Amnesia

I woke to water dripping on my head. I was in a dark room, with no memory of who I was or what I was doing there. It was dark, morbidly dark …the room felt more like a tomb than anything. Perhaps that was what it was. I was sitting in the corner, the bricks pushing painfully into my back.1

I discovered no one else in the room when I checked around me. In  fact, there was little in the way of decoration besides a box in the corner and a hammer with a few rusty nails sitting on top. Only one door, a metal number with a grating in the top half. Looked beat-up, or like someone had broken it down and re-hung it several times.2

It was just about then that I realized my head hurt. A lot. Reaching up, I felt my left temple and found a gooey mess. Now my head hurt and my hand was covered in blood. No bones and no bits of brain tissue, however, which is always a good thing,3

I stood, supporting myself against the wall in case my legs were too weak to handle the sudden increase in weight. Its’ a good thing I was prepared, because it came to my attention during the process of standing that I was highly nauseous. I almost vomited right then, but managed to keep my stomach under control. Who knows how long it had been since I had eaten? Anything in my stomach at this point was a good thing.4

I searched my jacket pockets, still steadying myself against the wall, looking for something to jog my memory. All I found were two bobby pins and a sewing needle. No thread, though, and my hair wasn’t long enough to warrant the use of bobby pins.5

My back pants pockets revealed a nondescript wallet with nothing in it but a condom and a pick-up slip for a one-hour photo shop. Now I knew two things about myself: I liked Trojans and photography. I vaguely wondered if the two were related in any way.6

It occurred to me then that I might be in prison, but I couldn’t really remember what a prison was supposed to look like, or even what its’ purpose was.7

The door opened in the middle of my thought and introduced me to the first human contact in my memory, which admittedly wasn’t very long. She was short and more than mildly attractive, a brunette. I remembered that she was my type. I also figured that I was not her type, judging by the business attire she wore. As far as I could tell, people who dressed like she did didn’t really deal with men with their skulls bloodied very frequently.8

Unless she was the one who put me in this predicament. Maybe it was some bizarre sadist secretary fetish, or maybe I didn’t remember correctly just how this world worked.9

“Robert!” she cried, dashing forwards and hugging me. “I’ve been searching for you for hours! Are you alright?” Judging from this reaction, I didn’t think she was the cause of my situation. Either she was genuinely relieved or she was one hell of an actress. I took stock of the situation as I tried to get my mouth to work. Now I knew (with some reasonable accuracy) that my name was Robert, and that I was being tended to by a hot chick, who I deemed to be alright in my book. Of course, when there’s only one entry in your book, it kinda narrows the range of good and bad.10

She bandaged a damp cloth to the side of my head. Where she got it from, I’ll never know. Major motherly instinct on her part, but it made my head feel better, so I didn’t care. “Robert, are you alr-“ She suddenly stopped, appearing to be straining to hear a distant sound. She collapsed onto the ground in front of me, a tranquilizer dart protruding from her neck. As I looked up, I heard the clacking of someone running down the hall.11

I got to my feet as quickly as I could, but I knew in my mind that there was no way I was going to catch up. I could hardly walk, much less run, so I staggered to the doorway and caught a glimpse of a black trench-coat going around a corner. I looked back at what had been my one clue as to who I was, sighed, and pulled the dart out of her neck. I searched her pockets and her purse,  but found nothing besides a few dollars and a bottle of sleeping pills. Looks like my unnamed benefactor was an insomniac. I pocketed both and staggered out into the hallway.12

As I limped along, I thought about just how weird it was that the lady didn’t have any form of identification. No credit cards, no lipstick, no can of mace, not even car keys. That, more than anything else, made me wonder about her sincerity.13

I came to the junction where the lady’s attacker had turned. Door on my left, door on my right, both in the same style as the one on “my” room: metal, battered, and dingy. On a whim, I decided to go through the door that the stranger hadn’t. I was fairly certain that meeting anyone who was not a friend of mine would probably be lethal at this point. I went through the door on the right,  and found myself in a room identical to the one I had woken up in, minus the bloodstains, the hammer, the nails, and the box. Instead, there was a locker in this room. I went up to it and tried to open it. Whoever had used it before me didn’t think that there would be anyone else invading his privacy; not only was it not locked, it had several dog-eared Hustler and Playboy magazines inside. Atop the porn sat a small pistol with a singular clip of ammunition.14

Terrific. I was almost certain that this irony was intentional. Sex and death, America’s two favorite vices. I took both the gun and the ammo and closed the locker. I noticed a sticker on the outside that announced, “Jon’s Stuff. Keep Out!” Well, because poor Jon had been stupid and not locked his locker, I was now the proud possessor of a small pistol and visions of scantily clad women with breasts bigger than my head. I wasn’t sure whether or not to be turned on or frightened.15

The pistol, far more useful than the images the porn had conjured, was currently my best friend. I knew something bad had happened to me. Someone in this world was ready to kill me, and I couldn’t for the life of me remember why. I figured that my best chance for survival lay in the “Shoot first, don’t ask questions” approach.16

I was curious about this building. I hadn’t seen a single window yet, and it appeared to be built entirely out of brick, including the ceilings. I wondered if I was above ground, and also wondered if I was in a part of the world that suffered from earthquakes. I paused in the doorway as I thought about the implications of this, but considered that the chances of an earthquake happening at this very instant were minimal.17

I closed the door behind me and opened the other door, the one the attacker had fled down. I held the pistol tightly in my right hand. It felt better, more comfortable, in that hand. I couldn’t remember if I was right-handed or not, but the hand that it felt more comfortable in seemed like a good guess.18

Beyond the doorway I found a long tunnel of brick, culminating in a brick wall and an iron ladder leading upwards. So I was underground, probably in some forgotten branch of the sewers. I staggered down the hallway to the ladder and began climbing, only to find my way blocked by a locked trap door. Completely on instinct, I reached into my pocket and pulled out a bobby pin and the needle. I picked the lock using some part of my unaffected subconscious, which made me wonder about my profession some more. What kind of photographer not only knows how to pick a lock, but also has picked so many locks that the action required to do so has become ingrained into his subconscious? Maybe I was a cat burglar, or a professional stalker, or a paparazzi. Maybe I was MacGuyver without a mullet.19

