The book has my handwriting. I remember… They told me I couldn't remember, but I can. Elizabeth was there, she was crying when the doctors told me I will no longer remember anything after the crash. But then everything is out of focus. What happened next? This book… It must have answers.
You still remember who you are. A former marine, a former First Sergeant who served both in Afghanistan and Iraq. You remember all the details up to that day, you remember that argument with gunny that served as a prelude to your resignation. You still remember Fallujah, even if you want to forget it. You still remember trying to shun life aside and hide from all your failures up in the North, in Canada. That didn't work, well, did it? But you got your wish. You no longer can remember.
He's right… Wait, I am right. Yes, I no longer can remember. Anterograde amnesia, they called it. Short-term memory loss. The tattoo on my right forearm. "A man exploded in New York", on November 8th in the year of 2006, or so the date says. The tattoo on my left forearm says, "Evolved are humans with special abilities". I… am Evolved? What does the book say?
Many things happened on that day. And even more after it, none of which you remember, most of which you will find here, and some of which are on your body or in your iPhone. How did you get the money to buy it? You didn't. But it is now your lifeguard, and you should always carry it with you. Having read this enough times, you should be able to remember to carry it around. You can now vaguely remember that you need it with you all the time. Aside from photos and notes, you will learn have learned to use your instincts.
I take the notepad with me to the bathroom. There's a mirror on the wall, above the sink. With some effort, I can read what's inked just above my chest… "Some memories are best forgotten". The next paragraph in my notepad only says as much:
I will not record everything. Some things happen that I don't want to remember, and neither should you. Don't try to contact your family. You've said some things to Elizabeth that you don't remember, but she does. Your parents don't want to see you, either. They're alive and well, but they want to forget you. Before you try to prove the last sentence wrong, know that I have already tried. You don't want to go down that rabbit hole, trust me.
I go out of the bathroom… And I remember. This is what I do every morning. It's dawn out the window. It must be five o' clock. After I exit the bathroom, I usually go sit on the bed, and familiarise myself with everything I forgot. I will forget it again, and I will remind myself again tomorrow. I'm training myself, training my mind. Is anything going to come out of it? Having quickly flipped past a dozen of pages, the last words written are:
Go out. Time to see how I perform on the field. We also need to register.
And if I were alive to add another line under that, I'd have added: The answer is - shitty.
