THE MEMORY HE DOESN’T REMEMBER HAVING — PART II
838 Words
Kevin forces himself to breathe—but each breath drags like something heavy is sitting on his chest.
He stares at his phone, at the last message glowing back at him:
“SOMEONE ELSE REMEMBERS WHAT YOU FORGOT.”
His skin prickles.
He rereads it once. Twice.
His pulse throbs behind his eyes, a slow, bruising rhythm.
Someone out there… knows.
Someone out there has been watching him.
And someone out there knows about the motel memory he’s spent twenty years trying—failing—to access.
He sinks deeper into the couch, elbows on his knees, fingers scraping through his hair.
He wants to blame exhaustion.
He wants to blame lack of sleep, stress, caffeine, anything normal.
But the shape on the mirror wasn’t normal.
His reflection changing wasn’t normal.
The corridor vision matching a real crime scene wasn’t normal.
And whoever texted him?
Not normal.
Not safe.
He forces himself off the couch, pacing.
His bare feet drag across the wood floor, back and forth, back and forth, like he can outrun the panic.
He stops only when he catches his reflection in the turned-off TV.
He freezes.
His reflection stands at the same angle—
but the shoulders are slightly off.
Slanted. Tensed.
Like someone preparing to flinch.
Kevin blinks—
—and his reflection catches up a second late.
His stomach drops.
Again.
“Stop,” he whispers to the empty room. “Stop doing this.”
He presses the heel of his hand to his forehead.
He shouldn’t look again. He knows better.
But he does.
The reflection mirrors him perfectly this time.
Perfectly human.
Perfectly harmless.
Perfectly ordinary.
Maybe he imagined the delay.
Maybe he’s losing it.
He exhales shakily and turns away—but his eyes flick to the window for a fraction of a second.
The street below is loud, alive, moving.
Normal.
He clings to that.
Until something else catches his attention.
A smear of something on the inside of the window glass.
He steps closer.
It’s faint. Barely visible.
A fingerprint.
No—
three fingerprints.
All pressed from the inside of the glass.
His chest tightens.
He touches the window with trembling fingers, tracing the ghost-print. It’s cold—too cold—as if something pressed there only moments ago.
He jerks his hand back.
The phone buzzes again.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:
“IT TRIED TO REACH YOU.”
Kevin stares.
A cold sweat breaks along his spine.
He types with numb fingers:
What did?
The reply comes instantly:
“THE SAME THING THAT TRIED TO REACH YOU IN THE MOTEL.”
Kevin’s knees nearly buckle.
He sits heavily on the couch again, gripping the edge like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.
His breath shakes.
The motel.
He hasn’t thought about that place in years.
Liam refuses to talk about it.
Therapists called it “childhood trauma suppression.”
Kevin called it “a black hole.”
But now, pieces of a memory claw their way up:
A bathroom mirror.
A shape behind the glass.
A whisper.
His name.
Liam dragging him out, hand clamped over his mouth.
Kevin squeezes his eyes shut.
His pulse pounds in his ears.
Whoever is texting him…
How do they know?
His phone buzzes again—this time with a call.
It’s the same unknown number.
His thumb hovers over the screen.
Answer?
Decline?
Ignore?
His breath shivers out.
He answers.
The line is silent.
No breathing.
No static.
Nothing.
“Who is this?” Kevin forces out.
A pause.
Then—
A voice.
Small.
Young.
Like a boy.
But layered under it—like someone speaking from under water—is something older.
Broken.
Tired.
“…Help… me…”
Kevin’s blood runs cold.
He grips the phone tighter.
“Who are you?” he whispers. “How do you know me?”
The voice stutters again—
like the sound is being dragged across glass.
“…you left me… in the dark…”
Kevin’s breath catches.
A pulse of ice shoots up his spine.
“I don’t understand,” he whispers. “Left who?”
The voice shifts—sharper, more desperate:
“…you have to remember… before he makes you forget again…”
His hand nearly drops the phone.
He tries to speak, but his throat has closed.
Another sound hits the line—
Not a word.
A knock.
On glass.
Three slow knocks.
Not from his apartment.
Not from his window.
Not from his phone.
It echoes behind him.
Inside the bathroom.
Kevin whips toward the hallway, heart slamming against his ribs.
The bathroom door… is closing on its own.
The caller speaks again—quiet, urgent:
“…don’t let him take the rest of your memories.”
“Who?” Kevin whispers.
The voice cracks—
“…your brother…”
The line goes dead.
Silence floods the apartment.
Kevin stands frozen, every muscle trembling.
For the first time in his life—
he’s terrified not of the reflection…
but of the truth it’s trying to show him.
- Writer
- chap_listContents
- likeADD