Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

       I placed the call, of course. It’s important to take the upper hand when dealing with a guy like him. Assert your dominance, you know. Told him to wait for me at the café just around the corner- a nice place, one where he’ll feel comfortable talking to me. Comfort’s a big deal for both of us, whether he knows it or not.

       I’d parked myself pretty close to the café- not close enough to look suspicious, but just close enough so it won’t take forever for me to get there. Don’t want him forgetting why he’s come while I’m still driving and possibly running away- although I figure he’s written himself a note about it. He better have, anyway. I can’t wrap my mind around what it must be like to function using those little scraps of paper alone.

       As I’m driving, the usual thought comes into my head- why the hell do you keep coming back? And at the moment, I have no way to answer that.

       I pull up to the curb and there he is, all fresh-faced and well-groomed like usual. I don’t want to think about how long it takes to get him looking that great in the morning. It’s hard enough for me even without the memory issues. He’s got this real pensive look on his face, probably wondering where I am or maybe who he’s waiting for. Pen behind the ear, paper in hand, and bleached blond hair- he proved remarkably resistant when I tried to convince him to dye it again. It’s actually surprising how stubborn a sap like him can be. Maybe his wife preferred it that way or something. I just wish his sentimentality didn’t put us at such a risk, but, well, what can ya do.

        His eyes land on me as I get out of the car, staring at me as if he’s never seen me before in my life. It’s kind of unsettling when you think about it. I hold out my hand as I approach. “Mr. Shelby.” Sometimes it’s better to lead with a formal address, or else he can guess that we’ve met before.

       “Officer Gammell?” he says, stuffing the piece of paper he’d been studying into his pocket. Looks like I was right- he did write himself a note.

       I put on this big, cheery smile and we shake. “You remember me.” I know he doesn’t, but it’s best not to act like I know too much. Keeps him off-guard. Sure enough, he shakes his head regretfully. So polite. “I’m afraid not. You… you do know about my condition?”

       “Yeah, sure. Your memory, right?”

       He nods, and then informs me very straightforwardly, “It’s not amnesia. I can’t make new memories. I remember everything about my past, but… I can’t remember how I got here, or what I did this morning. Everything just… fades. Fifteen minutes from now, I won’t remember who you are or how this conversation began.”

       I pat his shoulder. He’s not really receptive to touch, usually, but again, I have to play my role as the blundering cop. He doesn’t know how well I’ve come to read him. “Well, let’s not waste your fifteen minutes on any explanations.” As long as I don’t have to hear about Sammy fucking Jankis again.

       We enter the café and take a seat at a table near the end. It’s half-past noon, and I know that shitty motel he’s laid up in doesn’t have much in the way of food services, so I make sure he orders himself something edible. Gotta keep an eye on him sometimes. Playing the mother hen can be exhausting, but killing isn’t done well on an empty stomach.

       After the waitress swings by, I take out my files and push them over to him. Asserting my dominance again. It’s essential when working with a loose cannon. “Here’s the information you asked for, Mr. Shelby.”

       “Just call me Leonard,” he says, and even offers me a half-hearted smile. I know, however, that his attention is focused entirely on the files.

       “All right, Lenny.” Lenny. Maybe it’s not nice to mess around with a freak like him, but I still get a kick out of it. Gets a rise out of him every time.

       Sure as hell, he grimaces right away. “No, Leonard. My wife called me Lenny… I hated it.”

       “Leonard. Okay.” Gotta wonder what kind of a person his wife was, anyway. He doesn’t really talk about her in that way, and autopsy reports generally don’t reveal personalities. Just plain, hard facts.

        Soon his head is buried in the files I handed him, so deep that he doesn’t even notice when the waitress brings us our drinks, or when I give her a little wink. She’s pretty- too bad we won’t be staying in this town for very long. Not long enough to get some action, anyway.

       I stay quiet and let Leonard read the files, until he jerks his head up suddenly, like he’s stumbled across some vital information. Or like his brain’s reset itself again.

       “Something wrong, memory man?”

       Even after spending so much time with him, that blank look in his eye always gets me. It’s spooky, like a new person has just taken over his body. Definitely a reset, then. There’s that mild-mannered politeness in his voice again, but I can still see him concealing his alarm. “I’m sorry, I… don’t believe I know…”

       “It’s okay, Lenny.” Who the hell wants to go by Leonard anyway? “I’m with the police. I’m here to help you find your wife’s killer.”

       I spy a trace of doubt in his eyes, but it’s wiped out once he glances at that tattoo on his hand. Remember Sammy Jankis. The first of many. I’ve never been there to see him get one, but I’m familiar with the aftermath.

        “Sorry.” He gives me that half-hearted smile again, and then reaches for his camera. “Must have lost my train of thought. Have I… taken your picture yet?”

       “Nope.” This is the part I always hate. All those photos he takes of me, and I never look good in a single one of them. The flash goes off, and he goes through the motions I’ve seen a million times, taking the photo out and methodically flapping it in the air. It must be that muscle memory the doctors talk about, because he does it every time, like he’s been taking Polaroids for his whole life.

       “You can put me down as Bruce.” Now this is the risky part- having to avoid the questions. If only he knew just how safe it is for me to use a fake name. Not only in case that Polaroid falls into the wrong hands, but also because he’d probably have half a mind to incriminate me if he knew my birth name. I’d laugh about it myself, but I’ve seen him kill before, and there’s no way I’d ever wish to be on the receiving end of it. At least I get to have a little fun, sticking new monikers to the same persona over and over again.

