Chapter Text
“My name is Theodore Decker.
I am 23 years old. I live in New York, with a man called Hobie, in an old antique store called Hobart & Blackwell. I sell furniture. I wear glasses that I must not forget. I used… I used to live… in…” But I trail off.
I don’t know where I used to live.
I remember that it was hot, and dusted. And there was always the sun burning my shoulders. But I don’t know where. And I don’t remember with who. I have been told I lost my memory at 19, but I didn’t remember. I was told it was an overdose of something… and I had a seizure. I’ve been told I was unconscious for two days, and I woke up knowing nothing.
Although, some things have jogged my memory. I didn’t recognise Hobie’s face until I saw the door of the shop, until I saw the green bell–what was once a murky memory, became crystal clear in one short, sharp, painless blink. My room still gets searched by Hobie. He still doesn’t trust me. He told me that I had come to him like a bird coming home to roost.
He won’t tell me where from.
He says it will be too hard for me to hear.
Maybe at some point, he will tell me how I ended up here.
I don’t remember most people, but I do remember my mother. I remember her brown hair, and her nicknames. I remember her love for art. I think I used to like art, but whenever I try to remember: my ribs start to ache, and I begin to breathe too rapidly. Hobie always puts his hands on my shoulders and tells me to calm down.
But she was the only thing I saw when woke up. Her outstretched hand at the end of my hospital bed, motioning to come with her. But I couldn’t move. I was paralysed, and I didn’t know where I was. And then I blinked–I must have scared her away, because I haven’t seen her since.
And I’m left wondering if she will ever come back for me, and if she was the one who left me here. At Hobie’s doorstep. Hobie is not my father, I know for certain. He has told me, but I also knew. I can’t picture my father, but the feeling I get in my stomach tells me Hobie is not him.
The amnesia was a while ago now, but it is still stuck into my mind like a fishing hook. I feel exhausted all the time. Sometimes I forget where I am, sometimes I forget how to do simple things–but usually I remember if I think hard enough.
Walking down the streets of New York feels familiar. People crashing into you, no sense of space. People who catch your eye that you won’t ever see again. High heels, manicured nails, dark curls. But when I am in large crowds, I get that feeling. The feeling of you shouldn’t be here, you need to run, you need to get out that I’m unable to explain. Something is tapping its claws against the front of my brain, it’s trying to get out but it can’t. Every time I’m in a crowd, a memory is trying to escape: but it never gets far enough.
“One flat white please,” I tell the barista, “But no sugar.”
He nods and turns, clinking mugs and filling metal jugs with boiling water. I begin to look around for a spare table, and there was one in the back corner: tucked away from the noise. It was early evening, and the sun was setting–the sky looked beautiful, painted with many different shades of gold.
I collected my coffee and paid the man, squeezing between people to get to my table that I had taken in my mind. I thought I heard someone calling my name, but I ignored it.
Sometimes I imagined things.
When I sat down, I swirled the drink with my spoon, staring into space. I wasn’t sure what I was thinking, maybe about how I ended up in such a precarious position. Maybe about my mother. Maybe about my life before.
Suddenly, someone sat in the soft leather chair opposite me.
“Is it really you?” They asked.
I looked up at them. Their voice… sounded familiar. It sounded foreign, it had a sharp edge, but at the same time it was soft.
“Uh…?” Was all I knew how to say, when their eyes were so big and dark, their coat long, their face pale.
“Potter?” They finally said. I had never been in this situation. I tried to scrape my old brain together, desperately going over everyone I knew. But their face didn’t come up. I didn’t know who ‘potter’ was.
“Um,” I replied, placing my spoon down on the saucer, “I’m sorry. Who are you?”
“Theo?” They asked, making it sound like te-o, their accent making it hard to fit my name in their mouth.
I continued staring, waiting for them to answer my question.
The person opposite me seemed to collapse like a house of cards. Their eyes frowned, sunken cheeks turned downwards. I wish I could remember, why did I have to be so selfish? I didn’t want to hurt anyone, but it seems like I’m too late.