In any case, the trap door was now unlocked. I took a deep breath and lifted, pistol in hand. Contrary to what I was expecting, however, I did not step outside, Instead, I found out why water had been dripping on my head in “my” room. I was indeed in a forgotten branch of the sewers, and “my” room had lay directly underneath an underground Mississippi. I gathered from the enormity of the sewer system that I must be in a very large city. And I wondered about the cleanliness of my wound, as what appeared to be untreated sewer water had been dripping on it for I don’t know how long.20

I took a good look at my surroundings. No rats, no people, nothing that appeared to be even remotely dangerous anywhere in my vision. Good. A map was posted on the wall to my right, etched into some non-rusting metal so it would survive the sewers. Unfortunately, some lost graffiti artist had decided to come down here and scribble “Crazie Eddie 4 Eva” through everything. I couldn’t even gather what city I was in from the map, much less where I was in particular. I sighed. The river ran from left to right, and there was a narrow walkway running along the sides of the water in both directions. I decided to travel upstream for reasons unbeknownst even to me.21

I didn’t have to get very far before I found another ladder leading upwards. This culminated in a grating, not a trap door. It was unlocked and opened easily, allowing me to clamber out onto the street. It was nighttime, cold and windy. I could smell the sea on the wind, and could see the moon through the clouds overhead.22

Crazie Eddie apparently had made it to here as well, spray-painting his name in big gold and red letters all over the side of the building to my left. I wondered briefly how he had gotten the spray can ten feet in the air.23

To my right was a 7-11, last haven of the sleepless. I went inside and used their restroom. My bladder wasn’t happy with me, and neither was my stomach. The contents of both were flushed down the toilet.24

I looked at myself in the mirror as I was washing my hands, trying to get a vague glimpse as to who I was. As far as I could tell, I was not tall, but not short. I had brown eyes, brown hair, and three day’s worth of beard and moustache that desperately needed shaving. I was muscular, but thin. Some would say I was scrawny; I thought I was just compact. I was wearing a black leather jacket with no adornments, a white tee shirt, and jeans. Your typical wannabe street tough look, worn by an average Joe. I got the impression that this wasn’t my standard attire.25

And then I noticed something I hadn’t previously: I was wearing a necklace. I pulled it out from under my shirt and looked at the pendant that hung from the chain. The pendant was a little round thing, about the size of a dime, which had a picture of Raphael the Archangel on it. I puzzled over the necklace for a minute, then shrugged and put it back under my shirt.26

Back in the store part of the 7-11, I bought some aspirin and a doughnut with the lady’s money. I ate both quickly, then checked my receipt for the time. Just past midnight. Wonderful. I wondered where I lived.27

I bought a candy bar with the last of my money and sat on the curb outside to eat it and think. I considered going to the police, but the adeptness with which I picked the lock on the trap door told me that they probably would tell me who I was and then lock me up in a cell. The hospital was ruled out as well: without an identity, I didn’t have any money or health insurance. Problematic.28

I went to zip up my jacket as a defense against the cold and realized that I had a pocket I hadn’t searched yet: my jacket’s breast pocket. I reached in there hopefully and found a scrap of paper with a phone number. I looked around for a pay phone, as there is at least one at every 7-11 in existence. Lo and behold, there was one not ten feet away. Quickly I went to it and dialed the number collect.29

I hung up a few seconds later as I was told that the call was denied. Apparently whoever it was didn’t like collect calls. I’d have to try again when I had enough money. That left me with one more lead: the one-hour photo. Thankfully, the pick-up slip had the address of the store on it. I went back inside the 7-11, muddled through the cashier’s broken English to get directions, and then ventured off into the streets. A left here, a right there, a few more turns, and then I was there. The one-hour photo proclaimed itself with neon lettering into the night, blinking as if the pink and green combination wasn’t abrasive enough.30

I walked around the store once or twice, trying to find the easiest way in. My judgements told me that the back door was going to be best, so I hunkered down in front of it and pulled out my other bobby pin and the needle. I picked the lock just as quickly as I had the first one, but now I wondered about alarm systems. What was I going to do about that Bay Alarm sticker on the window?31

I propped the door closed, then looked around again. I grinned as I went around the side of the building. The idiots had put the circuit breaker box on the outside. It was locked, but it didn’t matter. This one took a little more effort, as I had to use a used bobby pin, but it still came open nonetheless.32

I turned off all power to the building, then ran inside. Under the counter was an emergency flashlight. I determined this to be enough of an emergency, so I grabbed it and began searching through drawers, looking for something that would match the number on the pick-up slip I clutched. Finally, after what seemed like eons, I found what I was looking for: a package of photos matching the number I carried and bearing the name “Pyre, Robert.” So I was named Robert. Excellent.33

I rushed outside, keeping the flashlight and the photos, and turned the power to the building back on. Hopefully, the alarm company would just think it was a glitch in the system. In any case, I needed to get out of here fast. I asked myself what exactly is open at 1 in the morning, and came up with three main things: 7-11 (and its’ clones), gas stations, and bars. Noting a bar not too distant, I walked to it calmly and entered.34

The bar was rather seedy, with dark amber lights and light amber beer. I had no doubt that both needed replacing desperately. I asked for a water and sat down, pulling the pictures out of my pocket. The water I received looked darker than most beers here and probably had more toxins in it than the sewer, but I didn’t care. My body needed the water right now. So I sipped my drink and perused the pictures.35

Apparently I was an amateur porn artist, or at least I had taken nude pictures of a girl. I assumed she was my girlfriend, or at least someone I slept with on a regular basis. Blond petite number, and judging from the photographs, she was experienced and liked the schoolgirl outfit. The second half of the roll was more artistic, things like street signs, people feeding pigeons in the park, close-ups of flowers, and various other sundry things. Unfortunately, most of them were out of focus.36

At first I didn’t notice, but the last picture on the roll clinched it for me. I had taken a picture of a mirror, one of those wall mirrors you see in some restaurants. At first, I thought it just looked cool, then I realized that there was a man who came through perfectly clear on the mirror’s surface. I paused, thinking about the implications of this. Maybe it was just a coincidence, or maybe it was intentional.37

