Lose 10 Pounds of Ugly Fat... Cut Off Your Head

Research Log, Day 1:

Built a new body for Calla today. Not that she fucking appreciated it. Just glared at me like always and said, "And how, pray tell, do you plan to transfer my consciousness into it, Genius?"

(Least she didn't call me Princess like she usually does.)

Can't give me a lick of credit, can she? Not like I haven't been working on that too. Just hard cause I've never heard of anyone's consciousness getting stuck in a robot body before. Best I can guess it's the lightning strike that did it, but how would I replicate that without fucking killing her?

Even if I knew how to do that, it'd still be way too dangerous to test out the neural interface and make sure it works like it's really her body. No way I'm gonna risk someone else's fucking life like that.

Wes gave me a Look when I said that in front of him. Said not to even think about it.


Research Log, Day 6:

I'm thinking about it. Best way to test the neural interface is with me in the new body.

That way if anything goes wrong, I'm not hurting someone else. Thing is, I'm not sure what'll happen to my body if I'm not in it. What if I get stuck in a robot? Would my body die?

Only way I can think to address that issue is swapping with Calla. Put me in her current body and her in mine. Then if something goes wrong, at least she'd live -- I hope. Gotta run some simulations first.


Research Log, Day 25:

One hurdle cleared. Pretty sure I know how to swap our bodies now and it's simpler than I thought. It works in 99% of my simulations. The other 1%, I die -- but y'know, I just gotta refine the process some.

"Sure, Princess, I'll just stay in this ugly ass bugbot body forever." That's all Calla said.


Research Log, Day 30:

I'm as ready as I'm gonna be. Just need a sufficient electrical current.

Calla never gives me a fucking inch, just skewered me with her laser eyes and said, "How're you gonna do that, Princess? Ask one of those 'friends' you sneak out to meet at night to lend you a rocket?"

Now that I think about it...


Research Log, Day 32:

Say what you want about my line of work, but I got my hands on a rocket.


Research Log, Day 40:

Proof of concept went okay could've gone worse. Swapped with Calla like I planned to, didn't kill either of us in the process. Would've called it a total success if the swap didn't blow a fucking capacitor. Since it did, I had to go out and pick up a bunch of spare parts -- as a fucking bugbot.

Course I tried to get Kalen to do it. Didn't really want to leave Calla in case something went wrong. Got a vested interest in keeping her and my body alive. But Kalen called 30 minutes after he left with a million questions. You want something done right, you gotta do it your fucking self.

Should've heard Calla griping about how she had to stay in my fucking body while I went out. Like it's worse being me than a giant fucking bug. Or maybe she just didn't want to be stuck home with Wes.

Funny thing, I didn't exactly mind going out as a giant fucking bug. Went in 5 different stores and no one hit on me once. No one said any slurs like they normally do when I'm outside the Umani Quarter. Plus I only got kicked out of one store for being a hideous robot bug thing, less than I would've for being Umani.


Research Log, Day 42:

Tested out Body 2.0 some today. Fucking finally.

Didn't have any issues transferring into the new body, or transferring Calla into mine. Swapped back without any problems too. Except Wes took Calla out for oysters to celebrate -- with my fucking mouth. Can still feel that awful slimy texture on my tongue, makes me want to fucking puke.

Other than that, everything went fine. Walked all the way to the city to make sure the legs would really obey my brain, went into my favorite coffee shop in the Umani Quarter. Counter guy told me they don't allow robots but he'd make an exception just this once. Guess he's into 6 foot tall shiny metal chicks?

Took me 'til then to remember I couldn't even drink coffee on account of being a robot.


Research Log, Day 60:

Head's fucking killing me. Calla took my body out dancing last night, had one drink too many.

She's in a fabulous mood today, so I guess there's that. Told me she ran into one of my "friends" at the club, Major General Ellis. Course he thought she was me, on account of her wearing my face.

I tried to play it off. Tried to tell her Majerians just think all us Umani look the same.