        He looks at me. “Officer Bruce?”

       “Nope,” I say, shaking my head. “Actually I’m undercover. Technically I’m not supposed to be giving you this information, but when I heard your story I just had to help you out. You can keep a secret, can’t you, Lenny?”

       He contemplates this, and then laughs shortly. “I don’t have much of a choice, do I?” He gestures ruefully to his head, and I chuckle along, while relief fills me. Thank god I’m off the hook this time- it’s not every day he takes it so easily.

       “Did I tell you how my wife called me Lenny?”

       “No.” I fight the snicker from escaping me, the grin from stretching across my face. Only the first hundred times.

       “I hated it.” He nonchalantly takes the pen from behind his ear, uncaps it, and captions my newly-developed picture. “Pleased to meet you, Bruce.” In no time at all he’s gone back to the files.

       Because I don’t want him to just sit there reading the same paragraph over and over- look, I might not treat the guy right all the time, but I do have a heart- I decide to summarize for him. “We’ve uncovered evidence that supports your theory. There was a second guy who attacked you- the guy who killed your wife.”

       “I always thought so,” he breathes, and it’s kind of satisfying, in a way, to see his opinion validated like that. Even though the so-called “evidence” is complete BS. At least he likes to believe it.

        “There are some pages missing in my files... Did you manage to recover any of them?”

        I shake my head. He’s probably torn them out himself, burned them along with all those old Polaroids. And all that junk of his wife’s, though I know for a fact he’s still hauling around a bunch of it.

       “’Fraid not. But I think we’ve got a real lead here. There’s a guy in this town by the name of Johnny Gibson. He’s involved in a lot of petty crime…”

      At the very sound of the guy’s name, he comes alight, sitting up straighter in his seat. He’s got this look of hungry intensity to his face, the look I generally only see on him when he’s getting ready to kill someone, or when he’s basking in the afterglow of revenge. Basically he only wears this expression when the asshole we’re looking for is mentioned- no matter who the guy actually is.

       “John G,” he says, and I swear, in his voice the name’s a goddamn curse. He says it like normal people talk about disease, like just speaking the name will infect him.

       The waitress comes back and hands us our meals, but once again Leonard’s not paying much attention. He stares not at his plate, but at the files before him. “Is there enough evidence to convict him?”

       “We can’t prove anything yet.” This at least is partially true. I could always conduct the investigation on my own time and only call Leonard in at the crucial moment, but like I’ve said- I know him. I know he likes the chase, just as much as a dog likes to chase squirrels. He might not always know why he’s helping me, and it can be risky to show his face at times, but he enjoys it so much I can’t very well leave him in the backseat.

         “But that’s what I’m here for. To help you find him.” I smile. “And you can even help me out too. We’ll get this guy, Leonard- I promise.”

      He smiles back at me, and it’s not so half-hearted as before, but there’s still… something off about it. Something hollow and cheap, like a paper lantern bought as a party decoration that can only be lit once before the wick burns out and it’s useless.

       I wonder how long it is until he resets again.

      I pick up the sandwich I’ve ordered and take a bite. He looks down at the meatloaf in front of him, and for a moment I think he’s actually going to eat in my presence, but he just pokes at it a bit with his fork before glancing through the files again. No wonder he’s so good at enacting his little revenge fantasy- he’s got the most severe one-track mind I have ever seen.

       So I have to ask myself again, why do you keep coming back? Why do I keep saddling myself with this flipped-out freak who can’t even get up in the morning without having to refer to his little notes? What are we doing out here in one shithole town after another, putting dents in their crime waves and then fleeing before we can be traced?

       The answer’s easy now. Because unlike Leonard, I remember the day that we found his wife lying dead on the sofa in her own home. I remember the pathetic way he clung to her, how many times he asked over and over where she was and what was going on as I drove him off to the station.

       And I remember the joy on his face when he pointed to the place on his chest where he wanted his next tattoo to go, his eyes wide and crazed from the adrenaline rush. He could have drawn that tattoo onto himself using the blood that stained his hands. I have to remember, because I snapped a picture of that moment, using his own camera no less. Still got it too- one of the few photos that escaped the flames that time around.

       Leonard’s not as tough a guy as he likes to think he is. Truth is, he can’t get around without my help. And I can’t stand seeing him all mopey and depressed like he was the day I met him, and every day after when he was in the psychiatric hospital. So if it makes him happy, and  helps me get my job done, how can I possibly turn him down?

        Across the table, I watch as he reaches into his pocket and takes out the jumble of Polaroids that he constantly keeps with him. There shouldn’t be many of them yet- just his car, the run-down motel, and my own mug. He shuffles through them in quick precision, stopping on the one of me.

        Just as I suspected- he’s reset again.

       “Bruce?” He looks up at me, and that’s when I know I’ve outstayed my welcome. These chats of ours have to be brief- I hate having to go through the introductions all over again. I smile and nod, hopefully the picture of trustworthiness. He looks like he believes me, but then again, he could be faking it. Just like he tries to fake recognition, not knowing how easily I see through it.

        “C’mon, Leonard.” I stand up and search for the waitress. If he’s not going to eat now, I’m certainly not going to force him. Hopefully he’ll have the sense to get something once he’s hungry. “Our work here is done.”

