Page 3 of Thin Lives

That was how he knew it was real.

It was a genuine memory that he had, one his brain continued to force him to relive every fucking time he closed his eyes. Sometimes, he fought against sleep just for the sake of not wanting to see those last few moments again.

Calisto had regular appointments with a specialist for his amnesia. Over and over, they asked the same thing.

Did he remember anything new?

His answer was the same.

No.

He didn’t remember anything within a seemingly two and a half year time span.

It was just … gone.

Like he had closed his eyes one night, and the next time he had woken up, his entire world had changed around him. The last memory he had, besides the dream of the shooting and accident, was of his mother and her home. He had been rifling through her papers, helping her organize some things so that it would be all done should something happen because of her heart disease diagnosis.

That was it.

Calisto didn’t know why, but it didn’t feel right to him. From the moment he understood that he had forgotten a giant chunk of time in his life, he knew he was missing something.

More than memories.

More than passing days and months.

More than conversations, family, burials, and business.

Something important was missing.

No one could tell him what it was.

They all looked at him like he was fucking crazy. The time that he was without in his memories had been filled in and tied with a neat little bow by those around him. He was smiled at and patted on the back as if to say, “There’s nothing else.”

There was something else.

There had to be.

Calisto fell back into the bed, chest heaving hard. He ran his fingers through his hair, and stared up at the ceiling. He wanted to know what was missing.

His uncle—Affonso—kept telling him not to focus on what he couldn’t remember, but to be grateful he was still alive. And he was—God he was.

But if he pressed Affonso for more, if he asked about specific times leading up to the accident that took away his memories, his uncle became irritated and despondent at the same time.

Calisto held great affection for the man who had stepped in to raise him after his father had died before he was even born. He respected Affonso. And so, he chose not to press his uncle on things that obviously bothered him.

Yet, he still wanted to know what and why.

Pushing up from the bed, Calisto swung his legs out and his feet hit the hardwood floor with a hard smack. He flinched—automatic reaction after months of agony with every little jostle—bracing for the pain in his leg to come hard and swift.

None did.

That broken femur had been hell.

Calisto took in the time flashing on the digital clock sitting on the nightstand. 2:00 AM blinked back at Calisto.

He didn’t even have to look at it to know what time it was.

It was always the same damn time every night.