"Princess," she said. Don't get how she made it look like her robot eyes narrowed then cause they aren't supposed to do that. "He called me by your name and asked me how the rocket worked out."

Thought she was gonna ask why a Majerian officer'd even be at an Umani Quarter dance club but she just gave me shit for blushing. Dunno why I don't just tell her I'm a fucking escort. Pretty sure she already knows but I hate it. Even Ellis says I oughtta be working in his lab. Says if I had my papers he'd hire me in a heartbeat.

Gonna have some explaining to do, next time I see him. Dude knows I don't fucking dance.


Research Log, Day 76:

Calla's been in Body 2.0 for a week and everything's working great. Not that it's improved her mood any.

She started dating Kalen's dumbass brother, thinks nobody knows. There's practically hearts floating in the air between them! Bet she's mad she can't feel it when he holds her shiny metal hand.

Guess I know one feature I'll have to add in Body 3.0. How the fuck am I gonna test that?


Research Log, Day 100:

Figured out how to test it.

Haven't been able to look Wes in the eye for fucking days but I guess that's the price of innovation?

Wes couldn't look me in the eye while we did it. Said it was kinda like fucking a creepy doll.

Didn't complain when I did that thing with my tongue Calla's tongue, though.


Research Log, Day 101:

Found out the hard way the neural interface overloads if my heart beats too fast. I'm fine, though.

Went out on a double "date" last night, Wes and Calla and me and Kalen's dumbass brother. Not that Wes and I are fucking dating. Got dressed up, went out to this steakhouse in the city that claims it's "Umani-inspired."

Umani inspired, my ass. Never even tried steak 'til I moved here.

Didn't try it last night either, on account of being a fucking robot. Everyone said it was good, though.

Server took my order last. Said, "And what'll you have, miss?" then looked at me a little closer. Saw her whole expression kinda just... freeze over. Didn't even say another word before she walked away.

Calla said she would've lasered her for that.


Research Log, Day 105:

Worst. Fucking. Day. Ever.

Went out dancing to test my fix for the heart rate issue. Dunno why Calla wants a body that's more realistic, being a chick fucking sucks. Never had so many men staring at my ass before in my life.

...Which is kinda saying a lot, seeing as I get laid for a fucking living.

Speaking of which, Ellis came by the house while I was out. Dunno how he even got my fucking address. Said he was doing inventory, needed the serial number off that rocket he let me borrow.

Wonder if it was just an excuse to see me, though. Fucking hope not.

Calla went up in the attic to try and find it, found my research log in the process. Guess now I don't have to worry she'll find out what I do for work. Just gotta worry about whether she'll tell Wes.


Research Log, Day 106:

Panic attacks fucking suck. Least I know the heart rate issue's fixed, though.


Research Log, Day 107:

Thinking I'm gonna incinerate this thing. What if Wes finds it too?!


Research Log, Day 118:

Can't bring myself to burn it. Can't bring myself to write in it anymore either, though.

Gonna put Calla in Body 3.0 tomorrow.


Research Log, Day Whatever 119:

Party for Calla's birthday. I'm fucking druuuuunnkkkk. Never done that before but it isn't the worst.

Guess Brendan (thats Kalen's brother) isn't so bad. Can tell he's head over heels for Calla.

Probably gonna regret this tomorrow, but me n Wes... y'know. We did. It.

Wasn't even in the robot this time and it felt a million times more fucking amazing.

Definitely gonna incinerate this thing tomorrow.


Research Log, Day 120:

Head's fucking pounding.

Finally managed to make Calla happy for once. Or technically Kalen's dumbass brother did.

Could hear her all the way across the fucking house.

All she said to me after was, "You better not have test driven this with one of those 'friends'," with air quotes and everything. Didn't glare when she said it, though. Which is good cause Wes wasn't wrong.

She kinda does look like a creepy doll. Guess that's something to fix in the next revision.


Some who remember my old writing from LJ might recognize these characters, but this piece is intended to stand on its own. Only time -- and the poll results -- will tell how well it accomplishes that goal, but I stand by my choices.

Thanks to thephantomq for enabling me beta reading.

