"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.
"You're getting so much better!" His doctor praises, and he wonders briefly what her name is. He thinks she looks something like a Charlotte, with her blonde barrel curls and old fashioned clothing. But then he thinks that he probably doesn't know what a Charlotte would look like, anyway, and either way, people are never what they seem.
Her name probably isn't Charlotte.
That makes him a little angry, but it mostly makes him sad. Stupid, stupid, stupid. So her name isn't Charlotte.
But it really should be. Charlotte's a nice name. Original, too. He doesn't remember meeting any Charlotte's in his lifetime, not even one. Of course, he doesn't remember meeting anyone, but Charlotte's a nice sounding name. If he was a girl, he'd much prefer Charlotte over a boring name, like, say, Sarah.
He smiles at the woman, a tiny little smile that could pass as happy. She gives him a thumbs up in reply.
He laughs lightly at the gesture, knowing what will please her. She likes thinking he is "getting better" no matter the fact that he wasn't broken.
"Has anything come back to you yet?" She chirps, and he wants to flinch and grin at the same time.
"Not really," he admits to her. "I've been trying really hard. It's just... Not happening."
She nods sympathetically. "That's often how memory loss works. Don't worry; it'll come back eventually. You don't need to push it." He nods, and her smile grows a little larger, then fades. "What about your wife? I heard she hasn't been visiting very much lately."
He flinches a little. "I don't want her to. She's a stranger; I don't know her. She doesn't know me, either."
Char-the nameless woman laughs. "When you remember her again, I bet you'll regret that."
"I never want to remember then." He says seriously. And he means it, too. "I never want to be someone I'm not. Ever."
"How do you know that you aren't someone else right now?" She asks. Getting to the tough questions, like an ace beating a three in war. "How do you know that the real you isn't just waiting to appear, buried along with your memories?"
"What's your earliest memory?" He sneers. "You don't remember everything you've ever been through! Are you still you, then?"
She blinks. "Of course I am," she says matter of factly. "I'll always be Charlotte, no matter what. If my experiences start to make me a slightly different Charlotte, I'll still be Charlotte."
He thinks he's choking, but he isn't quite sure.
"Is that your name?" He manages to gasp out. "Charlotte?"
The woman in front of him frowns. "Of course! I introduced myself weeks ago, when we first started speaking. Did you forget?"
"No." He says faintly. "It just... Slipped my mind, is all." He forces a grin that he knows she can see right through and runs a hand through his hair. It's starting to get shaggy, but he has straight hair; it won't get messy. What color is it, again?
Last he checked, it was red.
No wait, not that kind of red. It's really red. Like, spotlight red. You know, blood red. That kind of red.
... Maybe it's blue.
"I thought your name was Carlotta," he tells her, and she bubbles with a light spurt of laughter that quickly fades into short snorts.
"I'll bet!" She says, and he forces himself to smile while she laughs.
A tiny little timer buzzes in the corner, and Charlotte twists around to click it off. She turns to him apologetically, like she actually cares.
But she doesn't. He knows that now. People don't care, not when it's easier to care about yourself.
"Sorry, about that! I have to go, but it was nice talking to you, exiontisa." She waves at him, gathers her things, and leaves.
He finds that whenever someone says his name, it turns to gibberish. He doesn't like it, but it's true.
Just another thing keeping him here. Just another problem he has to dig through.
Sick of it.
Wants to leave.
But he can't. Locked up here. Like an animal.
He supposes he is an animal. And either way, at least he isn't being slaughtered for the sick preference of fools who have been brainwashed into thinking murder is right.
Brainwashed, brainwashed, brainwashed.
His hand twitches.
Why does that sound so famililar?
He smiles. "Okay! See you tomorrow!"
She waves cheerily. "Bye!"
The sliding glass door clicks shut, but it feels more like a steel door, slamming shut with a defeating bang, and he knows that his only connection with the rest of the world is gone.
She doesn't care about him. If she did, he wouldn't still be in here. She would have told them he was sane and then he'd be free.
But she didn't.
He hates her. Hates her, hates her, hates her.
Wishes he did, anyway.
He's seeing Charlotte because they think there's something psychological that's seriously wrong in his brain. Because if he doesn't think the same way they do, he's crazy.
He scoffs into the still silence of the room they've trapped him in.
For the first time, he vaguely manages to wonder through the sedatives who 'they' are.