Second Birth

I wonder what it’s like to have a story, a past. What it’s like to have memories. What it’s like to look at somebody and know who they are and what they are to you, and more importantly to look in the mirror and recognize the wide-eyed person staring back at you.

The doctor said this might be permanent, this memory loss. I don’t know how to react because I don’t know who I am. The people who love me (and surprisingly, there are quite a few), claim that I’m a person they miss, a person to be admired. But the others look at me with disgusted eyes, and whisper of my betrayal; they know who I am, or rather, who I was, and that’s a lot more than what I know now.

My friends are so expectant. They jump at my every start, hoping I recognize somebody, something. And a few times I did. The piano for example, the staircase with multicolored steps, and the songs of an artist I hate. All trivial things. But the people around me? I know nothing of them.

It hurts. It hurts every time someone looks at me, wanting me to remember them, and sees the blank look on my face. It hurts because I’m letting them down. Each time I admit that I don’t remember, people believe it’s because they’re not important enough. I explain that it has nothing to do with importance. In fact, I joke, if I don’t remember somebody it means they’re pretty darn important, because what I do remember is of no value.

I walk into her room. I like being with her. Her bed is littered with notebooks and torn pieces of paper. What is she doing? She’s sitting at her laptop, and when she looks up, she smiles. 

‘Hey’ she says softly, ‘How are you?’ 

I look at her, ‘I don’t remember.’ I reply. She gives a small smile, puts her device away, and stands up, facing me.

‘Who am I?’ I ask.

‘You’re a hero.’ She says. ‘Your name is James Bond, and you’re the greatest spy who ever lived. You’re so brave.’ She places her hand on my cheek.

I shake my head, ‘And so fictional.’

She laughs, ‘All right then. How about Harry Potter? The boy who lived?’

‘More like the boy who forgot,’ I say.

‘Sherlock Homes. You go hunting for clues and are extra observant.’ She finally concludes. I consider this. Maybe.

‘This memory-loss thing is awful.’

‘You’ve got a big silver lining.’

‘Oh, yeah?’

‘Course. Your memories may be gone, but your head still works, and your heart is still right. You can be whoever you want to be. It’s like a second birth, a second chance.’

‘How poetic. People could take advantage of my no-memory.’

‘Please, you’re stronger than that. You’ll find yourself. Don’t worry.’

And she places a kiss on my cheek and turns back to her laptop.

A second birth? Interesting. It’s amazing how she always cheers me up. Were we like this before? Then I tell myself to focus on the present. The now matters. The is and am, not the was. A second birth. I like it.

This is a semi fanfiction for the TV series Tomorrow People (2013), at least, the theme is based on a character. I also used the words we were supposed to use during our writing competition. This isn't what I wrote, but what I would have liked to have written.