to know. “Where did you find that?” I rasped.

“It fell out of the back of a frame on your mantel.”

Dammit. I should have been more careful. “Amnesia—”

“How long ago was this taken?” she asked.

I rubbed the back of my neck.

“Look at it!” she insisted, shoving the image under my nose.

It was a photograph of me about twelve years before, and standing beneath my arm was someone I used to know. She had blond hair and freckles. And brown eyes.

Both of us were smiling into the camera. Young. Innocent. Full of life. Neither of us knew how drastically things would change just one year later.

“I’ve seen the picture, Am,” I spoke, miserable.

“Is that even my name?” she asked, upset.

“Yes.”

She paced away, practically marching across the kitchen. “How long ago?” she asked again.

Finally, I admitted, “Twelve years.”

She gasped. “Where is she now?”

I glanced up, not replying. She practically growled. I exhaled. “She doesn’t live here anymore.”

“Where did she go, Eddie?” She pressed.

Well, that was an easy answer. “I don’t know.”

“Is this me?” Her voice was raw, scared.

I went to her, trying to pull her into my arms.

Her hands shot up defensively. “Stay back.”

I stopped walking. Pressure built up in my chest, making it hard to breathe. I glanced down at the photograph in her hand, at the past, and felt sorrow and confusion bubble up inside me. “Please, Am.” I tried again.

“Do you know me?” she whispered, relentless. “Is the girl in this picture me?”

“No,” I said, flat.

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