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Ranboo’s forgetful. He keeps a routine and sets many reminder alarms in order to combat this. He keeps a journal (not a diary). Sometimes he writes about his feelings, since he has a hard time deciphering them, but usually he simply writes down what happens that day.
Ranboo’s forgetful. Occasionally he’ll forget to read his journal when he wakes up in a daze, or has forgotten how he got to where he is. Usually he remembers the important things, anyways, and only has to read the last few pages to refresh his memory.
Ranboo forgets how forgetful he is sometimes. Days will go by where he doesn’t need to use his journal, where he’ll be able to live normally, and then suddenly he’ll be forced back to his reality, void of all memories.
Today is one such day. A Bad Day, one might call it.
He wakes up. He’s scared, alone, and doesn’t know what to do. He gets up off his bed quickly, and immediately regrets it, feeling light-headed. He lays back down, thinking.
He knows his name is Ranboo. He knows this for a fact. Like when one dreams and one just knows things. It’s like the spectator who dreams of Ranboo has let him know that that’s his name. He clutches onto his name like it’s a lifeline, because to him, that’s all he knows.
There’s a soft knock on his door, and Ranboo attempts to sit up again, this time going much slower. “Come in?” he asks. His voice is oddly high pitched, and predictably hesitant.
A man peeks his head through the door. “Ranboo?” he asks, eyebrows furrowed.
Ranboo looks to his right and left. He’s the only Ranboo he knows, so this man must be addressing him. “Yes?”
And there it is again. That weird, high pitched, soft voice. Ranboo could swear that in the past his voice had been deep and gravelly. But what does he know, he has no memory. Just an illusion of what should be. The sky is blue, the grass is green, and Ranboo’s voice is deep. Except that it’s not.
“Have you forgotten again?” the man asks, stepping into the room now. He has blinding white wings, like an angel, but Ranboo knows like he knows he loves cats that this man is as flawed as any human being.
Ranboo nods, and draws his knees up to his chest. He’s making himself vulnerable, admitting to his loss of memory. But he gets the feeling that if this man wanted to hurt him, he would have already.
The man’s eyes soften. “Your memory book is in the drawer next to you. If you have any questions I’m available.”
Ranboo nods once more, and the man closes the door, disappearing. Ranboo finds his journal and reads through it in a haphazard order, first reading the last few entries, and then the first.
He now knows that the man was Phil, like he knows so many other things. But he does not know why his voice is so squeaky and girl-like. He does not know why his body feels so wrong wrong wrong.