       But I know, on the contrary, that our work here is only just beginning.

Chapter Text

       “Trust yourself. Trust your own judgement. You can question everything, you can never know anything for sure.”

       “There are things you know for sure.”

       She’s never seen him like this before. Not that she’s intimately acquainted with him- they only met yesterday, after all. And his memory resets don’t make it easy for her to get close to him. But yesterday, when he’d explained his condition to her, he’d been so matter-of-fact, to the point of resignation. Nothing like the frustration he’s displaying now. She’s seen him lose his temper, been close enough to bear the scars of his attack. But he hadn’t been agitated like this- worked up, definitely, but not vulnerable.

       “Such as?” she murmurs, to keep him talking. He responds without looking at her.

       “I know what that’s gonna sound like when I knock on it.” His hand raps the table next to the armchair, demonstrating his point.

     “I know what that’s gonna feel like when I pick it up.” He reaches for the glass coaster on top of the table, lifting it with careless ease. Natalie can’t tell if the expression on his face is one of disgust that she’s even asking, or discouragement that these are the only things he has to rely on.

      “See? Certainties. It’s the kind of memory you take for granted.”

       She senses that if he’d told her this yesterday at the bar, he would have spoken calmly, without emotion. But now his walls are down. He reminds her of a tiger she saw once at a zoo, trapped in an enclosure too small for it, doomed to pace back and forth while screaming children eye it from behind glass. Just like that tiger, Leonard is stuck in an environment from which he can never escape, and yet he longs to transcend his boundaries.

       “You know, I can remember so much.” He jabs meaninglessly at the air, his voice taking on a plaintive tone. His eyes shut, as if trying to summon his memories from the depths of his damaged brain.

       “The feel of the world… and her…” His voice seems to tremble at the mention of his wife. Natalie stays quiet, the chink in his emotional control drawing her in. He’s breathing hard, and it takes him a few moments to collect himself before continuing.

        “She’s gone.” Self-loathing saturates his voice as he comes to grips with his existence. “And the present is trivia, which I scribble down as fuckin’ notes.”

       At that, Natalie can’t just observe anymore. She’s seen the way Leonard operates, the stack of Polaroids he keeps in his shirt pocket and his thick file folder full of clues. It’s something she’s taken for granted- of course the amnesiac has a method of survival. Of course he’s given himself a purpose. She hasn’t realized just how much Leonard hates having to saddle himself with these crutches. Despite everything Leonard’s done, her misgiving and fear of him staying under her roof, she’s compelled to remind him of how he’s managed to survive.

        “Hey. It’s not all bad.” She reaches forward to place her hand on his knee, but he flinches under her touch. His blue eyes settle on hers, the corners of his mouth twitching as if he wants to say something, but can’t afford to break concentration.

       “You have purpose. You have meaning.” She spreads her hands wide, indicating the world. “You’re going to get the guy who killed your wife. Isn’t that right?”

       From the way he stares at her, she knows he wants to believe her, but he shakes his head. “But what kind of a purpose is that?” He releases a strangled laugh, his lips twisted in a half-smile, half-grimace. “All I can do to keep her memory alive is hunt down the person responsible for ending it. And when I find him, then what?” He reaches up to massage his temples, his eyes fluttering shut once more. “My motivation for- for living is the idea that when it happens, I’ll remember it.”

        “You’ll take a photo.” Natalie’s voice grows stronger, and she starts to get to her feet. “You’ll write it down, you’ll know-”

       Leonard halts her motion by dropping his hands, though his eyes are still closed and he can’t see her. “That’s the thing, Natalie. I won’t… I don't know if I'll know. I’ll have the photo, sure. Some mangled fucker lying with his brains blown out, as a… a lasting memento.”

       His eyes snap open, and he leans forward with an intense, tight smile, though his face holds no joy of which to speak.

       “But… I won’t know. I won’t have confirmation from myself that it happened. I can look at the photo, read the tattoo, but I’ll still wake up every day wondering where she is, and why she’s not coming back.”

        Natalie half-expects Leonard to shout these last words, but instead, his statement trails to a wistful end. His brow furrows as a dark shadow crosses his face, a sorrowful mixture of pain and hatred. Looking away from Natalie, he continues in a softer voice.

       “It must be… so hard to live like this. Having to re-learn, every single day, that she’s gone.” Leonard takes a deep breath. His tone is light, almost sing-song in a way, as if he’s trying to puzzle out his feelings and the purpose for them. “But, it doesn’t feel like it’s hard, you know? It feels like… like the first time. But I don’t even know how long it’s been.” His voice breaks slightly at the end of the sentence, but he continues to resolutely stare into the distance, without meeting Natalie’s eyes.

       “And… what’s really strange is, I want to forget her.” Leonard tries for a laugh again, but it comes out choked, humorless. “Because I know… if I do, I’ll move on.” He bites the inside of his cheek and clears his throat, waiting before speaking again. Natalie doesn’t move.

       “And yet, I can’t afford to… to lose her again. She’s all I have left. If I forget her, she’ll disappear, and… I can’t let that happen. I don’t want her to disappear- I just want-”

       “You want to heal.” Natalie stands up, the shattered shards of her heart giving a painful thud. She understands, of course- Jimmy’s death is still achingly fresh.

       Leonard takes a shuddering breath, attempting to pull himself together. But when he speaks, his voice shakes.