 

The Before Times (Barely!)

“It’s never this empty here,” Gina says, herding her youngest out of the Titanosaur exhibit.

My best friend Alex, who’s come up from Delaware to visit me for a day, shoots me a look. I raise an eyebrow. He moves closer, speaking softly enough that Gina can’t hear him.

“It doesn’t seem all that empty to me,” he mutters, eyeing our fellow museumgoers.

I swallow a nervous laugh. By Delaware standards, the Museum of Natural History probably does seem crowded. The borough of Queens, my home for just over three years now, is more than twice as populous as Alex’s home state. Still, this isn’t the crowd I’d expect on a Sunday.

Most of the city’s seemed emptier than usual this past week. It’s… kind of creepy.

We make our way to the Discovery Room, a hands-on science area for kids. A friendly twenty-something checks us in. “Stay as long as you want,” she says, offering up the hand sanitizer that’s quickly become a fixture in all public places here. “It hasn’t been busy.” 

“Do you think it’s because of the virus?” I ask once the kids have run off to explore.

Gina shakes her head. “It’s the first really nice spring day. People are just outside enjoying it.”

I nod and fall silent, my insides twisting a little as I watch my 9 year old son strong-arming a kid he’s just met into serving as his assistant for whatever experiment he’s dreamed up. 

It’s March 7th, nearly a week since New York state confirmed its first case of the “novel coronavirus.” New Yorkers mobbed the grocery stores that weekend, standing in line for hours in hopes of stocking their tiny pantries with bottled water, toilet paper and Clorox wipes. 

Not yet, my friends told me when I asked if I should worry.

Since then, life in the city has proceeded as usual; it always does. But there’s more space than there should be on the subway during my commute, and the streets in midtown feel subdued when I walk them on my lunch breaks. It’s almost as though the city is holding its breath. 

And yet, when rumors swirl about closing the NYC public schools, I roll my eyes. Why would they do that for 33 cases? I thought New Yorkers were supposed to be good in a crisis.

The Calm Before the Storm

It’s only 7:30 on a Thursday night, but the N train is all but empty. I sanitize my hands. Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I sanitize that as well before texting Alex: On my way home now.

Was it fun?

I bite my lip, glancing around the eerily deserted subway car. 

I ghosted everyone as we were about to walk into another bar but yes.

For good measure, I sanitize my hands again. It’s probably excessive, but you never know these days. It’s March 12th, only five days since the museum, and our case count has more than tripled. There are almost a hundred cases in NYC alone. The National Guard has set up what they’re calling a “containment zone” in New Rochelle, less than an hour away from the city. 

If my team at work hadn’t planned this outing months in advance, I would’ve backed out. I almost did anyway. But it’s for a good cause -- volunteering at a food bank. And once I got there, I figured I might as well stay for dinner and drinks; I’m not planning to go back into the office again until this whole virus thing blows over. Who knows when I’ll see everyone again?

But now I’m regretting how long I stayed, how careless I was. In Harlem, the food bank was quiet but the restaurant where we had dinner was nearly at capacity by the time we left. My coworkers and I sneak-shared food from each other’s plates when our boss wasn’t looking.

Meanwhile, Broadway’s announced it’s shutting down for the next month. And on a private Facebook group, my mom-friends and I are discussing whether we should pull our kids out of school; I decide tomorrow will be my son’s last day. Just for now, and just to be safe, but -- 

What if the virus really is as deadly as the news is saying? What if we all get sick?

A Beautiful Day

“Is it still safe to be outside?” my son asks.

They showed him videos about the virus in school, before I withdrew him. He’s discovered that the theme from Steven Universe is 21 seconds long, and he’s taken to singing it while he washes his hands. But overall, he’s seemed unperturbed by the virus so far.

“It’ll be okay,” I tell him, gripping his hand a little too tightly.

It’s Sunday, March 15th. There are 720 confirmed coronavirus cases in New York state, 329 in the city. Only yesterday, we reported our first coronavirus death; today there were two more.

