Forget Me Not

 I woke up, not knowing where I was. I woke up in a bed that’s not mine, wearing clothes that are not mine, and in a room that I don’t recognize.

 My head hurts like hell. I feel like I went too hard on the bottle. It would definitely explain my headache, and why I’m in a place I don’t know. Weird part is, I don’t remember drinking yesterday, and I didn’t wake up next to a stranger either! Whatever this place is, it gives me the ick; the walls are all this bland off-white color, the carpet on the floor is this lifeless gray, and the curtains are all the wrong color.

I get up from the bed, looking around the weird bedroom. The only relatively nice decoration in the room is this engraved wood frame, layered with maple and mahogany, sitting on the table next to me. I reach out to the painting, in order to examine the fine handiwork. In the picture, there was a young man sitting down, holding a child on each arm. I tried taking a look at his face, but his head was turned towards the child on the right, the only thing I can make out of it being his poorly kept beard. It seemed like a nice family picture. Yet, why was it left here? Left right next to where I slept? Looking closer, the child on the left seemed to glare at me from the corner of her eye, whereas the child on the right seemed to be staring straight at me. There was something about these children that seemed so familiar, and yet, I’ve never seen them in my life. The more I looked at them, the more they made the rusted gears in my head scrape against the sides of my brain, giving me a sharp headache. 

I drop the frame and hear it shatter. I try to massage my head to get rid of the headache, digging my fingers into my skull. I slam back down on the bed, taking deep breaths, focusing on not passing out. The damn headache doesn’t go away, so I decide to get up again to find some water, hoping that it will help with the pain.

Stomping through the glass shards, I open the door out the room, and start plodding down the hallway. Looking around, I get stared down by a couple of older people, being helped by younger people wearing Blue uniforms. I quicken my pace, feeling increasing pressure on my neck, trying to avoid the gaze of all the strangers. Hearing footsteps behind me, I turn around, startled by one of the Blue Ones. 

“I’m so sorry sir! Is your nurse with you?” She leans forward, her clipboard covering her chest. 

I looked back up at her in pure bewilderment. I then told her, “I don’t need a nurse, I don’t belong here, and I need some water.”

“Right sir, the kitchen is at the end to the left.” She extends her arm. “Would you like me to show you?” 

I scoff at her, saying “I can walk there myself.” Who the hell does she think she is? Why the hell would she think that I belong here, with all these lazy chumps? I don’t need help to walk! I just wanted water!

Arriving at the kitchen, I look through the cabinets for a glass, and pour myself some water from the tap. Drinking the water, I felt refreshed, and the harsh pounding calmed down to a dull pain. Looking around the kitchen, it is nicely decorated with marble countertops, wood cabinets, and cooking utensils hanging on the wall.

 I then stare across, towards the living room, looking at the somewhat decent layout of the living room. The black TV looked sleek and wide, the dark brown wood stand underneath it complemented the colors of the cream rug and the white chairs, but what stood out to me the most was this hideous, terribly-thought-out green sofa, which completely disrupted the color palette of the rest of the room. Who in their right mind would ever even think of leaving this eyesore here? I just want to rip the room designer’s head off. Did they think they were going to be creative by adding in a random color that doesn’t even look good? What kind of an idiot is the person that designed this? Probably the same one that designed the rest of this tasteless place.

A couple of the Bluies walk towards me, hopefully not because I trashed their sense of fashion. Looking closer, one of them seemed familiar. I looked slightly down, realizing that it was the girl from the hallway. I look back up when she starts talking to me.

“Hello Mr. Swanson, your nurse was looking for you.” 

Swanson? What kind of a name is Swanson? I tell her, “That’s not my name, it’s…”

“Swanson. Your name is Jerry Swanson, sir.” 

Why the hell can’t I remember my name? It can’t be Swanson. It’s… I yell at her, “My name is just not Swanson!”

“Sir. There’s a visitor waiting for you.”

I look back at her, stunned. Who the hell is here to visit me? Is my family name really Swanson? Hell no. Maybe the visitor will help me figure out what the hell is going on. As for the nurses, they must have something that they want from me. There must be a reason they’re trying to trick me. I’ll go along with them for now, it can’t hurt to see what mal intentions these people have with me.

The girl from the hallway and “my” nurse walk me back across the hallway, with a couple of the older people giving me that same stare. We stopped in front of the room I woke up in, the sign on the right reading “Jerry Swanson – 13”. What was going on? Was this “my” room? The nurses open the door to the room, revealing a brown-haired man in a tacky outfit, crouched over the shattered glass of the picture. I enter, hearing the door closing behind me, accompanied by chatter along the lines of “That one again? He is always hard to deal with”. 

The man turns around, looking into my eyes. He has deep purple bags under his eyes, and a droopy, yet piercing stare. Beyond the depressive look, there’s something captivating about him, almost like I’ve seen him before. I look on the floor, where the picture was face up. That’s it! That man must be the father in the picture! I brush past him and pick up the picture, pointing at it. His face lights up, almost confirming what I thought. “Thank God” I say, “maybe now you can help me figure out a couple of things”.

“You remember me?” he says, building up a smile and tears welling in his eyes. 

I say “Sure,” being a bit taken aback by what he said. “I recognize you.”

His smile morphs into a look of confusion. “You don’t… remember me?”

I stare at him, confused. I tell him “No, I only recognize you from the picture.” I point at it again, “See? You’re the father of these two children here, right?”

His face of confusion reverts to his depressive look. He slowly grabs the picture I was holding, and points to the man in the middle. “This,” he says, “is you.”

My heart sinks to my stomach. 

“I’m your son. Don’t you remember me? It’s Josh.” 

I stare at the picture again, looking at the man in the picture, child on the right, and look back at… Josh. My…son? 

I look at the child on the left, and ask “Then, who’s this one?”

He goes silent. Taking a deep breath, closing his eyes, he says “This one is Marge. Your daughter. She…” He opens his eyes again, looking at the floor. “…passed away in an accident last month. I came here to tell you that.” 

I freeze. 

I don’t know what to think. What the fuck is he talking about? How could he fucking tell me that I have a family all this time, and that my daughter just fucking died? 

I yelled at him, “Why the fuck did you think this was a good idea!? To come here and tell me that I had a family I didn’t know about? Why couldn’t you tell me earlier? Why can’t I think about anything about her!? Anything!”

He drops the picture, and turns to leave, whispering “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come here.” 

I drop to the floor, frantically grabbing the picture, the only one I have left. I cut myself on a couple of the shards while gripping the frame, and raise the picture to my face. I desperately try to remember anything about my daughter, but I’m only met with blood and tears soaking the picture, and half of her baby face to remember her by.

Why can’t I remember anything about her? Why did I have to find out this way? I don’t ever want to forget her again. I just wish… Fuck.

My head’s killing me again. God, why did it have to be this way? Why? Why? Why?

I tighten my grip on the picture, holding it in a fist. It hurts. If only… if only I could remember something about her. Anything.

If only I could…