       “Yes. Of course I do. If I could just… know for sure that time will pass… But it won’t. Not for me. So… how can I heal?” His words fade into an anguished, embarrassed whimper. “How am I supposed to heal if I can’t… feel time?”

       Wordlessly Natalie approaches Leonard. She hesitates a moment before touching him, remembering how he had flinched before. But as soon as her hands slide across his shoulders, Leonard comes to life. He moves instinctively, reaching out to pull her close. His arms wrap around her waist, his head settling in her stomach. His strong fingers curl over her spine, as if trying to absorb her human heat.

       Natalie gently strokes the back of Leonard’s neck, allowing herself to wind her fingers through his soft hair. Leonard’s only reaction is to tighten his grip. Was this how he held his wife once upon a time, or how she held him, assuring him that he would be okay? It’s hard to imagine that the Leonard Shelby of before could ever need such comfort. In fact, it’s hard to imagine anything about him. This fractured persona of Leonard’s, the clueless, murderous amnesiac, is all that remains, as if his personality has been filtered through a sieve.

       He’s so vulnerable, here in Natalie’s arms. Entirely at her mercy. She could do whatever she likes… But before Natalie can seriously ponder that train of thought, Leonard pulls away, rubbing his eyes. His face is red, and he doesn’t look up at Natalie. She folds her arms across her chest.

        “You okay?” she says quietly. Leonard shrugs, refusing to make eye contact.

       “Anything I can do?”

      Leonard shakes his head, standing up. “I’d like to take a shower.” His voice is rough, but subdued.

       “Bathroom’s over there.” Natalie points to it, speaking gently, as if coaxing a feral animal. “I’ll make us something to eat in the meantime.”

       He shakes his head. “I don’t know if I’ve already eaten- I can’t just-”

      Oh, god, everything comes back to that condition of his. Trying not to overwhelm Leonard, Natalie cuts in, keeping her voice soft. “Well, I’ll make something and if you get hungry, I’m happy to share.”

       He nods and departs to the bathroom, and Natalie heads over to the kitchen, sighing to herself. Thank god she’d been saving the shake-and-bake pork chops for a special occasion. Cooking has never been her forte- Jimmy always took care of that…

      At the thought of Jimmy, a shiver runs through Natalie. She presses her hand to her heart, closing her eyes. Jimmy. He’s gone. He’s never coming back…

       Reality intrudes on her and crashes around her ears. What the hell does she think she’s doing, housing and talking with and comforting the man who killed the love of her life?

        The water system rattles, and Natalie opens her eyes, stealing a glance at the bathroom. At least Leonard has no clue what’s going on. At least he can go ahead and kill any random guy and he’ll have to be satisfied. But Natalie knows exactly who nabbed Jimmy, has known it ever since he walked into the bar in that beige suit that she’d always admired. And for a moment, that knowledge is too much for her to bear.

        Her mind begins to flash wildly, considering her options. When she’d psyched Leonard up yesterday to get him to go after Dodd, he’s acknowledged that love was a valid motive for murder. Surely he’ll forgive her if she tries to pull it on him.

       She wonders briefly if he's got a gun, but that thought is quickly abandoned. Too loud, and too messy- she’d never get the stains out of the carpet.

       Maybe she could crush some of her sleeping pills into his meal… but that would take too long, and Leonard would notice straightaway.

      Natalie pulls up a chair at the kitchen table to think, and then it hits her.

       Maybe she can do nothing.

       After all, Leonard Shelby is only here to take the fall. He had had no quarrel with Jimmy Grantz. Jimmy may have committed a number of nefarious deeds during his life, but he’d have never raped anyone. Not when he had Natalie. And he had always freely recounted his crimes, sometimes over a drink on the couch, sometimes in the bedroom as he undressed her, always with a smirk and in guttural tones that made her moan. She would know if he’d murdered this man’s wife.

       Leonard Shelby is nothing more than a victim. And it doesn’t take a second to realize who’s pulling his strings.

       When Natalie realizes it, she wants to laugh. Of course. Teddy, the man who'd come into the bar looking for her to arrange a meeting with Jimmy. The man Jimmy had gone to meet yesterday, a meeting from which he had never returned. It had to be Teddy who’d set Jimmy up. Of course he wouldn’t do his own dirty work. And who better to do it than a man who can’t remember his actions?

       By the time the pork chops are in the oven, a plan has formulated in Natalie’s mind. She’s so lost in it that she doesn’t hear the bathroom door open, and when Leonard’s voice sounds from behind her she jumps.

       “Excuse me?”

        Natalie turns to see Leonard standing in the doorway, dripping wet, his head poking out from behind the door. When he sees her face he aims for a faint grin, but Natalie can see it in his eyes- he doesn’t recognize her. A chill runs through her body.

       “Leonard.” She approaches him, forcing herself to speak slowly for him to comprehend more easily. “I’m Natalie. You’re staying at my house. I’m here to help you.”

        There’s a pause as this computes in his head, and then he slowly swings the door open, revealing his half-naked body. He’s wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. His muscles are well-defined, easy to admire, but Natalie fixates instead on his tattoos. His body is covered in them, some facing towards her, some written backwards, a few specific ones only legible from Leonard’s perspective.

       “You wouldn’t happen to have a fresh change of clothing?” he says, and Natalie swallows, gaining control of herself. She tears her eyes away from Leonard’s body and meets his gaze with an air of disinterest, pretending that the tattoos are old news.