My corner of Queens doesn’t seem to have noticed. The weather is glorious, unseasonably warm and breezy. People are out in force, strolling beneath the brilliant blue sky as though it’s a normal spring day -- as though our city isn’t dying before our eyes. I burst into silent tears.

“Are you okay, mommy?”

I nod numbly, towing my son down the sidewalk toward the corner bodega. 

In Italy, hospitals are now so overwhelmed they’re “triaging out” coronavirus patients who aren’t considered as likely to recover, turning away the elderly and those with exacerbating conditions.

Italy is us in two weeks, the news keeps saying. Will we be able to walk outside then? President Trump is already threatening to impose lockdowns for areas with large numbers of cases. I try not to think too hard about what that could mean, given his well-known vendetta against the city.

Should I find somewhere else we can stay? Just for a little while, you know. Just in case.

“It’ll be okay,” I say again, more for my own benefit than for my son’s.

We stock up on toilet paper and snacks we don’t really need. Once we’re home and showered, our cast-off clothes safely sealed away in a plastic garbage bag, we snuggle and watch cartoons. I hold it together for him; I don’t look at the news again until he’s gone to bed.

When I do, there’s a new round of closures: New York City public schools, all movie theaters, concert venues, and bars. All restaurants as well, except for takeout and delivery.

This time I allow myself to weep in earnest, and this time it’s out of relief.

At the Epicenter

In case you were wondering how many days into the apocalypse it would be before I snapped and gave myself a terrible haircut with blunt scissors, I text Alex, it’s today many days.

It’s Thursday, April 2nd. I call the virus by its proper name now, or COVID for short. I guess the city didn’t shut down soon enough to keep it in check. There are 92,381 confirmed cases of it in New York state now, an increase of 8,669 from the day before, and 2,373 total deaths. 

More than half of both are in the city. 

Times Square stands empty, though like most people, I’ve only seen it in pictures. We don’t go outside anymore, not even for walks; my son refuses to leave the apartment. The city is painfully quiet, apart from the unrelenting sound of sirens. We hear them all day and all night, echoing oddly off the silent buildings, and we all know each one means another likely death.

My friend Gina, the one from the museum, posts this on our Facebook group:

So John was called to work today in a hospital to put up shelves. He assumed the shelves were to store masks and other emergency equipment.

He just got home.

The shelves were for bodies.

At other hospitals, the parking lots are filled with refrigerated trailers to store the dead. We lose another New Yorker to COVID approximately every two and a half minutes. And as if this isn’t torture enough in itself, it seems people in other parts of the country believe it’s all a lie.

On Twitter, #FilmYourHospital is trending, an attempt to debunk the severity of the situation here by filming empty reception areas in overtaxed NYC hospitals. It makes me want to spit nails.

I learn to take comfort in small things: Governor Cuomo’s briefings, my talent for finding an Amazon Fresh delivery slot when no one else can, the fact that as our death rate continues to rise, the number of new cases per day seems to be plateauing at “only” 8 to 9 thousand.

We build a new normal, Zoom calls and waving from windows passing for social interaction. At 7pm every night, we cheer for the healthcare workers fighting for our lives. My friends talk about summer, as though camps and vacations are something we’re still allowed to believe in. 

But personally, I only hope for days where we don’t hear sirens.

Randall scans the common area, rubbing the back of his broad neck.

It's more crowded this evening than most, what with the storm outside and all thirteen of his charges indoors. Near the front door, the eldest of the group are playing a rather noisy game of mind hockey. Two and Four take on One and Three, with Five playing interference. From the looks of it, they're more concerned with their bank shots than who's winning. The glowing puck caroms off walls and furniture, and Five's spending more time ducking and laughing than catching and redirecting.

Eleven, Twelve and Thirteen huddle in a far corner with a portable vidplayer. Its light dances on their soft faces. These three are young enough their voices are still half-changed, their complexions rebellious. There's a state-of-the-art vidroom on the ward, but Randall knows boys. Whatever they're watching, he's guessing it's got women and it's not quite Government-Sanctioned.