I began going through the “artistic” pictures again, and I realized that this man came through clearly in every picture. Was I stalking this guy? And, if so, why? The ease at which I handled the pistol and picked the locks led me to believe that I was in a profession that wasn’t entirely legal. Maybe I was a hit man, and my current predicament was the result of someone finding me out. Maybe I was just being paranoid.38

But I had pictures of this guy all over the place. I had him in a coffee shop, at a supermarket, at the park, going into his house, at a bar, at work…I was surprised I didn’t have one of the guy in the shower. I looked at the mirror picture again, searching for where I was in the mirror. I couldn’t find me. Or rather, there was one guy facing the wrong way who could have been me viewed from behind, but then who took the picture?39

I stopped looking for me and started looking for anyone with a camera. What I found startled me. Her face was obscured by the camera, but I had little doubt that the brunette who had bandaged me up was the photographer of that photo. I puzzled for a moment, then laughed out loud at the thought of her taking nude pictures of the blonde. I doubted she was the one who had taken the entire roll, but she was definitely someone I needed to find and talk to.40

“I’m surprised you asked for directions,” a female voice said over my shoulder. I tensed, slipping my hand into my pocket and grasping the pistol. “Cool it, Robert,” she said, stepping in front of me. It was the brunette.41

Something in me wanted to relax, but I didn’t allow myself to. The lady gave me a sideways look, then began to look more and more worried. “Robert?”42

My mouth didn’t want to work, but I forced out something that sounded like, “I have no idea who you are, lady.” Just lower and more gravelly. Her eyes went really wide at that remark. I don’t know if it was my breath, my voice, my inherent sexiness, or what I said, although I have a very good guess that it was the last option that made her eyes bug out.43

“Robert, it’s Athena.” I shook my head slightly and shrugged, indicating that her words meant nothing to me. “Your girlfriend, Robert, and your co-worker.” I stared blankly ahead. “Robert, this isn’t funny! Please tell me you remember! Please!” she begged me, tears forming in the corners of her eyes.44

All I could respond with was, “I’m sorry. I don’t remember anything.” Her head sunk to the table with this remark, and she began sobbing. “I don’t remember who I am, or who you are, or what I was doing yesterday, or what I do for a living, or anything, and I have no idea where to start.” I sipped my water.45

She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a key-ring and a scrap of paper. Still crying, she took a key off the ring and gave it to me before she began writing on the paper. When she finished, she passed it to me across the table and attempted to regain her composure. “This is a key to your apartment. The paper is your address and my phone number. I’ll call you a cab so you can get home and recover.” She stood, wiped her eyes, smoothed her skirt, and walked to the bartender. While they conversed, I looked at the paper. The phone number matched the one I had tried to dial before. Interesting. And my address looked completely unfamiliar, but that wasn’t much of a surprise. When you can’t remember your own name, familiarity is a luxury you don’t have. I downed my water and Athena returned to the table. “The cab should be here any minute.” I blinked. “No, don’t worry, he’s been paid. Or will be. Or whatever. Just don’t worry about the price, alright?” I nodded half-heartedly, then stood and went outside while Athena began crying again.46

The cab showed up just as I was stepping outside. Beat up, just like everything else in this blasted city. It wouldn’t have surprised me if Crazie Eddie had etched his name into the inside door handle. I got in and read the address to the driver. He took off like he knew exactly where it was.47

Isn’t it funny how weather seems to know when to depress you? It began raining on the way home, and I watched the dreary city get drenched. I wondered how the room I woke up in was doing. Probably flooded.48

A shock went through me as I realized the intention of leaving me in that room. I would have drowned in my sleep, deep under the city. And no-one would ever have known. My body might have been found weeks later, floating in some river, but by that point I would be beyond identification or revival. I shuddered at the thought.49

The cabbie pulled over and motioned that this was my stop. I thanked him and stepped out into the pour. I ran up to the doorway as he pulled off, seeking shelter from the rain. I began to put the key into the lock, then paused. This could be an elaborate safety mechanism, in case I woke up before the rains came. I could see the headlines in my mind’s eye: “Hit-Man Bombed In Own Flat” and “What Goes Around Comes Around: Cat Burglar Gets Just Desserts.” Paranoid or not, I started looking for a different way in.50

I walked around the side of the apartment building into a small alley full of garbage. The obligatory group of gang members was meeting in the shelter of a doorway, flanked by the usual pimps, hoes, floozies, escorts, barflies, hangers-on, wannabes, and undercover narks. Apparently there was a small party going on in this alley, up to and including loud music, alcohol, sex, and a wide variety of narcotics.51

A man noticed me, handed his beer to his friend, and walked up to me. I tensed, ready to punch and run. No way in hell I was taking down a small army of drunk, high, sex-crazed gang-bangers by myself. I relaxed a tiny bit when I realized he was saner than most everyone here (by way of avoiding the sex and the drugs, at least for now) and walked with a very casual gait. And no conspicuous bulges hinted at any weapons he was carrying; either he wasn’t packing or he was very good at hiding his protection. I knew this was a part of town I wouldn’t go within ten miles of without a weapon of some form at this time of night.52

“Rob! Where ya been?” he called, raising his arms in that ‘I’m-going-to-hug-you’ sort of way. “Ooh. Fightin’ the fuzz again?” he said, indicating the patch on the side of my head.53

“Nah,” I managed, thinking fast. “Car accident. Fuckin’ airbag nearly took my head off.” I was glad it was raining, otherwise the sweat on my forehead would have been visible.54

“Aw, that sucks, dude. I liked your car.” He paused. “Locked out again? Jeez, you need to remember your key more, dude.” Shaking his head, he went on, “Just climb the escape like you always do, man. The dudes could use a little show anyway.”55

I smiled at him, thinking, ‘Thanks, “dude,” for all your gracious help.’ I started for the fire escape, but was stopped halfway there by the man speaking again. “Hey, Rob, you got any stuff up there?” I paused, uncertain what ‘stuff’ meant.56