“You do not remember?” They asked, almost in disbelief. I was starting to panic now, my brain flipping through any memories of before, but like usual: nothing new emerged. Not even in a time like this.
I shook my head.
“It’s me,” They tried, “Boris?”
Something ticked in the back of my brain.
Boris. Boris. Boris.
Something to do with sand.
“The sand?” I accidentally said before I could stop myself, getting a confused look from the smudged figure.
“Sand?” He repeated. I didn’t know how to continue this conversation. Did I know him? The tapping in my brain is telling me I do, but I couldn’t explain my life to a stranger who is convinced they know me.
Potter?
Theo?
Boris.
“This is… awkward,” I started speaking again, I felt like I had no control. My hands were starting to sweat as they rested on my knees, the room suddenly gained temperature, “Where would I have known you from?”
I felt like the question was valid, but my tongue dried up. His eyes looking into mine threw me off, they were engulfing. He had dark circles around his eyes, like eyeshadow. It was the colour of plum, it made him look ill. Potter?
“Long time ago,” He sounded unsure too, “In Vegas?”
Vegas. That hit me like a tonne of bricks. Something is trying to get out, something in my head–still, always clawing like a digging mole. I closed my eyes for a minute. I didn’t want to imagine how I looked to Boris.
“I think there has been mistake.” He stood up but I grabbed his wrist, he couldn’t leave. I need to work this out, work it through. If Hobie won’t tell me, maybe he will.
“No, I just–” I tried to force my words out of my mouth, but they wouldn’t fall, “I am Theodore.”
The man didn’t seem alarmed that I grabbed for him, and I was surprisingly not alarmed either. His name was bouncing round my head like stars falling forever. Boris. Boris. Boris. Boris?
“Your name is Boris?” I said to him, pulling him to sit back down. Repeating names often made them stick in my head for longer, like Velcro–sometimes the name becomes too worn down for me to remember anymore.
“Yes.” His voice seemed familiar. It sounded right in my head.
“And I would’ve known you from Vegas?”
He nodded, stronger this time.
“I’m Theodore Decker.” I told him.
“It is you?” Boris suddenly sounded overjoyed again, and I was afraid that this was all going to go wrong.
“Yes, sort of…” I wanted to explain.
“Sort of?” Boris repeated. I couldn’t start heavy breathing now, not in a place like this. I felt a slight wave of nausea rise through me, and I gripped slightly to the chair I was sitting in.
“I need to say something,” I told him, and he nodded–already listening, “And if at any time I say something you don’t recognise… Stop me.” He looked slightly confused again but he shrugged, leaning back into his armchair and slotting one leg over the other.
“I’m Theodore Decker,” He already knows that “And I guess I was with you in Vegas,” He knows that, too, “But I have forgotten you.”
His mouth dropped open, his eyebrows falling into a confused angle so fast I thought for a moment they would drop off his face.
“It’s not what you think, though,” I started again, trying my best to ignore him, “I had a seizure at age 19, and I forgot everything that happened in my life before then.” I tapped the side of my head, on my temple, with my index finger.
Boris’s face seemed to flick through a shockingly fast range of emotions, settling finally into what can only be described as fuck.
“Is this joke?” He said after some time. I shook my head, I wish it was, I thought.
“You don’t remember anything?” He asked, sitting forward, silver rings on his fingers clinking together as he cracked his knuckles. I shook my head again.
“Do you remember your mother?” He asked again, and I looked at him.
“Yes.”
“Do you know where she is?” I don’t know why he’s asking me this.
I can feel my breathing turn heavy. I shake my head again. Maybe if I shake it enough, all my memories will come back in one failing swoop.
“You are same Theo,” He told me, “Allow me to introduce myself.” He placed out his hand for me to take, “My name is Boris Pavlikovsky. You don’t remember me, but I remember you. And we met in Las Vegas.”
