Page 23 of Dark Knight

Stretching my neck from side to side, I crack my knuckles and give them both a come get it motion with my hands. They charge like angry bulls.

Heads down, half bent, they don’t have their eyes on the prize. Lucky for me, I do. As soon as they’re in reach, I place my palms on the side of their faces and bash their heads against each other. Their momentum carries them forward another step or two, but then they drop to the ground, out cold. Blood dripping from their torn flesh as they lay in a crumpled mess at my feet.

“Anyone else?” The damage isn’t much, but it’s enough to send a message.

Don’t fuck with me.

* * *

Bea

Nolan. Nolan. Nolan.

I remember the name. The feeling the name evokes. But why I know it or why I feel a sense of safety because of it is foreign.

Who is he?

Why do I wish he were here?

Why can’t I remember?

I’ve gone to sleep twice, woken up twice, all with no memory except his name. There’s a persistent buzzing sound in my head that grows increasingly annoying by the second, and despite the help and comfort from the people around me, nothing ignites my memory.

My distress grows exponentially by the lack of progress, which only worsens my condition. I’ve wondered a thousand times if this is what it was like the other times I’ve forgotten, how often it happens, but then I remember I can’t remember anything at all.

“Bea? What about this?” Nolan’s mother, Ariel, holds up a bottle for me at the supermarket, and I tilt my head, trying to recall if I like the cherry drink, and shrug.

She had the idea that if I could recollect some of the things I like, maybe it would help rekindle my memory. They were told by Nolan, who was told by me, that it’s always come back. Usually overnight. However, not this time, and I’m terrified that it’s permanent now.

Taking the bottle from her hand, she turns to look for another so I can inspect this one without feeling pressured. Reading the label, my eyes close, and I have a flash of a vision of being around a campfire and enjoying the bubbly fruit taste on my tongue.

“Yes,” I whisper, holding onto the feeling. “Yes, I like this one.”

Ariel turns with a triumphant smile and loads four more into the cart. “Perfect! It’s one of Nolan’s favorites, too. He keeps them stashed away everywhere but swears they’re only good when they’re cold.”

“He said that to me, as well, when he offered me one to try.” We both freeze at my words. The revelation they reveal. “He said that to me, too,” I repeat, and my eyes crowd with emotion. It’s the first time I’ve felt like I could retain anything from before.

“Oh, this is just wonderful.” Ariel’s smile is infectious. “What about cookies?” She already confessed to me that she has an affection for anything with a fudge center. Holding up two boxes, she asks, “Oreos or Maple?”

“Maple.” She drops the box in the cart.

“Fudgeos or Graham?”

“Fudgeos.” Another two boxes in.

“Wafers or Fig Newtons?”

I grimace. “Neither.”

“I’m with you.” Both go back on the shelf. “How about milk for dunking?” I nod, and she starts walking towards the coolers at the back of the store, but I’m stopped by something on a shelf.

Picking it up, I trace the image on the box. Melted marshmallows on top of chocolate and graham crackers.

S’mores.

We had these.

While camping.

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