Page 45 of Just Right

"I don't know."

"You got family?"

"I don't know."

The man's eyes widened with some surprise. "You don't know? You don't know who your family is?"

"No."

"You got no ID? No wallet? No cell phone?"

"No."

"You remember anything at all?"

"No. No, I don't."

"You sure? You in trouble? I think you are."

"I don't remember."

The man had waited a minute and then sighed. His voice had been sympathetic.

"You've had a bad time of it. You need to come with me, I'll get you some help."

The man reached to try and help him up. He'd staggered to his feet. He'd felt dizzy and weak and bruised in a hundred different places.

"We don't trust the police in our group. We're a private militia. But we can get that cut on your head cleaned up and then, if you work, you can pay your way for a while. We have lots of jobs to do. Building, construction, tree felling. We can always use extra hands."

The man who had found him had been kind, at first. The militia unit had given him a chance, a place to stay.

He was doing a job, the man had told him. He was helping the country. He had to be careful, he had to be vigilant, he needed to watch for what was wrong and what was dangerous.

And it had seemed true. He'd lost everything else. He couldn't remember anything. His name. His family. His home. No one knew who he was, and some people thought he was dangerous.

"We'll make you useful again," the man had said. "We'll teach you some skills, so you can support yourself with hard work. You’ll be free to leave after you've paid us through that work."

He'd gone along, and that had become his new life for a few years. The group, which comprised about fifty men and a few women and families, prioritized discipline. Every moment, every action, and seemingly every thought he’d had were policed. Even though from time to time, in his dreams, there were memories.

Memories of a family he had never known. Sisters. Memories of something else. A terrible accident. A car overturning. The crack of something hard, hitting his head.

But he’d never had a chance to worry about those nightmares, because he’d been kept busy and controlled. He’d spent his days working in the grounds, cutting grass, and maintaining machinery. In return, he’d received food and clothing and training in manual skills. He became a competent bricklayer, he could do basic plumbing, and he was able to grow vegetables and tend the soil. He had been quiet and obedient, even though from time to time, strange and devilishly violent thoughts had flitted through his mind. Under the strict supervision of his bosses, though, he knew better than to act them out.

When there had been a change in leadership, the new militia head had given him a choice. Join us as a full member, or else, you can leave on good terms.

Uncertain, but curious to revisit the world outside of those walls, he’d chosen to leave.

But outside of the walls had been more difficult to cope with than he’d expected. Spending his days in idleness, without the routine and activity, had left him feeling adrift. He’d gotten a few jobs, lost a few jobs, but he’d realized that his personality was slowly changing into someone different. Perhaps, the same someone he’d always been.

First slowly and then faster, the memories had seeped back. For some reason, being alone had accelerated their return.

And the memory that he couldn't bear to think of, the one that troubled him the most, was the worst one of all.

He'd been in trouble on that car ride. He'd been caught stealing something. It hadn't even been to help the family. It had just been petty theft. He’d taken a pair of sunglasses from a display outside a store in a shopping mall. But the family was in trouble. They were suffering, in hardship. The home was being foreclosed, and the appliance repair business was failing. It had been in trouble even before his dad had died. And now he had stolen, which his mother seemed to think was the worst crime of all.

And yet, to him at that moment, it seemed as if it was all his fault. He was the one getting shouted at. He was the one getting victimized. He’d gotten angry, and the rage had felt like a torrent that was swallowing him up.

He remembered the moment when it felt as if something within his brain had snapped. That was the time he had suddenly realized he couldn't take it anymore.

---