You recognize no one, not even yourselves. Please don’t panic, and read this letter in its entirety.
It’s a little late for the don’t panic part.
We aren’t sure what happened, but we’re afraid if we don’t write it down, it might happen again. At least with everything written down and left in more than one place, we’ll be more prepared if it does happen again. On the following pages, you’ll find all the information we know. Maybe it will help in some way.
-Charlie and Silas.
I don’t immediately flip to the next page. I drop the pages in my lap and bring my hands to my face. I rub them up and down, up and down. I glance in the rearview mirror and then immediately look away when I don’t recognize the eyes staring back at me.
This can’t be happening.
I squeeze my eyes shut and bring my fingers to the bridge of my nose. I wait for myself to wake up. This is a dream, and I need to wake up.
A car passes, and more water is tossed across the windshield. I watch as it trickles down again and disappears beneath the hood.
I can’t be dreaming. Everything is too vivid, too detailed to be a dream. Dreams are splotchy, and they don’t flow from one moment to the next like everything is doing right now.
I pick the pages up again, and with each sentence it becomes harder to read. My hands become increasingly unsteady. My mind is all over the place as I scan over the next page. I find out Silas is definitely my name and that Charlie is actually the name of a girl. I wonder if she’s the girl who is missing. I continue to read, even though I can’t suspend disbelief long enough to accept the words I’m reading. And I don’t know why I won’t allow myself to believe it, because everything I’m reading certainly coincides with the fact that I have no recollection of any of it. It’s just that if I were to suspend my disbelief, I would be admitting that this is possible. That according to what I’m reading, I’ve just lost my memory for the fourth time in a row.
My breathing is almost as erratic as the rain falling against the roof of my car. I bring my left hand up to the back of my neck and squeeze as I read the last paragraph. One I apparently just wrote a matter of ten minutes ago.
-Charlie got into a cab on Bourbon Street last night and no one has seen her since. She doesn’t know about this letter. Find her. The first thing you need to do is find her. Please.
The last few words of the letter are scrawled, barely legible, like I was running out of time when I wrote it. I set the letter down on the seat, contemplating everything I’ve just learned. The information is racing in my mind faster than my heart is beating in my chest. I can feel the onset of a panic attack coming, or maybe a breakdown. I grip the steering wheel with both hands and breathe in and out through my nose. I don’t know how I know that’s supposed to produce a calming effect. At first, it doesn’t seem to be working, but I sit like this for several minutes, thinking about everything I just learned. Bourbon Street, Charlie, my brother, The Shrimp, the tarot reading, the tattoos, my penchant for photography. Why does none of it seem familiar? This has to be a joke. This has to be referring to someone else. I can’t be Silas. If I were Silas, I would feel like I’m him. I wouldn’t feel this complete separation from the person I’m supposed to be.
I grab my phone again and open up the camera app. I lean forward and reach behind me, pulling my shirt forward and over my head. I hold the camera behind me and snap a picture of my back, then pull my shirt back into place and look at the phone.
Pearls.A strand of black pearls is tattooed on my back, just like the letter said.
“Shit,” I whisper, staring down at the picture.
My stomach. I think I’m about to be…
I open up the car door just in time. The contents of whatever I had for breakfast are now on the ground at my feet. My clothes are being soaked as I stand here, waiting to get sick again. When I think the worst is over, I climb back into the car.
I look at the clock, and it reads 11:11 am.
I’m still not sure what to believe, but the more time that passes without recollection, the more I begin to entertain the idea that I may have just a little over forty-seven hours before this happens again.
I reach across the seat and open my glove box. I don’t know what I’m looking for, but sitting here doing nothing seems like a waste of time. I pull out the contents, tossing aside vehicle and insurance information. I find an envelope with our names written across it. A duplicate of everything I just read. I continue to flip through the papers until a folded piece of paper tucked at the very bottom of the glove box steals my attention. It has my name written across the top of it. I open it, first reading the signature at the bottom. It’s a letter from Charlie. I start back at the top of the page and begin reading.
Dear Silas,
This is not a love note. Okay? No matter how much you try to convince yourself that it is—it’s not. Because I’m not that type of girl. I hate those girls, always so lovesick and disgusting. Ew.
Anyway, this is the anti-love note. For instance, I do not love the way you brought me orange juice and medicine last week when I was sick. And what was with that card? You hope I feel better and you love me? Pfft.
And I definitely do not love the way you pretend that you can dance when you really look like a malfunctioning robot. It’s not adorable and it doesn’t make me laugh at all.
Oh, and when you kiss me and pull away to tell me I’m pretty? Don’t like that one damn bit. Why can’t you just be like other guys who ignore their girlfriends? It’s so unfair that I have to deal with this.
And speaking of how you do everything wrong, remember when I hurt my back during cheerleading practice? And you skipped David’s party to rub Biofreeze on my back and watched Pretty Woman with me? It was a clear sign of how needy and selfish you can really be. How dare you, Silas!
I will also no longer tolerate the things you say about me around our friends. When Abby made fun of my outfit that day and you told her that I could wear a plastic bag and make it look couture, it was way out of line. And it was even more out of line when you drove Janette to the eye doctor when she kept getting headaches. You need to get a grip. All of this caring and consideration is so unattractive.
So I am here to tell you that I absolutely do not love you more than any human on this planet. And that it’s not butterflies I feel every time you walk into a room, but sick, one-winged, drunken moths. Also, you’re very, very unattractive. I flinch every time I see your unblemished skin and think—Oh my god, that kid would be so much more attractive with some pimples and crooked teeth. Yeah, you’re gross, Silas.