Let them have their fun. A smile, thin and brittle, curves Randall's lips.

In the sparring room, Six and Eight face off while Nine and Ten wait their turn. Even through the shatterproof glass, Randall can hear shouts and cheers, the occasional thud of bodies coming together. The crash of Manipulated chairs and other objects missing an opponent or spectator by only the narrowest margin. Randall shakes his head, wishing he still had their energy. Their determination.

Not that it'll change a thing; they can practice 'til the end of time, but they'll never get the best of Seven.

He's alone as he always is these days, apart from training and his time with Brinkley. Seven doesn't talk to the other boys, but he can beat every last one of them in a fight. You'd never guess it to look at him now, slumped in an oversized chair at the back of the ward. His back rests against one arm, gangly legs thrown over the other. Long black hair hides his face; his head hangs as he sits, silent and still.

Even in the state he's in, Seven can sense Randall's approach--he's that good. The boy doesn't move, doesn't give any sign, but that doesn't mean a thing and Randall knows it. Sure enough, as soon as Randall's in earshot, Seven mutters, "Go 'way, Rand."

Randall doesn't move and neither does the kid. Scarecrow-skinny and limbs loose, he looks like a broken puppet, a cast-off toy; he doesn't know he could kill everyone in this place if he wanted and walk away free. They're not about to let him find out, either. Even with Brinkley, their dark knight riding in to save the day, the kid's barely controlled. Anyone who's watched him Manipulate can see that.

"Y'okay, kid?" Randall asks, even though he knows the answer.

Seven nods, a near-imperceptible twitch. It's a lie; the treatments are meant to be a last resort, same as the shocks.

No one was ever intended to withstand what they're putting him through. A weaker boy would've broken long ago, and this one's beginning to. His arms are bandaged; he'll slice himself to ribbons if he's left alone too long. They'll grind him down, given enough time.

Randall intends to smuggle him out before that happens, but that'll be easier said than done. He'll have to get Seven to trust him first, and the kid's locked down tighter than the ward itself. There's the issue of his abilities as well, but unlike most of the staff, Randall's not afraid.

Seven doesn't want to hurt anyone; Brinkley'd be dead if he did.

Brinkley knows it, too. Seven's allegations were classified, but everyone's heard what happened. The Board took Brinkley at his word; they made noises about cutting the kid from the Program, as if "decommissioning" him would be that easy. Brinkley rushed to Seven's defense, insisting it wouldn't be fair to hold his "delusions" against him. He only needed more time. More treatments.

It makes Randall sick, picturing Brinkley with his martyr's smile. I only want what's best for the boy.

Randall knows better than that; he's had Brinkley pegged since he first swaggered onto Ward Zero. Brinkley wants what's best for Brinkley, and he's used to getting it. Used to telling people what to do, guys who've put in their time, worked for what they've got. Less than a year on the ward and Brinkley's doing procedures Randall can only dream of, work he'll never see outside a Multiversity text.

"Rand?" The voice is muffled, paper-thin. "Why're you still here?"

"I worry about you," Randall says without thinking.

The boy snorts. "Heard that one before." He raises his head; the economy of his movements is fascinating. Painful.

Randall puts his hands in his pockets; his instinct's to reach out. To pat Seven's shoulder, brush the hair back from his face. He restrains himself. The kid's like a mutt who's been kicked one time too many--get too close and he'll snap. "You can't go on like this much longer."

"Don't have to." His tone's even, devoid of emotion. "Won't live much longer."

The calm acceptance rattles Randall the most; his words come out in a rush. "What if there's another way out?"

A ghost of a shrug. "Thought of that already. Not gonna kill anyone."

"I know," Randall says. "I can take it all away. Make you normal."

Seven snaps to attention, wincing at the sudden change in position. A hint of hope lights his pallid face before he catches himself. His expression goes blank in an instant, but his amber eyes hold Randall's gaze; they shine like a child's. "You can't."

