Amnesia City: Week 2

Mustard Yellow. His train of thought finally led him to this after looking at it for several minutes. It took him this long to remember the name of the color. Mustard Yellow. The walls were painted this awful color. He was never a fan of the color yellow, at least he didn't think so. He thought it was odd when people liked yellow and to paint a room yellow seemed insane. Especially a color that was so unhappy. It was literally an unhappy yellow, it seemed impossible, but it wasn't, because he could see it, dull and unsmiling back at him. 

He sat up in bed, in the room with the walls painted Mustard Yellow and wondered where he was. It looked like a hospital. It wasn't all coming back to him, the last thing he remembered was being at work. A place with computers and desks and offices. Talking to someone, the blonde woman, about reports, brightly colored graphs in her hands, her nails painted blue. He strained to remember her name.  

This room. It looked familiar but he had no idea where he was or why it looked familiar. Looking around, the room was pretty sparse. No furniture, a curtain on the wall, probably hiding a window, the sudden appearance of a man in white startled him. 

"How are we doing today?" the man walked to a white spot on the wall that had words on it, he quickly erased them before they could be read. "July 8th, 2012, Mark Today's Goals: walking"

Can I not walk? Who's Mark? Is that Mark? Am I Mark? He wondered, as he watched the dark-haired man walked around the room. 

"Hi, I'm Mark", that answered the first question, "Today we are going to do some more exercises on your legs and possibly get you mobile." 

Blankly he stared at Mark. 

"The progress you've made over the past few weeks is astounding. If only we could work on your voice." 

Suddenly he noticed. His voice did not work. He tried mouthing words, but it didn't seem to work either. Weeks? How long has he been here?

Mark walked out and returned with a wheelchair, silently helping him into the chair and pushing him down the hallway. It was eerie how quiet this tiny little hallway world was, it was like there was no one else in the world. 

They arrived in a room full of exercise equipment. Floor to ceiling dark red curtains and it made the room seem darker and drearier. 

"Let's start where we ended yesterday." Of course, he had no idea what Mark was talking about it. This place didn't jar any memory at all.  

As Mark talked him through the apparatus, it was two rails and he had to hold himself up and move his feet. They were like weights. He felt completely useless. Mark chatted about all sorts of things; he wasn't paying attention. 

"Since it happened, we've had a lot of shortages. They've ensured me they won't continue forever, but I can't see how we can ever go back to normal. What do you think?" This dragged him back into Mark's talking, "I guess it doesn't matter because you can't talk. I got to tell you sir, you're a great listener!" and Mark laughed. He smiled politely. What was he going on about?

"Lunchtime!" Mark got him in a wheelchair and pushed him back down the hallway. The pale off white hallway that reminded him of something, but he didn't know what. What he did know is that memories often times just come flooding back to a person. That sometimes they are suppressed by trauma. He didn't know why he knew that, or what kind of trauma would do this to him.  

The lunchroom was a dark blue, cornflower, like the crayon. Most of these colors made him think of Crayons. A woman came out, she had a face mask over her nose and mouth and a very large pregnant belly under her white uniform. 

"Grilled cheese and Tomato Bisque, your favorite!" she was almost squealing like a child, delighted to bring him his favorite, how does she know his favorite? I don't even know my favorite. Who are these people? More questions than answers. 

"It is my favorite, thanks Hun!" She was talking to Mark. That didn't clear anything up. 

After lunch Mark wheeled him back to his room and told him to spend an hour reading and then he'd be back for some more exercises before dinner. He gave him a book. 

"I think you were reading this." Then he left. 

After Mark left, he wheeled around the room looking for anything, clues, another book, he didn't know himself that well, but he was fairly certain he wasn't into Old Westerns. 

He looked under the mattress and found a journal with a pen. Where did this come from? He opened it up, it had several pages written in it. He decided to start at the beginning. 

Day????? 

I found this notebook and this pen. I'm not sure if they left it on purpose, I found it in another room while I was wheeling around the hallways. This Mark person found me and told me I am not to wander, it could disturb the others, what others I don't know. I haven't seen anyone else all day.  I have no Memory of these people or how I got here. Mark seems nice, but he keeps talking about some event as if I know what it is, and Miranda made Bisque today and told Mark it was his favorite. She stares at me and has a face mask on so I cannot see her expression. The exercises are hard, and I can't walk or talk. The scar on my throat indicates some kind of surgery on my vocal cords, which would explain the lack of speaking." 

He touched his throat, discovering there was a scar.  He flipped to another entry, skipping a few.

Day ???  

"He wrote May 10, 2012 on the board today. Mark keeps talking about the government. I noticed this place is very, very empty. Today he said something about "since the collapse" what could have collapsed? Where are the other patients? according to this journal the other rooms are empty, and I am reluctant to try and wander again. He keeps calling me 'sir', as if I am someone important. And she did stare at me, we had bisque again. I'm not sure if this is something they have stocked up, but she said it's Mark's favorite. I think it must be some kind of joke because every entry mentions this damn bisque. I'm almost glad I have no memory every day."

No memory, every day. that's interesting. It's like that movie about the dates. What was that called? He heard footsteps and quickly hid the journal. 