I turned to him, asking, “What do you mean?”57

“Dude, you know, stuff. Narks, man. You said you had somethin’ new for me to try last time.” He squinted at me, looking closer to see if there was some visible ailment that he hadn’t already picked up on. “You feelin’ alright, dude? You ain’t actin’ like yourself.”58

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just a little tired and dazed from the wreck.” I pointed at my head, then noticed he was wearing a belt. “Gimme your belt,” I told him, pointing.59

“Whoa, dude, don’t swing that way.” He raised his hands and took a step back.60

“No, give me your belt, and I’ll see if there’s something I can dig up for you once I get up there.” He gave me a quizzical look, but removed his belt and gave it to me. Like all junkies, he would do anything for even the promise of another high.61

I took the belt and looked around for something to stand on. Not finding one, I considered the possibility of jumping, then looked at the brick wall again. Maybe I’d be able to hold on to the cracks and climb up to the fire escape.62

Just as I was considering this last notion, a car pulled into the alley. It was pretty banged up: paint fading, windows cracked or covered with plastic trash bags, bullet holes in the doors, your typical gangland-mobile. I was fairly certain that the owner of the car wouldn’t mind if I used it for a boost.63

Waiting until the car was just underneath the fire escape, I jumped on the hood, then on the roof, praying that there was more than rust holding this mobile junk heap together. Apparently there was, as I didn’t end up in the passenger’s seat. Instead, I was able to hook the belt around the end of the fire escape and pull it down to a manageable height. I climbed aboard and traveled upwards to the first landing.64

The guy in the car stuck his head out the window and yelled something at me in Spanish and shook his fist. I ignored him and checked my address again. I lived on the third floor, apparently, out of four floors. Number 302. I clambered up the next two flights of fire escapes and looked in my window. Dark. I didn’t see any movement either, so I suspected that no-one was home. Or they were just very good at hiding.65

I jimmied the lock on the window open with a piece of sheet metal I found lying on the windowsill. This was probably the way I let myself in when I was locked out, as my friend down in the alley had told me. Cautiously, I opened the window and stepped inside. My head was pounding and the pistol felt like it weighed a ton in my pocket. ‘Not yet, no rest yet,’ I told myself. I knew that, with the circumstances I was in, I needed rest, but I needed to ensure my own safety as well.66

I walked around my apartment and turned on a few lights. Not much furniture, and not very much in the way of homeliness either. It seemed more like I wasn’t planning on staying here very long.67

My bedroom consisted of a futon and a television, while the kitchen contained a stocked refrigerator, a microwave, a table, a phone, and a range. The bathroom was a shower stall, a sink, and a toilet, with hardly any space in between the three. And that was the entire apartment. The front door opened straight into the kitchen, and the two other rooms were directly off of the kitchen itself.68

I checked to make sure the door was locked, then gave myself some added protection by stacking cans of soda and refried beans in front of it. If that door opened, I would know about it, as the cans would fall over and create such a loud noise that the people partying in the alley would hear it over their obnoxious music.69

The window was another matter entirely. I determined the best way to go about making the window safe was putting something that crunched loudly on the floor. I thought that a broken light bulb would do the trick nicely. I began looking for one, and realized that there wasn’t a single spare bulb in the house. Curious, I began searching for other missing objects. Apparently I didn’t eat anything in glass, nor did I have much in the way of utensils. And I definitely didn’t have any of the ‘stuff’ that the guy in the alley wanted.70

I took the kitchen bulb out of the light and broke it inside a kitchen towel, then sprinkled the fragments onto the ground under the window. I realized that I stunk, so I decided to take a shower. I went into the bedroom to get a change of clothes…and noticed that there weren’t any clothes to be had. Puzzled, I searched the entire apartment. Even the meager closet by the front door was empty.71

I was searching through the bathroom when the front door smashed open, knocking over the cans I had set up and making a startlingly loud clanging noise. “Where are you, Robert?” a male voice boomed from the door. I wondered how I was going to get out of this.72

He crashed around the kitchen, throwing around a few pots and pans, then went into the bedroom. I heard the television shatter, probably because of his boot going through the screen. He clomped across the kitchen and opened the door to the bathroom, then laughed as he shot through the glass shower doors.73

He stopped laughing when he got a bullet in the head.74

What I had done was to take off my jacket and my pants when I heard his voice, then hang them in the shower to make it look like I was hiding in it. Then I crammed myself into a cupboard under the sink that would’ve been cramped for a mouse, but I managed. When he started shooting my jacket, I popped out of my hiding spot and blasted the back of his head off. I pried myself out of the cupboard and surveyed the damage, making a mental checklist. Jacket shredded. Glass doors shattered. Pants salvageable. Corpse messy. Walls bloody. Weapon salvageable. Man identifiable…I hoped.75

I rolled him over, spilling brains and blood over my bathroom floor. I immediately recognized him as the man I had taken the belt from. This I wasn’t expecting. I was thinking it would be some nameless, faceless cold-hearted killer, not someone I had interacted with less than an hour ago, someone who seemed to be my friend. I shuddered and thought about what this meant. I knew now that I couldn’t trust anyone, probably not even myself. Definitely not Athena. She led me here, after all, and this apartment was obviously a setup…a poorly done one at that. I wondered what would have happened if I had gone in through the front door like she intended for me to.76

I took the ammunition from the man’s gun (I realized now that I didn’t even know his name) and put my clothes back on. I searched the corpse for anything that might be useful and came across a crumpled wad of bills that came to $35. Nothing else. No wallet, no ID, no house or car keys. No leads to an employer either.77

I tried to clean up the mess a little, mostly by moving the body into the shower, wiping down the walls a little, and putting my pants back on. Even I know that when I don’t have my pants on, everything looks a little scarier.78

“Don’t. Move,” came from behind me. A feminine voice, probably the broad who had tried to make it seem like she was saving me earlier. I put my hands in the air and started to stand. Once on my feet, I began to turn around. “Turn around and you’re dead.” Definitely not Athena. Something in that voice was too harsh and clipped…like their voice box had been tinkered with, or they were fighting down an accent.79