       “Stay here. I’ll fetch some for you.” She walks away to the bedroom, trying not to think about Jimmy, how Leonard is stealing from him after his death. Hopefully Leonard will find his photographs in her absence and consult them to bring himself up to speed.

       As Natalie rifles through the dresser, her mind is made up. Leonard doesn’t deserve to bear the blame of actions he doesn’t know he’s committed. And he’s far too unpredictable to remain a hired gun, as much as she might need the protection. But she can at least use him for one last scheme, something to make the both of them happy.

       Leonard might not get his revenge just yet, but Natalie knows she is about to get hers.

Chapter Text

       Blood smeared against the walls. Pooling out over the floor.

       A pair of glasses, lying upside-down on the concrete.

      A Polaroid, developing in your hand.

      You glance from the photo to the man you’ve just shot dead, and the view is identical. You’ve done it. You’ve gone and gotten your revenge, at long last.

       Your wife’s soul will finally rest in peace.

      Taking out a pen, you give the photo a simple caption. I’VE DONE IT.

      Now you will never forget.

*

       You’re standing outside what looks to be some abandoned building. Two cars confront you- a blue truck and a blue-gray Jaguar. One of them has to be yours. But which one?

       Your left hand slips instinctively into your pocket. You don’t even really know what you’re doing until you’re holding the jumble of Polaroids. MY CAR, reads the caption below the photograph of the Jaguar.

        You flip through the rest to see if they can provide you with clues as to what’s going on and where you are. The next photo in the stack brings you up short. Blood smearing the walls. A pair of glasses lying upside-down on the concrete.

       I’VE DONE IT.

       Suddenly it all comes flooding back. Your wife, trapped beneath the shower curtain, thrashing and gasping for a breath. The masked intruder bending over her, meeting your eyes for a second before you shoot him dead. The shards of the mirror shattering around you, the split second of blinding pain before comforting numbness follows…

       She’s gone. According to this message, you have made the man responsible pay for his actions.

       So why don’t you remember confronting him?

       Confusion mounting, you sift through the rest of the photos, trying to figure out the man’s identity. Surely you had to have written that down. Nestled between a photograph of a woman and a photo of a motel’s sign is that of a man staring at you with an appallingly casual grin. Glasses adorn his face. You suck in a breath and flip back, consulting the photo of the aftermath. It’s hard to tell… but the thin, brown hair and the glasses are enough to confirm it. This must be the same man.

        The caption under his smiling face reads TEDDY, along with a phone number. Won’t do you much good to keep that info... Flipping the Polaroid over reveals little else about his identity.

        DON’T BELIEVE HIS LIES.

       HE IS THE ONE.

       KILL HIM.

       The handwriting proves that you’ve written this yourself. And if you can’t trust yourself, who can you trust? But something feels… off. Anticlimactic.

       Teddy. Just some guy. Some random guy.

       Why can’t I remember…?

       You start to slip the photos back into your pocket, but as you do you notice… writing on your hand. Cursive letters. Remember Sammy Jankis.

       Sammy…

      You rub at the letters, but they stay on your hand as clear as day. You’re about to wet one of your fingers in an attempt to smear them when boom, it hits you like an atomic explosion.

       Sammy Jankis… Remember Sammy Jankis. Sammy lost his memory in a car accident… wrote himself tons of notes… didn’t respond to conditioning… his wife came to me and asked for my opinion… I didn’t believe Sammy but I never TOLD her, I never said he was faking, I never said that. I never said that. She tested him with- the insulin. The insulin-

       I’m Sammy Jankis. Your mind settles down once it reaches that conclusion. You too have lost your memory, not in a car crash, but in a home invasion. And you too have lost your wife- not to insulin, but to a pair of heartless intruders. You are the fifteen-minute man.

       You’ve probably got tattoos like this all over your body. That’d just be like you, wouldn’t it? All organized, to help you investigate your wife’s death the way you used to investigate insurance claims.

       But now the deed is done, and if you don’t leave a permanent reminder, you’re going to forget. So you reach into your other pocket, again not entirely sure what you’re doing until the notepad is in your hands. Then, with the photograph’s caption in mind, you make yourself a note.

       TATTOO: I’VE DONE IT.

       You put the note and the Polaroids away and walk to the Jaguar, content to let your victory slip through the cracks in your mind. Now that you’ve made the note, you know you’re safe.

*

       “You again,” says the lady at the tattoo parlor. “Nice to see ya.”

       You’re not sure when you’ve last been here- or why you’d even want to go to a tattoo parlor in the first place- but you smile and nod and say “It’s nice to see you, too” as if you’re in control of yourself. Don’t want to seem lost. Don’t want to come off as some psycho.

        “What can I do for you today?” the lady asks, all business, and you have to respond. Maybe you’re carrying something on you that will give you a clue? You reach into your pockets and the first thing you come up with is a notepad. Conveniently, the top note reads “TATTOO: I’VE DONE IT.”

       “I’d like to get this done,” you say, handing over the notepad. She glances at it before flicking her gaze back to you. “Where?”

       Without thinking, you point to your breast. “Here.”

*

       Pain blossoms forth from your skin, searing pain, like the pinpricks of a doctor’s needle stuck into you over and over. You flinch and are about to jerk away, but a mechanical buzzing noise stops you. A woman stands over you, her concentrated expression filling your field of vision. Her eyes are focused on the small, drill-like machine in her hand. You stare down at your chest, marked with indelible ink, and words leap out at you. CONDITION YOURSELF. BUY FILM. NOTES CAN BE LOST. DON’T TRUST YOUR WEAKNESS.