I was finally nodding, his name was long. He would have to say it a lot. But his hands were nice to hold, they weren’t as cold as they looked. He wasn’t as cold as he looked. Seemingly frozen, but his hands were warm.
“We met at age 13. You were in Vegas for 4 years.” Boris continued telling me. Vegas… I came from Vegas? From Vegas to Hobie? That’s why my brain was scratching at me, it all clicked together suddenly.
Vegas.
The sand.
Some of the best and worst days of my life. But I still don’t remember Boris.
“We were inseparable.” He said, a smile sitting behind his words. Another person I don’t know. He had the same feeling as the girl with the red hair. I couldn’t remember her name–Hobie loved her very much. There was a photo of her above the fireplace, but I never spoke of her. I always get the feeling that I shouldn’t.
“I’m sorry I can’t remember you.” I said quietly, but he only smiled.
“Is okay,” He laughed suddenly, a short, sharp laugh, “We start a clean slate.” I nodded again, I need to know what my life was like before. He seemed interesting. I wanted to know him more–he could lead me to unanswered questions. Boris. I’ve already forgotten his last name.
He sobered suddenly, “Do you still remember…” he cut off his sentence to draw a rectangle in the air with his fingers. His face was painted with a question, but he hadn’t finished his sentence.
We sat for a silent moment. I didn’t know what he was talking about.
“Remember what?”
I think Boris was about to say you know, but then realised I don’t. I’m stumbling through the dark, I don’t know.
He bit his bottom lip slightly, holding my gaze as if it would make me remember. His eyes were hypnotic–but no amount of staring could help me.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I sound like a small, clueless child. And I suppose I am, starting everything from scratch again, only knowing the how to talk and walk. Learning new faces, learning names I should know. I meet a man who is clearly overjoyed to see me, but I don’t recognise him.
Although, his hair seems familiar.
“Your hair.” I said.
Boris looked up to his forehead, running his hands through the curls. He was wearing all black. He had leather bracelets on. There was a tattoo on his wrist in a language I couldn’t recognise–maybe if I concentrated I could. There was a star, too–the Star of David–that I did know. I was surprised at how quickly random, slightly unneeded information came back to me. I wish I remembered my friends… if I had any. I’ve already forgotten his last name.
“What about it?” He asked, looking at me. His eyes wandered all across my face, his head tilted slightly to one side. I wondered what this was like for him: his seemingly childhood best friend, completely forgotten about him. No memory at all. But maybe my memory will come back.
“It’s familiar.” I say quietly, but I don’t know why.
“See,” Boris smiled wider, “I am beginning to come back!” He laughed, flashing a bright smile. His teeth were so white, I didn’t want to look away from his smile.
“You can go places on your own, no?” Boris asked him. I nodded. My coffee had gone cold. I forgot about my coffee.
“We go,” He told me, “Back to my apartment.”
I wasn’t sure I wanted to. I felt tired. I’ve already forgotten his last name.
“I don’t remember your last name.” I said abruptly.
“Pavlikovsky,” He repeated, placing a hand on my shoulder once I had slipped my coat back on, “Pav-li-kov-sky.” He sounded it all out a second time.
Boris Pavlikovsky.
“I need to tell Hobie where I am going.” I said, taking out my phone. The only person I text is Hobie–which might seem sad. But it doesn’t bother me. The texts are usually some variation of “What is …?” and “I’m going to…”, but Hobie rarely replies. He leaves the messages on ‘seen’–but that’s the only reassurance I needed: I only need him to know that he is aware of what I’m doing.
“Hobie?” Boris laughed. I wasn’t joking.
“Your old man?” He continued, “Am glad you still live with him.”
I didn’t know what that meant, but I decided to follow him out of the café. His voice was becoming less murky now. The way it sliced through everything else. I wondered what he was like as a young boy. Now, as a young man, he seemed strong and confident within himself.
I think I like Boris. But I’ve already forgotten his last name.