Then the voice did something unexpected: it laughed, losing the accent. “Robert, you can come out of the bathroom now, it’s okay. It’s me, Samantha.”80

Apparently gunfire was standard in my apartment. Or she hadn’t heard it. Probably – hopefully – the latter. I made sure I didn’t have any blood visible on me, besides my head wound, and left the gun on the counter.81

Stepping out of the bathroom (making sure I shut the door quickly behind me), I was immediately confronted by the blonde from the roll of film. She grinned, giggling, and threw her arms around me. “Robert!” she cried. “Where have you been? I’ve been stopping by for days! And you’re never here!” Apparently she talked in exclamation points. A bit aggravating, but she was cute enough that she could get away with it.82

Thinking fast, I pushed her out to arms’ length and looked in her eyes, saying, “I just got out of the hospital. I…got in a car wreck, and got hit in the head pretty hard, Sam. I need…a place to stay for a few days…”83

She grinned. “That’s why I’m here, Robert!” I looked at her blankly. Her grin slowly faded, and, looking crestfallen, she asked plaintively, “What?”84

I shook my head – slowly, so it didn’t hurt – and indicated my wound. “I don’t remember much of anything. Athena had to tell me where I lived.”85

“‘Athena’? Who’s she?” Uh-oh.86

“Um…a business associate,” I replied quickly. Samantha gave me a look.87

“Oh, I know all about you and your ‘business associates,’ Robert. Remember, I’m one too.” She grinned again. “But I’m the most specialest of them, right?” I nodded weakly, wrapping her in my arms again. “Now, why don’t you come back to my place, and we’ll get you cleaned up. You can stay with me until you’re all better, ‘kay?” I nodded again, hoping I had finally found someone I could trust. It sure seemed that way, but Athena had seemed that way too, and now I didn’t know about her. Come to think of it, three separate people had confirmed this to be my apartment, so why was it so bare? Was I keeping my stuff somewhere else?88

“Before we go, I want to check my message machine, alright?” Sam nodded. She sat down on my bed and said, “I’ll wait here.” I realized at that point just how sexy she was, even without trying. Or she was trying to seduce a man without memory, which was kinda creepy in my book. But I also considered the photographs…and came to the conclusion that we probably had slept together previous to this. If she came back for more, it meant I was probably pretty good in the sack, something that I wasn’t aware of, but was surprisingly relieved to know. Apparently sex figured into my inner psyche more than I liked to admit to myself.89

I smiled at her and left the room. In the kitchen, I pulled two Cokes out of the fridge and pushed play on the answering machine. Two messages. The first one was from Samantha. Interesting. Apparently she figured into my life pretty largely. The second was from a moving company…which explained why most of my stuff was gone. It was in transit. To where, I had no idea. Maybe I’d ask Samantha.90

Returning to my bedroom, I found Samantha looking at the shattered remains of my TV. “What happened, Rob?” She looked genuinely concerned.91

“To be honest, I have no idea,” I replied. “There was a message on my machine about some moving company…Where…am I moving to?”92

She smiled. “Oh, Rob, it’s too bad your memory’s shot. I’ll have to refresh you on everything!” Standing, she put her arms around my neck and kissed my cheek. She paused, giving me a sideways look. She didn’t stop smiling, but the laughter in her eyes became more subdued. “You really don’t remember, do you?” she asked, not expecting an answer. “Well, you’re moving in with me.”93

I stared at her, cocking my head to the side. Suddenly things made a lot more sense with her. Like why she was so perky all the time, or why she felt so comfortable in my arms. Hell, how about the fact that I had pictures of her naked?94

Of course, this also incriminated Athena…and to no minor extent. She pretended to be my girlfriend. So either this thing between me and Samantha was completely platonic (which I highly doubted, considering she had just kissed me), or Athena was an excellent actress and a liar out to get me killed. But why would she wake me up, in that case?95

I must have looked pretty confused during all this, and Samantha let me puzzle things out for a few seconds before she began nibbling on my ear. I positively melted in her arms.96

I wondered then if she knew about the apparent “underside” of my life. I could always ask her why I knew how to pick locks, or why I was following this guy around, but that also carried certain risks…like, what would happen if she didn’t know? Would she throw me out?97

“Come on, Rob. Let’s get you back to my place, and get you cleaned up,” she whispered into my ear. I had a distinct feeling that she would be joining me in the shower. And I was more than happy with that idea.98

It wasn’t until we were in her car, on the way to her place, that I realized two things: I had left the gun on the bathroom counter, and Samantha had seemed unperturbed by the booby-trapping to the door. I wasn’t sure if I was worried by either, or even if I should be worried.99

Sam’s house wasn’t too far away. About a fifteen minute drive, but in a far better part of town. No mobs of street toughs on the corners at four in the morning, for one thing. She parked and we walked inside, Samantha informing me about who I was as we went along.100

I learned from her in those fifteen minutes that I had been a photographer for a budding pornographic magazine, but lost my job a few weeks prior because I got into an argument with my boss. Before that, I had held all sorts of different jobs: handyman, construction worker, taxi driver, administrative assistant, security guard…the list went on. It wasn’t until recently, however, that I had gotten involved in the Underground, a revolutionary group out to stick it to corporate America. Sam was also a part of this group. She and I had met at an Underground function and began dating about a year ago.101

I began to like myself a little more. And it made sense why she wasn’t fazed by the booby-trapping of my door. Safety, apparently, was key. As was anonymity. I wasn’t carrying ID, not because it was stripped from me, but because I refused to carry it around. Most Underground members didn’t carry identification (or at least their real ID) for fear of retribution by the government.102

I wasn’t a hit man, as I had assumed…at least not in the sense that I had thought of it. Instead, I was a sort of police officer within the Underground. My job was to circle through the ranks of the Underground and eliminate potential threats to the resistance (up to and including moles, traitors, troublemakers, and idealists). “Eliminate” was a loose term, meaning just about anything I felt like doing.103

The Underground was trying to be nonviolent, but the government had recently begun taking violent actions. The Enforcers (who I worked for) were really the only part of the Underground capable of fighting back, so they were in the process of doing so, in addition to hastily training the other members of the Underground.104