        “All done,” the woman says momentarily, and you stand up and rub your sore flesh. The letters face forward, so you find it difficult to read them. Not like the rest of the copious tattoos scrawled along your body.

       You start to wonder why you’re covered in tattoos, why they spell out such cryptic messages, but with a glance at your hand it comes back in a murky flash. Remember Sammy Jankis-

      As the woman leaves to fetch a bandage for your tattoo, you step forward, staring at yourself in a nearby mirror. One message above all else leaps out at you.

       JOHN G RAPED AND MURDERED MY WIFE.

       Below that, a smaller message, backwards in the mirror:

       I’VE DONE IT.

      You close your eyes and, without really meaning to, picture her. Her soft skin. Her rosy cheeks. The sweet roughness of her voice. How she’d sigh when you ran your fingers through her hair, and slap your hand when you weren’t gentle with her.

       You can almost feel her palm against your chest, see her deep brown eyes gazing up at you. Her warmth saturates you as she rests her head on you, your arm tucked around her shoulders. Her fingers trace the words on your breast: I’VE DONE IT.

      “Here ya go,” calls a voice from behind, and you open your eyes to see the tattoo artist walk in, waving a roll of gauze in her hand. You turn around, trying your best to block out the overwhelming sense of disappointment that rolls through you.

      I did it. But I don’t remember it.

      All you remember is her.

     Triumph never felt like such a loss.

**

       You’re standing outside of what looks to be some abandoned building, and in your hands are a pair of Polaroids. One shows the aftermath of revenge- blood smeared on the walls, glasses upside down on the concrete. The other shows the face of your enemy.

       DON’T BELIEVE HIS LIES.

       HE IS THE ONE.

       KILL HIM.

       The handwriting proves that you’ve written this yourself. In that case, it must be true. He had to have been the one.

       But something feels… off about it. Wrong. Anticlimactic, even. Sure, your memory is all fucked-up, but you’d think something like this… something like taking a life… would make an impression.

      That it would… free you. That you’d remember.

      How long have I been looking? How long have you been going around, playing detective? How many fruitless quests have you been sent on, how many dead ends you’ve run into? How long have you been planning this? How long have I been alone?

       The notes in your pockets hold no answers.

      So… what do you do now? You stand in place, staring wildly at the photos, trying to puzzle it out. Where do you go from here, now that you’ve done it, now that your revenge is over? Now what?

       Without your memory, you’re nothing. Fifteen minutes from now, you’re going to have to learn all over again that your wife’s dead, that you’ve lost your memory, and that you’ve avenged both these things, all in the span of a few seconds. It won’t do. What kind of a life is that? At least when you were on your quest for revenge, you were focused. Driven. You were ready to take action. Now you’re stuck in a little bubble, doomed to spend the rest of what passes as your existence in stasis.

       Before time runs out, you make a snap decision. There’s no time to consider other options, and nothing else strikes you as preferable.

        Of course there’s a lighter in your pocket. Past you was so clever, so careful. He knew what you would need.

**

       Now, where was I?

       You’re in an unfamiliar car, parked at the side of an unfamiliar street, wearing unfamiliar clothes. You couldn’t be more lost if you’d parachuted into the depths of an Amazon rain forest without a map. But there’s a collection of Polaroids in your hand, and you rifle through them in hopes of discovering a clue as to your very meaning.

       There’s one of your car, presumably the one you’re sitting in now. There’s one of a motel, the Discount Inn. And there’s one of a woman. NATALIE.

       Flipping it over, you read for further details. SHE HAS ALSO LOST SOMEONE. SHE WILL HELP YOU OUT OF PITY.

       Not much to go by, and it certainly doesn’t seem promising if she’s only helping you ‘cause she pities you, but hey, it’s worth a shot. Searching yourself further, you discover that you’ve written down her address.

       Coincidentally, you’re on the same street where she lives. Huh. It’s nice to know that past you was on the right track.

       “Leonard?” As soon as Natalie answers the door, a bolt of worry goes through you. She recognizes me. What if she’s already helped you? What if you came here for nothing?

       “Natalie.” You wish you knew what to say, but for the life of you, nothing comes to mind. How can it, when you don’t even know what the two of you last talked about?

       “What’re you doing back here?” She seems… not nervous, exactly. More like guarded. You catch the way her eyes shift from side to side.

       Your response is an effortless shrug. “I need answers.”

       She steps away from the door, beckoning you forth. “Come inside, I’ll… I’ll explain everything.”

       It’s only when you’re standing under the light that you notice her scars.

**

       “Leonard, I already helped you find John G.”

      “What?”

       “I helped you track him down. You’ve got his license number on your thigh! I gave you the information this morning!”

       “So why don’t I have that information?”

       “Maybe you lost it.”

       “No… I wouldn’t let go of something that important.”

      “Then maybe someone took it from you.”

       “No! Who would’ve gotten that close?”

       “Leonard… when I gave you that license number… I also gave you an address where you could lure John G, to kill him. Tell me, did you go there?”

       “I don’t know! If I had, I would remember. I’d have taken a picture. Made a note to tattoo myself.”

       Nothing makes sense. Nothing makes sense. Except…

       “I must not have killed him. He must’ve gotten away.”

