Unravel Me

I sucked in a breath of air, forcing my composure to return. ‘I’m a doctorate student, researching the effects of amnesia.’

‘You’re here to study me,’ he said simply. It wasn’t a question and his eyes flicked to mine, challenging me to disagree.

I saw my actions through his eyes, what he must assume were my motives for freeing him, giving him water, and suddenly my actions didn’t feel quite so genuine. I’d need his cooperation, it was true, but I hadn’t been thinking of my research when I ordered the aide to release his wrists, or poured him a cup of water. I’d been thinking of him as a man who needed comforting, which probably wasn’t wise. It’d be in my best interest, and safer, to think of him only as a test subject. But it was becoming increasingly difficult to view him the way I should while watching him sit on the bed, with his chest bare and a five-o’clock shadow dusting his jaw.

I could easily rattle off facts like approximately eighty percent of amnesia patients recover their memory, but I couldn’t comfort him, and that left me unsettled. I’d always dealt with statistics, scientific research, facts and figures, so being face-to-face with a guy my age, who I was undeniably attracted to, had completely thrown me off my game. I needed to pull it together.

‘May I sit?’ I motioned to the plastic chair across the room.

He shrugged his indifference.

Taking it as an open invitation, I pulled the chair closer to this bed and sat, then removed the files from my bag. Just this small act, having the papers in my hands, calmed me. I felt more in control, back to my professional self, and pulled a deep breath into my lungs.

I could feel him watching me. When I looked up, I noted the curious expression on his face.

‘What?’ I asked.

He shook his head, biting his lip.

I looked myself over, making sure none of the buttons on my shirt had popped open or something else awkward. ‘What’s wrong?’ I felt too comfortable, more like I was talking to friend than interviewing a mental patient.

‘You look too young to be a doctor,’ he admitted finally.

Oh. I tucked my hair behind my ears self-consciously and glanced down at my lap. ‘I’m not a doctor yet. I’m still in school.’ And I knew I looked younger than my twenty-four years.

I read over the questions I’d prepared and suddenly, sitting in this hospital room with him, they sounded stupid. Too clinical. Besides, he wasn’t likely to be able to provide the answers just now, so I’d probably only anger him. Not that I was worried about him becoming irate; I already trusted him on some strange level. I just didn’t want to prod him with useless questions that would do nothing but frustrate him. I wanted him to trust me. And if I was admitting it to myself, I wanted him to like me. I closed the folder.

‘I know you don’t remember your name, but I’d like to know what you’d prefer I call you. John Doe just doesn’t seem right.’

He swallowed and looked directly at me again. His eyes were piercing. I’d always thought the phrase ‘the eyes are the windows to the soul’ was stupid, but with him, that phrase held meaning. His eyes were rich hazel, with flecks of chocolate brown and deep, mossy green, fringed with black lashes. They were so expressive I could read his anguish at having no idea how to answer the most basic of questions.

He rubbed absently at the tattoo on his arm.

‘Should I call you Logan?’ I nodded toward the tattoo.

He ran his finger over the script, as if trying to decipher its meaning. ‘Why would I tattoo my own name on me?’

‘I don’t know, I suppose you wouldn’t.’

He nodded in agreement.

‘I just figured it might be more familiar to you than John, though.’

‘I suppose you’re right. Even though there’s nothing familiar about the name Logan to me, I guess I’d still rather you call me that.’

‘Okay. Logan.’ I smiled. ‘Are you hungry, have you had breakfast?’

His expression betrayed his suspicion over my concern and I immediately felt guilty. ‘Let’s just get your questions over with, each day has been a parade of doctors, lawyers and investigators coming through here and not a single one of you can tell me what the fuck is wrong with me. The sooner I can get out of here and back out in the real world, the more likely I am to remember something, right?’

Okay then. That’s a no to breakfast. ‘It’s possible that certain environmental stimuli could provoke a response…’ But I didn’t explain that being under arrest for murder meant he wouldn’t be leaving this hospital anytime soon.

‘Would I know it if I was gay?’ he asked out of the blue.

‘I’m not sure. Studies have shown that sexual preferences don’t change as a result of memory loss. Why? Do you think you’re gay?’