I had disappeared roughly a week ago. Since then, all attempts to contact me had failed  and attempts to locate me had been fruitless. Apparently this was no real cause for alarm, as I had been known for disappearing for days at a time, covertly merging myself into a small cell of the Underground to determine if it needed cleansing.105

I told Sam about the circumstances I had found myself in when I woke up. She was concerned, and surprised at the woman I called “Athena.” As far as she knew, there was no woman who fit that description within the Underground. “Of course, I don’t know everyone by sight, so I could be wrong, you know,” she reminded me.106

I sighed, confused.107

Then something dawned on me. Athena hadn’t been wearing a jacket in the sewer, but when she came into the bar she had been. In addition, I took everything on her when I left the sewers, yet she had a set of keys and paper when she visited the bar. Either it was a different woman entirely (doubtful; groggy though I might be, I know I can recognize a face when I see one), or Athena was interacting with someone else…and probably plotting against me.108

In fact, Athena’s visit to my cell was probably a safety mechanism in case I woke up. The man in the alleyway and Athena were probably working together. But why the elaborate pretenses at being my friend? Why not just shoot me?109

“Can I take a shower?” I asked Sam, realizing just how grimy I was. She smiled and handed me a change of clothes that she had been gathering while I thought.110

I realized that I could trust her. She knew my idiosyncrasies well enough to predict them, and knew what I thought as I was thinking it. No amount of acting can imitate an incredible amount of time together.111

Sam led me into the bathroom and turned on the shower. She took off my shirt and tenderly ran her hands over my back. Wounds I didn’t know I had stung at her touch, and she shushed me before fetching a warm cloth. I groaned and squirmed as she cleaned my injuries, but I knew it was for the best. From the glimpses I got in the mirror, the cuts appeared to be from a whip. ‘Who uses a whip in this day and age?’ I thought to myself.112

When she finished with my back, she took a look at my head wound, grimacing at what was probably a gruesome mess. “That bad, huh?” I asked.113

“I’ve seen worse,” she said, but I could tell from her expression that she was lying through her teeth. She cleaned it as well as she could, then finished undressing me and gently pushed me into the shower. “Be careful with that back, mister,” she said. She winked at me, “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”114

I smiled and cleaned myself off. It’s amazing how brown water can get with dirt and grime. I was scared I was going to clog the drain with the amount of muck that came off of my body. I traced the cuts on my back, the hot water stinging as it ran over my back. I was certain that they were from a whip or similar device now.115

Sam got into the shower right about the time I was washing my hair. She waited patiently until I was finished, then moved in for the kill. She began with kissing my neck, her hands running tenderly up and down my sides, carefully avoiding the tender cuts in my back. My hands moved across her body, following the smooth curves of her back with a familiarity that was comforting.116

We made love on the floor of the shower just about then. I’m not sure who started it, or who pulled who on top of the other, but it was an amazing sexual experience. I wasn’t sure if this counted as losing my virginity. I mean, when you have no recollection of ever having sex before…117

We dried each other off, Sam gingerly avoiding my injuries. She bandaged me up after we were dry and led me to the bedroom. We clambered into bed, and she nuzzled into my arms. She felt like a perfect fit, and I fell asleep almost instantly.118

I must say, there is nothing more comfortable than falling asleep in someone else’s arms and knowing that you’re loved. That didn’t stop me from having nightmares, though.119

I woke up several times throughout the night, each time trying to catch my breath and not panic. I dreamt of fire, lots of fire. Being trapped in a burning building seemed to be a recurring theme. So did strange yet familiar faces taunting my current plight.120

But quite possibly the most freakish nightmare I had was one of a large man I couldn’t place, but who seemed familiar. He was immense in the way that only the terminally fit can be. He reminded me of a professional wrestler (an odd series of images came flooding back to me with those two words, as did several arguments I had apparently with a good friend of mine…but I only recalled the audio. No visual).121

He wore a white suit, all white, right down to the tie and belt. If it was possible, his teeth were whiter than his suit, and his pale skin and blond hair only added to the image of the avenging angel. I was surprised he didn’t glow.122

My arms were held by two unseen assailants. Fire raged in the background, and the man in white stood over me laughing. Stinging burns from some unknown source thrashed into my back repeatedly. Still laughing, he reached into his pocket and pulled out brass knuckles that had been buffed to a mirror shine. In fact, they appeared to be steel, not brass. In any case, he put them on and then proceeded to smash in the side of my skull.123

I woke up from that dream with a start, sitting up and holding the side of my head. I felt a headache coming on, and I wondered if it was because of the dream or the wound. I figured it was equal parts of both, and attempted to control my heart rate, which was racing out of control. I stood up and focused on my breathing.124

Samantha stirred and rolled over. When she wasn’t able to find me in the bed with her, she sat up, giving me a quizzical look. When she saw me standing there, holding my head and in a near panic state, she immediately stood and gently forced me to lay down again. She wrapped me in her arms, making soothing noises, and running her hands gently over my skin. I could feel myself begin to relax, and my more logical side began to kick back in.125

I’d like to say I was a tough guy at that point, but I wasn’t. Sometimes you need to cry, and that was one of those times. I probably cried for the better part of an hour in her arms, and Samantha seemed to be perfectly capable of handling the gentler, more sensitive side of me without difficulty. I wondered vaguely if I did this a lot.126

Eventually I fell asleep again, and didn’t have any more nightmares until Samantha woke me up just past noon. I found her, fully dressed, shaking me lightly. “Hey, sleepyhead.” She spoke softly, and I could sense the concern in her voice. “We didn’t get too much sleep last night, but we have places to go and people to see.” She smiled, then kissed my forehead and stood. Walking over to the short dresser, she reached in and threw me some clothes.127

I was asleep enough to not be able to catch them with grace, but I did manage to hang on to the edges of whatever it was she threw at me. I stood and dressed, keeping my eyes closed to avoid the light streaming in through the window.128

It wasn’t until I opened my eyes completely that the migraine started kicking in my skull. I groaned and sat down, holding my head in my hands. I heard Samantha chuckle, and she left the room. I smelled coffee when she returned a few moments later, and my headache began to subside. “No wonder your head hurts, silly boy. You probably haven’t had caffeine in days!”129