Randall nods, ignoring the guilt that knifes through his belly. "I can." It's not a lie; he can suppress Seven's abilities, make him forget everything he's gone through here on the ward. Let him live a regular life. And he will, for a while--until the kid's healed.

Until he's recovered his strength enough to help Randall get what he wants, just this once.

"We have to talk," Katie's eyes are hard and her brow's all creased up.

I nod and I try to look agreeable, but I don't say a word and I keep on brushing Daniel's hair. And I focus on the sweet floral scent of his shampoo and how soft his hair feels and the way it slides like black silk through my fingers. Katie wanted to cut it last year when all of this started, but I wouldn't let her. It's his pride and joy, or at least it was.

He won't be able to keep it up, Katie said, and you'll have your hands full anyway.

But my hands don't feel full, not with all I've lost.

"It's about Daniel," she continues, and her voice's so cold.

He doesn't react to the sound of his name, but I do. Because I don't want to talk about Daniel--not now with him here and not later, either. I know what Katie's gonna say, and I don't want to hear it. My hands won't stay steady and I almost drop the brush and it snags in Daniel's hair. And he turns to me with a small, hurt noise, and he's too pale and his eyes are big and shadowed and scared. But he's every bit as beautiful to me as he's always been, and for a second I swear he's there, really there--

And he blinks and the moment passes, and my heart breaks all over again.

"Sorry I scared you, dude," I whisper, and I lay a hand on his back. I can feel his ribs through his T-shirt and the too-fast beating of his heart. His whole body tenses under my touch, and I've gotta stay still 'til he relaxes. But then he leans in and rests his head on my shoulder, and I hold him close and breathe him in and remember how he used to be. How we used to be. And I remember those first awful weeks last year--how lost he looked and his endless questions.

What happened? Was I dead? Am I alive now?

One year and who knows how many tests and treatments later, and we still know so little.

Every thirty seconds and sometimes sooner, his memory resets and for him there's nothing in between. And he's quieter now with all the meds they've got him on, but those questions are still there and I can see them in his eyes whenever he looks at me.

Where'd I go? How long was I asleep?

But there's never any answers to give him, because even the doctors're stumped. It's a brain injury, they say, but they're not clear on the cause and I can't help because I wasn't around when it happened. They tell us it's a rare case and they look at Daniel like he's a puzzle for them to put together. But they can't find all the pieces, and they can't say for sure if he'll get better or how long it'll take if he does. It could happen tomorrow or in a year or not at all. And that's the worst part, that nobody really knows anything.

All I know is Daniel's gone, maybe forever, and I wasn't there when he needed me most.

"Jess?" Katie's voice is softer now, but she's not gonna let me ignore her.

"What is it?" I ask, and I'm so tired, all worn out from fighting so hard to hold onto what's left.

And I feel selfish saying that when Daniel's the one who's lost everything. It's not so much work taking care of him, really. Because it turns out he can take care of his hair and his showers and all those things just fine on his own as long as you remind him every day. The doctors call that procedural memory, and it means his body remembers how to do things even though his brain doesn't. So he can still tinker with his circuits and wires and stuff, and it makes him so happy and it's the only time he's almost him.

But you've gotta watch him so he doesn't get distracted and burn the house down... like he almost did the other day.

Katie twists a lock of her own black hair around one finger. "I think we need to consider... other options for his care."

My eyes well up and my stomach's in my shoes and I think I might choke on this lump in my throat. But I knew this was coming and I've gotta stay calm, so I wait to speak 'til my voice won't shake. "There are no other options."

"Jess." All the steel's gone from her now, and her voice's flat and kinda robotic. "He's not getting any better."

My arm tightens around him of its own volition and he lets out a soft little sigh. And there's no way I'm gonna abandon him again, not now and not ever. "He's--" My words come out all squeaky and I swallow and start over. "He's calmer, isn't he?"

Katie snorts. "More like catatonic." She shakes her head, and her dark eyes flash. "How long do you think you can keep this up? You're only nineteen, Jess. You're supposed to be going out to parties and... doing whatever normal people our age do."

"You don't understand--" I start, but Katie cuts me off.