"Hey, I was just thinking, you should be just about finished with that book by now, would you like another one?"

Mark smiled proudly, like he was being super helpful, he must not know about the no memory, otherwise he wouldn't care. He shook his head yes, thinking possibly this would take him to a new place with more information. 

"It's hard to get new ones with the collapse and all and I don't think anyone is in the library right now, let's go look." 

Mark wheeled him down the off-white hallways and florescent lights. The tile was not shiny and looked as though it needed to be cleaned desperately. In fact, the entire place was kind of dirty and looked pretty dusty as he peered into the other vacant rooms.

"Oh look who's out and about" a female voice said, and "Miranda" appeared. So, going down the library must not be an everyday thing. "Maybe I'll tag along".

Mark and Miranda chatted on and on about the baby. She was having a boy. She was craving Cheetos. She missed her mother and wished she could talk to her. He was paying attention to their chatter this time. He didn't want to miss anything, but none of it was useful. 

When they got to the 'Library' it was basically a pale-yellow ugly room stacked with books. No order, no sense to any of it. Mostly really, really old. There were books on surgery and medical texts, these were sitting open as if they had been used recently. There was a book by Margret Sanger, and one on home canning. 

A book sat on a desk wide open to a chapter about growing vegetables. Miranda quickly went to it and closed it in a gesture that said, "Nothing to see here folks" and put it under the desk. He decided to act like he didn't notice, but this made him wonder where the garden was and he kind of wanted to go outside. Suddenly he noticed, lack of windows, there were no windows. What is behind those curtains? Are there windows? He certainly didn't notice any light. This might be a good thing to write in the journal. 

He decided to go back to the task at hand. He was looking for a book big enough to hide some journal pages in, if he was going to wake up every day and no know what's going on, he was going to have to leave himself some notes, and it appeared he was already trying to do this. If he saw them first thing every day, he might be able to solve this mystery and not be in the same confusion he was this morning.

He thought these things as he wheeled around the library. He didn't think Mark and Miranda were watching when he went to the curtain to pull it back. Mark immediately went to him and stopped him, "Whoa Partner, what are you doing? You know you can't pull those back. That is dangerous." Miranda looked horrified and quickly ran to the chair and pushed him away. 

"I think it's time to go back to the room. Did you get a book?" He shook his head no. "How about this one?" She quickly picked up one "French Artists" it was a large book which was exactly what he was looking for and it was all pictures. He took it from her and put it in his lap as she wheeled him back down the dull hallway. She chatted on and on about the baby and how unsafe the world was to raise a baby, but the world didn't really matter as long as they had this place. The safe place. 

Mark helped him into the bed when they all got back in the room. "I think you should stay here and read until dinner. We will bring it to you tonight, maybe we will all have dinner in here tonight." 

They left. He was basically stuck in the bed wondering what the hell is behind the curtain. Is the world gone up in smoke? Is it just busy streets and people?  Is this a reality show? 

He opened the Art book and started reading about Seurat. He loved impressionism. It was so real. As he turned the pages, he found a piece of paper. 

DO NOT OPEN THE CURTIANS. NO MATTER WHAT. 

It was in his handwriting. He sent himself a warning. It was a puzzle for sure, but he knew he could trust himself. Mark and Miranda, not so much. But to tell himself not to do it. He must have seen something. He wondered if there were more notes and fanned through the book and found nothing. 

When Mark and Miranda returned with dinner it was pot roast. It smelled amazing. It even had little baby potatoes. 

"We have a special treat for you, we got a delivery today and it's a rare occasion we have fresh meat, and we just harvested some root veggies, so that worked out." Where? He thought, wondering about the garden since he saw that book in the library. 

Miranda set the plate in front of him. It looked delicious. He wished he could talk so he could at least tell her that and say thank you. They were taking care of him, and he didn't know why. He didn't know anything. 

They ate. He wished he could talk. 

"I know it's frustrating that you cannot talk." Mark said, almost reading his mind. "We go through this every day. I think today was pretty good, despite you trying to open the curtains. You've done it before, you know, and every time it's a nightmare. We don't want to see it and we know you don't want to see it. There is no one to help you out there, there is no one to help any of us. There is nothing to look for, so just don't try it again." 

Mark picked up the plates, got everything cleaned up. Miranda was nowhere to be seen; he didn't even notice that she had left. Mark walked out and he was in the room alone again.

He saw the art book on the side table. He didn't remember leaving it there, so he picked it up. Another note:

YOU MUST WRITE BEFORE SLEEPING; THEY DON'T KNOW ABOUT YOUR MEMORY. 

This note was not here earlier. Miranda was leaving him notes that he was sending to himself. Otherwise, why would she hand me this book? Plus, she disappeared quickly. Where did it come from? He glanced over at the curtain.  It wasn't that far. He was just going to forget anyway, right? What's one day? What could be back there? 

He looked at the chair. He was able to balance pretty well today at the therapy. His feet still felt numb, and his legs didn't work like they used to, but he thought maybe holding on to the wheelchair he could shuffle his way to the curtain on the wall. He balanced himself. It was hard at first, but the brakes were still on, so he was able to shuffle and push, very, very slowly.  He made his way to the curtain. He took a deep breath; he pulled it back.......