Oh God. I was an addict. To caffeine. I sighed and took the cup from her hands, breathing in the scent of the black nectar of the gods. I nodded slowly, feeling the headache subside simply from the presence of the liquid.130

A swallow confirmed the addiction. One taste was enough to make the headache almost completely disappear. Unfortunately, it also triggered something I had been ignoring for far too long: my stomach. It growled loudly right about then, and Samantha smiled. She beckoned me into the kitchen. I followed gamely, nursing the coffee.131

Apparently she’d been up for a while, because the second I left the bedroom, my nose was assaulted with the smell of bacon and eggs. Freshly cooked. I stared at Sam open-mouthed, and she grinned back at me. “Oh, right!” she said, very chipper. “I can cook!”132

And she could cook, and cook well. I ate for what seemed like hours, but was probably closer to several minutes. I almost inhaled the food, and Sam just sat and drank her coffee as I ate.133

“It’s good to have you back,” she said when a momentary lull in my eating frenzy came about. She smiled, looking down into her coffee. “I mean, you’re not even really back, but…I missed you, Robert.”134

I sighed. “I wish I could say the same, Sam,” I said, sitting back and taking a long pull at my coffee.135

She smiled a bittersweet smile and looked up. “I know,” she said after a long pause. “I know.” She stared down into her coffee cup with a sad stare. I wished there was something I could do to bring back the energetic happiness I had seen in her yesterday afternoon, but I didn’t think there was a thing I could do (short of spontaneously remembering everything about my life in a matter of seconds, no small task) to make her feel better.136

“So now that you’re back…” she paused, seemingly unable to continue her sentence.137

“…what do we do next?” I finished for her. She nodded, but I could tell that wasn’t what she was going to say. I let it slide, simply to make the situation a bit easier for the moment. “Well,” I started thinking aloud, “I’d like to find out who did this to me, for starters. Another would be to get my memory back somehow, but I’m fairly certain nothing beyond actual time and effort will bring that back to me. Third…well, I’m not sure there is a third, but…well, there’s always something I’ve forgotten.”138

“You forgot to finish moving in with me, dopey,” she smiled and giggled. I was glad to see I was able to cheer her up a bit, even if for a moment. I laughed too.139

“Yeah, that might be a good thing to do, especially since they don’t seem to know where you live, but are after me. So hiding would be a good thing, and your place seems like my best bet. Besides, I get more than a bed and breakfast…I get a pretty hot chick to wait on me hand and foot too.”140

She glared at me, a mischievous look in her eyes. “I mean, um…yes. I get a hot chick to wait on hand and foot?”141

”Better,” she said, standing and picking up her coffee mug. “Want a refill?”142

I looked down. I wasn’t even aware that I had finished my coffee, but considering the speed of which my food had disappeared into my mouth, I wasn’t really that surprised. Apparently, neither was she. “Sure,” I said, and handed her my cup. At least I wasn’t hungry anymore.143

Something pushed against the back of my legs, and I positively jumped. I looked down, and a small orange tabby was nuzzling itself against my inner calf. I shook my head and scratched behind its’ ears.144

Sam returned, bearing more precious coffee, and greeted the cat. “Hi, Aggie.”145

“‘Aggie’?” I inquired.146

“Sir Augustus Rupert Donatian Saint Pierre Machiavelli the Third…Aggie for short,” came the quick reply. It seemed she got that question a lot. I blinked and nodded.147

“Well, I hope you enjoy having your ears scratched, your Majesty,” I said to the cat. He only purred in response. “Well, good.” I stopped momentarily to sip some coffee, and the cat jumped into my lap. Apparently my reflexes were good enough to not only keep the cat from landing on me in a quite painful manner, but I also kept the coffee from spilling. Both of which I was very thankful for, and I’m sure Sam was as well.148

I wondered where I would go from here. My boss in the Underground seemed like a good bet…until the idea that maybe it was him who put me in this current predicament came to mind. What if the Underground was really out to get me? But why would they want me dead? Did I know something I shouldn’t? Was I getting problematic? Did I step out of line a little too far? Or was someone simply jealous of me?149

But the Underground was largely nonviolent. So the only Underground members who would have even a chance of assaulting me and leaving me in my current state would have to be other Enforcers. Chances are, the Underground wasn’t trying to get me, but playing it safe right now might be a good idea.150

I voiced this to Sam, and she gave me a quizzical look. “Why would another Enforcer want to hurt you?” she said, and I returned a look that said that I had no idea. The cat rolled over in my lap and began playing with the hem of my shirt. She gave Aggie a glare (that very sharply said “He’s mine.”) and set down her cup of coffee.151

She hummed softly as she performed the ritual of preparing her coffee for execution. First some sugar, then a little bit of half and half. Stir. More sugar. More half and half. Stir again. Taste. Wince. Add sugar. Stir vigorously. Blow steam off the cup. Taste. Sigh.152

Sam had it down to a science, it seemed.153

About halfway through this process, she stopped humming and said quietly, “Perhaps you should lay low here for a little while. Let me put out my feelers and see what’s going on, see if one of the Enforcers had it in for you. I’ll talk to your boss, my boss, and a few other people who owe me small favors.” She completed the ritual, and settled into her chair with a content sigh. Aggie decided that Sam’s lap was far more comfortable than mine, jumped to the floor, sauntered over to Sam, and then pounced into her lap like he owned the place.154

He probably did. There’s no way I can compete with a cat. It’s a law of nature. Women prefer cats to men. That’s all there is to it. Why? Well, a cat’s not going to wake you up in the middle of the night because its’ horny. The cat will (largely) feed itself. Even when it doesn’t, dinner can consist of opening a can with no problems. Cats don’t have that painful stubble. They clean up after themselves. The only sport they like happens to be hunting birds and insects, and neither of those involves dragging over fifteen other men who trash your family room and scream at a TV for a few hours while other men on that same TV try to get a ball from one end to the other without getting slaughtered in the process. To top it all off, cats are perfectly content to just snuggle up with a good book in front of a fire.155

