Page 2 of Rushed

Keenan

Who am I? My name is not my name. I don’t know who my parents are, or if I have any siblings. I don’t know where I was born or where I grew up. I remember nothing of real importance. What I do know is how to tie my shoes, what size I wear, and how to press a mean pleat (though my very limited wardrobe has been ironed so often, the lines will never erase).

Today marks sixty days since the incident. I was told by shrinks, various doctors, and police, that maybe if I wrote every little thing down, it would trigger a memory of some sort, eventually helping me to remember who I am. I’ve promised myself that Iwillremember. But as of right now, my past is empty.

Months ago, I was a normal person with normal issues, where my day probably consisted of questions like where to go for dinner, whom to date, or whom not to date.Then all hell broke loose in my fine existence. One simple crack on the noggin is all it took for me to forget everything.

I have no clue as to who I was, what I did for a living, or if I even had someone in my life. Were they important? And ifthey were, why can’t I remember them? Some may consider that a blessing, but what if you didn’t want a restart? I cried a great deal, knowing that no one seemed to care enough about me to retrieve me. The police checked everything, from missing persons to arrest warrants. They even posted my picture on various sites, as well as sending it to police stations around the U.S.. My disappearance didn’t even warrant a milk carton depiction.Was I so uninteresting and unloved? Should I give up and live as who I am now? I ask myself these questions at least ten times a day, and the answers are always the same—who fucking knows?

A few weeks ago, I decided that some of the questions didn’t matter, and that I could live without knowing them for a while. I was, of course, lying to myself. Ineedto know it all. Even if they turn out to be terrible things, the desire to know outweighs everything else.

Was I so evil, or such a super bitch, that no one cared an iota for me? Did I ignore others? I feel in my soul that probably wasn’t the case, as I don’t think I’m a bad person. At least my actions thus far haven’t presented me as a nasty witch. So why is a natural blonde who’s slim, tall, and in her mid-twenties, all alone in Manhattan? What’s wrong with me?

After a particularly restless night last night, I decided that if I want to be a person worth looking for, I needed to find a new path. Instead of wallowing in my hotel room, moaning around like a zombie, I’m going to scribble everything down that occurs in my grand adventure of self-discovery: every thought, every recollection, every snippet of what feels familiar. In doing this, I hope I can figuremeout. It’s messy—the ramblings of a crazy person—but it makes sense to me.

I’ll start with the small things, like go to the gym. If I used to go, what did I do? If I head to a movie, did it feel familiar? And if I can’t find her within these actions, then I need to do a rewrite of the girl I am now. Hell, maybe this new woman could be someone I might like even better.

So, for the foreseeable future, I’ll just keep plugging along, as if this blank slate has given me a second chance at life. Maybe my shortfalls of what I was before will be rivaled by this new person I’ll become. Iwantto start fresh and create a life that I will be proud of. And right now, I can’t be missing what I don’t have, as I don’t remember any of it.

The world better be ready for the disaster that is about to befall it. Fate better be goddamn good and ready to deal with me, because I’m about to take it the fuck on.

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