‘No. It’s just… Logan is a guy’s name, right? Why would I tattoo the name of guy on my body?’

It was something I was wondering about, too. ‘You think maybe Logan was a lover?’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know what to think about anything.’ He lay back against his pillow and closed his eyes. I could see him struggling to keep his emotions in check. I couldn’t begin to imagine what he was feeling, waking up one day in a hospital, being told you’re under arrest for murder with no recollection of your life up until that point.

I noticed the dark circles under his eyes, the skin a pale lavender color. I wished there was something I could say, something I could do that would truly help him, but for all my schooling, lectures and textbooks, I was at a loss. I could hold my own in a discussion on the clinical symptoms of amnesia, but I had no idea how to comfort someone who was experiencing it. I wasn’t a psychologist, I hadn’t studied counseling, but suddenly I found myself wishing I had the right words to soothe him, to provide some hope, some semblance of normal. However, asking any of the questions I’d typed up this morning would just insult him.

‘Listen, I’ll let you get some rest. Would it be all right with you if I came back tomorrow?’

He nodded, and turned his head away from me, closing his eyes.

The conversation between us had been easy; he didn’t seem uncooperative to me. In fact, his response to this situation seemed very normal.

I stood to leave, folding the papers into my bag. ‘Bye, Logan. Sleep well.’

Just as I pulled the door open, I heard him. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Ashlyn,’ I answered.

‘Logan and Ashlyn,’ he murmured before letting his eyes drift closed.

There was something about his quiet nature, and intense gazes that stayed with me the entire walk home. The way he softly spoke my name together with his, touched me at my core. Like they were something concrete he could catalog and count on.

Chapter Two (#uf9ac77d7-bdb4-5ae2-9d7f-f2759045647f)

The next day I returned to the hospital toting a canvas bag full of things for my session with Logan. A CD player and an eclectic selection of music to see if anything roused a memory from him, along with a collection of classic literature, the books most often assigned in high school.

Logan’s case was not the kind of amnesia that resulted from a neurological disorder or head injury. His was a case of dissociative amnesia, essentially a mental illness involving the breakdown of memory and identity, making it all the more fascinating. I knew that dissociative amnesia was brought on by a traumatic event and occurred when a person blocked out certain information. Treatment options were extremely limited. They typically focused on relieving symptoms and controlling problem behaviors brought on by the stress and trauma. Now, newer studies were exploring how to help the patient begin to process and cope with the painful memories.

Since no one had come forward to claim Logan, even after the news outlets had a field day covering his story, I knew that family therapy was out. I decided to focus on art and music therapy, hoping to avoid going the medication route for anxiety and depression that Dr. Andrews seemed to favor. I wanted to see how far I could get Logan on my own. I didn’t think it would be helpful to numb his brain with antidepressants.

Dissociative amnesia was by far the most interesting to study because the memories still existed inside the mind, but they were so deeply buried they might never be recalled. Sometimes the memories resurfaced on their own or were triggered by stimuli in the person’s surroundings.

The guard stationed outside of Logan’s hospital room checked my ID and nodded his approval for me to enter. I opened the door only to find an empty room. I dropped the heavy bag on the floor to stop my shoulder’s aching protest and was ready to parade out to the reception desk to find out where they’d taken him, when a door on the side of his room opened and Logan stepped out in just a towel.

His gaze flicked to mine and he smiled. I was too stunned even to return his smile, with my jaw hanging down by my knees and all. His body was a freaking masterpiece that could easily turn any girl into a drooling sex addict. And glistening with water droplets, with that tiny white towel slung low on his hips, I was no longer thinking of him as a test subject. I was picturing what it would be like to have Logan’s rough hands on my body, to feel the heat of his skin, to breathe in his musky scent and feel the stubble of his jaw against my cheek.

‘Ashlyn?’

I realized that I’d just been standing here visually molesting him for God knows how long and I was about to stammer out an apology, when he turned to the side and I caught sight of another tattoo.

There was something familiar about the phrase scrawled along his ribcage. Without thinking, I marched forward and grabbed onto his hips, turning him to get a better look.