I knew I couldn’t compete with that, so I just took a drink out of my coffee and tried to remember who/what/where/when I was.156

Funny how amnesiacs never ask the how or why questions. “Who am I?” is a favorite, and so is, “Where am I?” But, “Why am I?” never seems to make it into the mix. Apparently amnesiacs are too busy trying to remember the details to philosophize.157

Now I knew I got hit in the head too hard. Instead of trying to figure a way out of my current predicament, I was sitting in a chair, drinking coffee, and contemplating cats, women, and philosophy.158

I shook myself, downed the coffee, and went over to the window. “Sam…?” I asked, “What…what happened?”159

I heard a sigh and a coffee cup hitting the table, followed by the protesting mewl of a cat being pushed off of a lap. A few moments later, I felt her arms encircling my waist from behind, and her lips kissing my back between my shoulder blades. “I don’t know,” she whispered, “but I’m glad it didn’t kill you.”160

I was standing in a bar. A very upscale bar. Everyone inside was dressed like they were the leads in a James Bond movie or had just stepped off the latest modeling runways in France.161

I wouldn’t doubt it if some of them actually had, come to think of it.162

I walked to a booth, shook hands with two men, and sat down. The first had black hair, starting to gray on the sides, dark eyes, and hands like leather. He wore a gray suit with a black shirt and black tie.163

The other man was as blond as you can get without actually bleaching your hair. His piercing steel blue eyes seemed to bore into my skull. A hefty gold ring (that matched an equally hefty gold necklace) hung from his finger. His tuxedo was entirely white, up to and including the vest and the tie.164

The strength of presence of Unidentified Man #2 (White) suggested that he was in charge here, while Unidentified Man #1 (Gray) was simply an attaché or a bodyguard. Maybe an aide if he was lucky.165

White snapped his fingers. Gray laid a briefcase on the table, unlocked the two small padlocks keeping it closed, and spun it towards me. I opened it, slowly, half-expecting it to explode or squirt acid or jump up and eat my face. Fortunately, it did none of the above, though it did do a pretty good job of making my brain melt down.166

It was full of gems. Diamond, ruby, sapphire, emerald, topaz, amethyst, opal, pearl…it was all there. An amazingly beautiful sight, and an expensive one as well. The briefcase was probably worth close to three million dollars.167

I closed it quickly, nodded to White, took the briefcase, stood, and walked out the front door.168

It wasn’t until I got to my car that I heard following footsteps. But by then it was too late. Someone grabbed me from behind, spun me around, and used some sort of judo move to bring me to my knees and keep my arms pinned at the same time. I had dropped the briefcase and it had slid partially underneath my car. I looked up to see White standing over me. He laughed, picked up the briefcase, took my keys, and opened the trunk.169

“Just be glad I won’t kill you,” he said.170

Then everything went black.171

I gasped and opened my eyes, straightening my spine and feeling Sam’s head in the middle of my back again. She squeezed me around my middle tightly, then slowly turned me around. My head fell onto her shoulder, and I attempted to control my breathing. No easy task.172

This was Encounter #2 with the Mysterious Man In White. My dreams and my waking nightmares both pointed towards him being the cause of my brain damage, as well as the source of all those attacking me. With wealth like what I had seen in the briefcase, he could hire the best assassin in the world to come get me, and I wouldn’t stand a chance.173

So why had he stuck with two-bit wannabes so far?174

Slightly calmer now, I voiced my nightmare to Sam, as well as my conclusions. Unfortunately, she had no idea who White was. She did, however, share my question about my attempted assassinations.175

I sat down and picked up the remains of my coffee with trembling hands. Meanwhile, Sam disappeared into the bedroom and returned a few moments later with a shoebox. I watched as she opened it and pulled out two small pistols. Looked like 9mm Walther PPKs to me. James Bond’s gun. I almost laughed on realizing this, then thought about the fact that I was actually remembering. And not just remembering technical information, but connecting it to a form of media. Things were coming back together, slowly but surely.176

She handed one to me, then gave me a shoulder holster and an extra magazine. Wonderful. Should it come down to the line, I have fourteen attempts to save my ass.177

She took the other Walther for herself, attaching it to a garter holster. I watched her face as she put it on, seeing for the first time the immense strength behind that indefatigable façade of joy. Samantha was a strong woman, and someone you wanted on your side. I was immensely happy to have her with me. But seeing her, normally so bubbly and jovial, arming herself for war had an odd effect on me. I saw, in those few moments where we were arming ourselves, just why I loved Samantha.178

When she was finished putting on her holster, I told her so. She gave me a long, searching stare, one that said she wanted to make sure I didn’t get hit in the head too hard and was saying things now that I’d regret later because I wasn’t quite all there. Thankfully, she decided I was sane and broke into one of the most dazzling smiles I’ve ever seen. I leaned across the table and kissed her, took one more sip of coffee, then collapsed asleep onto the table.179

I guess it happened because I realized how safe I was. In any case, I woke up an indeterminate number of hours later, with his Majesty Augustus Rupert Donatian Saint Pierre Machiavelli III warming my stomach and building my abs while I slept.180

There are not many exercises that are better than having a cat sleep on your stomach. Think of it as having your abs lift 10 to 15 pounds every few seconds all night long. Sure, you’ll wake up sore, and have a little trouble breathing all night, but in a few weeks, you’ll have abs like an action-movie star.181

This leaves the interesting dilemma of having the rest of your body horribly out of shape, however. And having one part of your body muscular while the rest of you is flabby tends to look just a tad odd.182

I attempted to lift the cat off of me and failed. Cats are heavier than they look, and can apparently increase gravity around them to make them weigh more when they don’t want to move. And I didn’t want to mess with his Majesty’s comfort because he was very close to a very sensitive area, and was the possessor of five different kinds of pointy: left paw, right paw, left back paw, right back paw, and teeth.183

I nodded to myself a confirmation on my judgement to not move, and found I agreed with myself enough to not change my opinions, judgements, or marching orders.184

And then I began to confuse myself, thinking along lines more cyclical and convoluted than the one above.185

I went back to sleep.186