"He stared at her, wondering. Was that supposed to mean something to him? Staring at her face, as tears started to build in her eyes and slowly spilled over until she was openly sobbing, he came to the conclusion that, yes, he was supposed to care and, no, he did not." Without your memory, it's hard to know who you are and who you're not. Drabble format.



"I'll love you forever," she whispers against the crook of his neck, but it feels more like a threat than a promise.

Behind them, her friends are squealing with jealous joy, shouting about how lucky she is, and how happy she's going to be, with the occasional comment about how amazingly happy he must be right then.

But he can't breathe. He can't hear. Can't see.

He can't even think.

-I don't know you-get away from me-stop touching me-what does that mean-I never said it, I really, really didn't-never said 'I do' and you can't make me-don't touch me-get away, get away, get away-

She takes his hand, holding it up in the air like he had just won a tough chess tournament, and he stares at the back of her perfect white dress, unable to comprehend.

There are so many flowers and so many people and so much happiness. But it just feels so, so wrong.

People cheer, and she leans in to mumble nonsense into his ear. "We're married now, you know that? Even through the accident, we're married!" And he can't help the little part of him asking about this accident, since he didn't remember anything about that; actually, he didn't remember anything at all. Then she keeps talking and he decides to deal with the pressing issues before moving on to specifics. "Aren't you happy?" She asks, and instead of waiting for a reply that was never going to come anyway, she giggles. It vaguely reminds him of the sound he imagines a hyena would make before going in for the kill.

He wants to throw up.

But he doesn't. Instead he just makes a choked up little whimper, like a dying animal; she looks over at him, her face scrunched up with concern, but looking at her only makes it worse.

He can feel a scream starting to fight up his throat, but she's so nice about it, patting him on the shoulder and saying something about how everyone gets nervous on their wedding day.

Wedding, he thinks. My wedding.

He wants to scream.

This can't be real.

So he does.

Who are these people?

She says, "What's wrong? What's wrong?" like a broken record, and he recoils.

He wants to say, "You! You! It's all you!" but instead he curls into a tiny little ball and ignores her. He'll bury his face in the sand; he'll ignore the problem. Maybe it'll go away.

But it doesn't.

(He can't help but pause to reaffirm if it's really happening.)

"Please, talk to me! What's wro-" Glass shatters. "Oh god, he's bleeding!"

(Pain shoots through his body, but it's nothing compared to the sinking of his soul.)

"Call an ambulance! I don't think he's breathing!"

A voice, all alone, standing fiercely above the mindless noise echoing around him. "This is your life now." It laughs, bitter and righteous and the blood is nothing compared to the raw emotion.

"Better get used to it."