**

        Your wife, trapped beneath the shower curtain, thrashing and gasping for a breath.

      The masked intruder bending over her, meeting your eyes for a second before you shoot him dead.

      Shards from the mirror. Blinding pain. Comfortable numbness.

      Blue bath salts skittering across the floor.

     The white tile, stained red. Her eyes, never to reopen.

     AWAKE.

     Your eyes snap open. Now you’re the one gasping for a breath. There’s no humor in the ironic thought.

       Her hands touch you, pull you back down to the bed. Her voice murmurs in your ear that it was just a dream, just a dream.

       You don’t realize until you’ve kissed her that she’s not your wife.

**

       “You’re going to pay for what you did!”

      “…What?!”

      “Beg forgiveness, then you pay!”

      He tries to act like he has no idea what you’re talking about. The sick fuck. He doesn’t realize you’re long past the point of playing games. You clobber him, shoving him against the wall, pounding him with the tire iron until he’s begging for mercy. But you won’t show him any mercy, not when he denied you that. You only let go of him when his face is a bloody pulp, and then you ruin it further by pulling the trigger. He flops to the ground and is still.

       After the flash goes off, you realize that you’re not alone. A woman slinks out of the darkness, a sly, ecstatic grin filling her face.

       “Nice work, Leonard.” She plucks the photograph out of your hand and studies it. “Very nice.”

**

      There’s a parked car in front of the house. It doesn’t look like the ones you’ve labeled “MY CAR” and “NATALIE’S CAR.”

       But from what you can see through the windshield’s glare, the man inside looks familiar. You watch carefully, peeking out from behind the curtains as he steps out of the car. White, tall, shaved head, dark eyes. Carefully you consult the Polaroid in your hand, matching his face to the image.

       MARK, your handwritten caption reads, and under that, AN ALLY. The back of the Polaroid tells you that he will help you find your wife’s killer.

       You stand at the window, waiting for him to approach the door, molding your face into a perfect expression of recognition. But Mark doesn’t go to the door. He glances toward the window, as if he can see you behind the curtain. His arms fold over his chest as he hovers. Waiting.

       “Leonard.” The touch of a hand turns you around. Standing before you is Natalie- Natalie, the women you woke up beside. The woman whose caption reads that she has also lost someone, and she will help you out of misguided love. Natalie, whom you’re supposed to rely on.

       “You need to go meet Mark,” she says. You’re not sure, but you think you catch a glimpse of… trepidation in her disheveled appearance. But why? If only you could remember the moments you’ve spent together- maybe you’d have enough information to make sense of her behavioral traits.

       “Does he have information for me?” you ask, because that’s the only reason why you can imagine having arranged this meeting. She nods and draws back, moving towards the door.

       “He won’t meet with me. He doesn’t like me. Besides…” Her hands twist around each other. “This is your thing, Leonard. You need to go with him alone.”

       You don’t need to be told twice. Already you can feel heat churning in your gut, hatred for your wife’s killer seething beneath your skin. If this Mark can lead you to the right man, of course you should go alone. You want privacy during the crucial moment, so you know that you’re the only one causing the look of pure fear on his face.

       Natalie opens the door and steps aside, and you go to her, struck with the need to thank her for all her help. Whatever she’s done, no matter the reason, you surely must be grateful. Drawing close to her, her ragged, unkempt beauty is striking. Her dark hair is in tangles, and her eyes are twin pools of smothered worry. Hers is a face that you feel you know and yet don’t know, all at once.

        “Thank you, Natalie,” you say. “For leading me to him.”

       She jerks her chin towards the door, breaking eye contact. “Don’t thank me… Thank him.”

      As the door shuts behind you, you think you hear Natalie murmur something under her breath, but Mark quickly occupies your attention. “Heya, Leonard. How’re you doing?”

       He takes you down a backstreet, chatting the whole time about the bastard you’ve been searching for, and how you’re going to get your revenge very soon.

       You don’t notice the gun at his side until it’s too late.

***

       You’re awake in some motel room. Not really sure where. There’s no map or brochure or anything- it’s just some anonymous motel room. You check the drawers, even though you know there’s nothing in them. Nothing except the Gideon Bible. But prayers have never done you much good.

        How long have you been staying here? You’re not sure. It feels like the first time, but you could have been here for weeks, maybe… it’s pretty hard to say. Considering the condition of which the note on your hand reminds you…

       Remember Sammy Jankis.

      She asked for my opinion but I never said he was faking- I never said that…

      You get up out of bed and start for the bathroom, but before you get there, you catch sight of yourself in the mirror. Tattoos cover your body, which is strange, because your wife used to abhor the idea of glorifying scars. She’d have never let you mark yourself this way. But they seem to spell out pieces of information, information that instantly explains their purpose.

       JOHN G RAPED AND MURDERED MY WIFE.

      FIND HIM AND KILL HIM.

      Your run your hands over your body, reading each individual message, slowly coming to terms with the facts. Your wife, trapped beneath the shower curtain- the masked intruder- blinding pain-

       In the mirror, you see a jacket hanging up over the end of your bed. You turn and pick it up, searching its pockets for clues. Your hands clutch at and draw out two Polaroid images. MY CAR. A sign that reads Discount Inn. They don’t give you much to go on.

       You’re just putting the photos away when you hear the tapping at your door.