"Understand what?" she demands, and her face might as well be made of metal except for the flush rising on her brown skin. "That you blame yourself for a breakup that wasn't your fault? Or that you're wasting your life playing nursemaid to make up for it?"

Her face's too close to mine and her breath's hot on my cheeks. Daniel squirms away and he huddles in the corner and makes himself small and I want to tell him it's all gonna be okay. But it isn't okay, and I don't know if it ever will be. And I want to tell Katie it is my fault, because I knew he didn't mean all those things he said to me, the last time I saw him before. I knew it was just a fight and I walked out on him anyway, and he never takes care of himself when I'm not around, and--

"Snap out of it, Jess," she growls, and she lunges toward me and I think she's gonna slap me. But she grasps me by the tops of my arms instead and lifts me onto my feet. She shakes me like a ragdoll and her long nails dig into my skin.

"H- he belongs with me, K--"

"Yeah, right," she snaps. "That's why you were on that six-week 'vacation' at your parents' house when all this started."

And she might as well have slapped me right across the face, the way that stings.

"You didn't break him, you idiot." Her arms fall to her sides and she stares at the floor, and I've never seen her look so sad. "I heard him yelling at you clear across the house, and I heard the front door slam when he left. He walked out on you first, and you were right to leave him when you did. He was broken from the start--"

"He's. Not. Broken," I hiss through gritted teeth, and that low, icy voice's coming from my mouth but it doesn't sound like mine. My blood's pounding in my ears and there's this crazy strength surging through me. And I'm shaking but it's not because I'm scared, and all of a sudden I don't feel like sweet, harmless little Jess anymore. I march right up to Katie and I stare her down and I swear I could throw her across the room. Daniel shrinks away from me, and he mutters something I can't make out.

But Katie doesn't back down one bit. "Well, he's not coming back, is he? Look at him."

He's cowering against the wall, and his eyes are bright with fear.

"Is this the man you love?" Katie won't let up, not for one minute.

And all my rage drains away in an instant, because that's a question I can actually answer. "Yes."

She hollers something back, but I don't hear what it is because my eyes are on Daniel. And he blinks back at me with this light in his eyes and I want so much to believe it means something. That this time it's him, it's really him and he's back for good. But I've been hoping so hard for way too long, so I swallow and I brace myself for the moment the light flickers out again.

But it doesn't come.

Daniel's perfect brows knit together and he clears his throat. "Don't fight," he croaks. "Please."

His voice's like a thousand rusty hinges but it's the most wonderful sound I've ever heard.

I throw my arms around him and I snuffle into his shirt and he holds me like he's never gonna let go. My hands tangle in his hair and now I'm the one with all the questions but I'm too busy clinging to him for dear life to ask them.

"She's right, y'know." His words're soft puffs against my ear and they make me shiver. "Did this to myself."

I'm drenched in tears and my head's spinning and I don't want to pull away, but I do. "What d'you mean, dude?"

"Might not want anything to do with me once I tell you," Daniel mutters.

He leans forward and he lets his hair fall over his face like he always does when he's ashamed. And it's so him it makes me ache, and there's nothing he can say that'll change the way I feel, and--

"You left, and I--" He pauses and picks at the carpet, and he takes a deep breath. And he leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes. "Look, I fucked up, okay? Knew this guy..." He trails off, and he looks straight at me with his big wet eyes and shakes his head. "I don't deserve you, Jess. I wanted this."

And I can't think straight, because nothing makes sense. "You wanted this? To lose all your memories?"

"Not all of them." He sighs. "Guy wasn't supposed to take everything. Just--" His voice cracks, and my heart does, too.

Because I already know what he's gonna say, but knowing doesn't make it hurt any less. He cups my chin in one gentle hand and he plants a soft kiss on my forehead. And he whispers the words against my skin.

"Just... you."



Author's Note:
This story and its characters are fictional, but the idea was inspired by a real person. They did not teach me about Clive Wearing when I got my psych degree, and I feel a little cheated (especially since I'm still paying back my student loans).