***

       Your hands are bent backward and they won’t budge. You struggle a few moments before realizing that handcuffs restrain your wrists.

       “Hey!” you shout to the men behind the partition. What have I done? Why are you being treated like a criminal? The man in the passenger seat turns, his blue uniform giving him away as a member of the police force. A chill runs through your body, like the blast of air that greets you after opening your freezer.

       “What’s going on?” You hope you don’t sound as scared as you feel. “Where are you taking me? Where’s my-“

        Your wife. Trapped beneath the shower curtain. Thrashing and gasping for a breath.

      You freeze, caught in the onslaught of mental images. Something’s not right here. Why are they taking you away, when they should be going after the guy who’s just…

       Struck you from behind, thrown you into the mirror- shards of glass, blinding pain…

      “Is my wife okay?” you demand to know, though in your heart you already feel the answer.

       There’s a trace of pity in the cop’s eyes, but he responds dispassionately, just like a professional. “She’s dead, Mr. Shelby. She’s been dead for three years.”

       No. NO. Three fucking years?! Where has the time gone?! Last thing you remember she was lying on the floor beside you… This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening. Why the fuck can’t you remember?!

        “What am I doing here?” you say, quiet but very desperate.

       “You’re under arrest for the murders of John Gammell and Jimmy Grantz.”

***

       You’re awake in some room. Not really sure where. There aren’t any identifying marks on the smooth, white walls.

       It’s just some anonymous hospital room.

-

       Blood smeared against the walls, pooling out over the floor.

       A pair of glasses, lying upside-down on the concrete.

       A Polaroid developing in your hand.

       The view of the dead man before you and the photograph are identical. You’ve done it. At long last, you’ve gotten your revenge. Your wife’s soul will finally rest in peace.

       You take out your pen and give the photo a simple caption. I’VE DONE IT. Never forget, never forget.

       Now, you need to move the body.

       Blood drips onto your shoes as you lift the dead man, and you grimace. You haul the body down the nearby stairs, breathing heavily with the effort. But the gruesome deed does nothing to bring you from your euphoria. Satisfaction runs through your veins, warmth filling your chest. I’ve done it, I’ve done it, I-

       All thoughts flee your mind as you reach the bottom of the stairs. The body slips from your grasp, crashing to the floor with a thud. You don’t even hear it. All you can see is the other body right in front of you. Another dead man.

       Creeping closer, you peer down at the body. The skin is a pale grayish shade, but otherwise untouched, implying that he wasn’t killed very long ago- maybe only a few days have passed. The cause of death isn’t difficult to decipher. Handprints mark his neck, the ugly bruises of strangulation.

       What a coincidence, that this man should be lying in the basement on the same day that you’ve come to fulfill your revenge. This must be a dangerous town.

       But the longer you stare at the shirtless man, the higher your tension builds. An unpleasant feeling settles into the pit of your stomach, squishy and uncertain.

       What if…

       What if it’s not…

      You drop to your knees and tentatively reach out to the body. You don’t want to get your fingerprints on it, just in case the police get the wrong idea. But simply hovering your hands above the dead man’s throat tells all.

       It’s not a coincidence.

      Immediately you shoot to your feet and stare from one body to the other. Both killed by your hand. But you would only ever kill a man for one reason. Which means someone must have set you up, or…

       “Oh, fuck.”

      What have I done…

      You must have thought you were getting your revenge. But you didn’t remember it. This guy whose brain you’ve just shot out might not be the culprit either. How long has this been going on?

       Your head is spinning, confused thoughts flickering to life and trying to connect. But they can’t bridge the gaps in your mind. There’s not enough information stored in your head at once, nothing to help you make sense of your situation. You frantically grapple for your Polaroids, feverishly consulting them. But all you see is that smirking face, the one you’ve just sent a bullet through. DON’T BELIEVE HIS LIES. HE IS THE ONE. KILL HIM.

      The handwriting proves that you’ve written this yourself, and if you can’t trust yourself than who can you trust? But why would you kill two men? Maybe the first one was an accident… maybe someone set you up… But who? Who would take advantage of someone with a condition like yours?

       Fuck, if you could only remember… You want to pound your fist into your forehead, literally knock the sense back into yourself. But you know there’s no way to regain what you’ve lost. You thought that killing this man would make up for what he took from you, but you’ve only made a mess. Your memory is gone for good.

       You are the fifteen-minute man, and when your time runs out this will start all over again.

       …It’s got to stop. Right here, right now. Before you forget what’s going on.

       As your feet pound the stairs, your mind is far away from this dreadful building. Away from the mangled bodies downstairs, away from what you’ve just done. Instead of dwelling on your next actions, your mind fills with images of your wife.

        Her soft skin. Her rosy cheeks.

      You reach the top of the stairs.

      The sweet roughness of her voice.

     The gun’s lying right where you left it.

       The way she’d sigh when I ran my fingers through her hair, and slap my hand away when I wasn’t gentle.

      You pick it up, already fingering the trigger. You close your eyes as the world begins to fade around the edges.

      Concentrate, concentrate. Keep it in mind.

     In your mind, her brown eyes peer up at you, her fingers gliding against your skin. Tracing the imaginary tattoo on your chest- I’VE DONE IT.

      Revenge has done nothing to ease your burden. Her arms are the only thing that can take the pain away.

       The gun’s metallic taste fills your mouth. As you fire, the world disappears. Blinding pain… comforting numbness.

      Now… where was I?