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I thought I had amnesia, but I was wrong. (by Sparky)
I thought I had amnesia, but I was wrong.
About six months ago, I lost my memories.
There was no clear cause for my sudden amnesia. I just woke up that morning in a room I had no memory of, next to a woman I did not recognize. Strangely enough, I didn't panic. Instead, I rolled out of bed, grabbing what I assumed to be my phone from the nightstand and heading off to find the bathroom. I figured holing up in there would be the best choice if I didn't want to be disturbed.
Thankfully, my phone was able to be unlocked by fingerprint, so I didn't have to worry about a pass code. After that, it wasn't too hard to figure out who I was. I was active enough on social media for me to be able to get a good sense of myself. Friends, family, where I worked, where I went to school, the way I thought and behaved. It was all there. Equipped with the base information of who I was, I felt secure enough in being able to act like nothing was wrong. For whatever reason, from the moment I had woken up and realized I had lost my memory; my main focus was on hiding my ailment. Perhaps I simply had a tendency to want to deal with things on my own? It was somewhat reassuring to think that it was some remnant of my personality showing through. Perhaps I hadn't lost everything.
I heard a knock at the door. It was the woman I'd woken up next to, my wife. I could tell from how frequent and friendly our past text messages were that we had a rather good relationship. I still hadn't had a chance to learn as much about the people in my life as I had myself, so I had to play it safe. I opened the door with a purposeful smile. She had come by to wish me good morning and to ask if I wanted anything for breakfast. I told her that I'd cook breakfast for us if she didn't mind starting coffee. She seemed pleasantly surprised, a good sign. I figured it would be best if any inconsistencies in my behavior were seen as a "pleasant change", rather than something strange.
I was able to navigate my morning routine without any major issue, and then made my way to work with the help of the map app on my phone. I had hoped that, at some point during the morning and my commute, things might start to come back to me. However that turned out to be a little bit too optimistic. All the same, I was able to handle myself well enough at the office. I seemed to have lost only interpersonal memories rather than those related to skills. I was unfamiliar with the work, but I was able to adapt. I handled myself well enough to not draw anything resembling suspicion. My tasks weren't too especially hard or complicated, and I had kept my desk and the files on my computer well organized. It was easy enough to cover up any deficiencies with a bit of wit and a few Google searches. It couldn't be called easy, but I wouldn't go so far as to call it especially stressful either. As such, I finished up my shift at work with little to no incident.
Still though, throughout the day and into the evening, my memory loss didn't improve in the slightest. Even so, I still felt reluctant to see a doctor about it. A quick glance at my bank account was enough to convince me that I couldn't afford any expensive medications or procedures. Plus, I still felt strongly that I shouldn't tell anyone about my condition. The feeling wasn't based in any logic I could identify, but rather something instinctual. Was it some intrinsic part of my personality, or something else? I couldn't be sure.
That aside, despite the lack of signs of recovery, I did discover a possible hint as to what may have caused my condition: an additional... quite odd symptom.
I noticed it that first night while I was in the midst of helping my wife prepare dinner. I was reaching into the fridge to pull out a pack of ground beef that had been in there thawing, when all of a sudden... I felt it. An intense urge. A deep, instinctual craving. My stomach rumbled loud enough to be heard across the room, eliciting a chuckle from my wife. I wasn't laughing though. My eyes were fixed on the glistening heap of moist, red meat in my hands. Against my better judgment, I want nothing more than to rip open that package and shove that raw meat into my mouth by the handful.
This sudden impulse was... worrying to say the least. Surprisingly enough though, it actually ended up making a lot of sense. A quick Google search found that, among other things, a craving for raw meat can be caused by a vitamin B deficiency. An additional search confirmed that such a deficiency could also have an effect on memory. That didn't necessarily account for the severity and the sudden onset of my symptoms, but it was enough to convince myself to put off seeing a doctor for the time being. I made a mental note to pick up some supplements on my way to work tomorrow, and got on with my evening.
My life has gone on like this for the past 6 months.
I?d succeeded in seamlessly integrating myself into this unfamiliar life of mine. Perhaps even close relatives wouldn't be able to notice anything different about me, and, if they did notice a change, perhaps they would only assume it to be a natural one. It was hard to tell if my memory was returning or not. I was becoming more familiar with my life, sure, but was this from me actually remembering my past or just from me learning about it? I had worked hard to fill in the gaps, and now it was hard for me to tell if what was filling in the blanks was new or old. Either way, I wasn't quite sure if I cared anymore.
My craving for raw meat didn?t go away, even with the supplements, but it hadn't worsened either. Cooked meat helped a little bit, but it was like trying to satisfy a craving for pizza with a tomato: just not quite right. I carried this craving with me as a sort of constant tension. I grew used to it, and was even able to disregard it, but it never went away.
I could have gone on like that forever, if it wasn't for what happened today.
My wife had been complaining about a smell that had been permeating the downstairs for some time. For whatever reason I was unable to smell it myself, but she insisted that it was there and getting worse. Eventually, I agreed to take the day off from work and have someone come over and see if they could take care of the odor. As an apology for putting it off for so long, I promised her a nice dinner when she got home that evening. She seems satisfied with that, especially since my cooking and improved so much recently.
Eventually, at around eleven in the morning, the handyman I'd hired showed up. I still couldn't smell anything myself, and was still a bit doubtful there even was a smell. However, when I saw the handyman's face scrunch up in disgust the moment I opened the front door, I knew for sure that my wife hadn't imagined anything. I made a mental note to put even more effort into tonight's dinner.
After some small amount of searching, the handyman determined that the odor was worst in the dining room. As best as he could tell, the smell seemed to be coming from under the floor. Judging from the smell, which he described colorfully as "rotten filth", and where it seemed to be coming from, he figured it was likely that a small animal had found its way into the crawl space, gotten stuck, and died. I didn't really have any input on the matter to offer, as I still couldn't detect even the slightest hint of an odor even right next to the apparent source. What was wrong with my sense of smell? Did this have something to do with my condition?
I had no idea if we even had a crawlspace, let alone where the entrance might be. So for the time being I helped the handyman get the dining room table and the carpet underneath it moved so that he could get a look at the flooring in the area.
Once we'd gotten everything out of the way, they handyman crouched down to get a closer look. Shortly after starting though he paused, looking confused. Apparently, he'd found an opening. Not an actual entrance to the crawlspace, but a place where someone had apparently messily cut through the floor in order to gain access. The flooring had been carefully put back into place, but it hadn't completely masked the existence of the opening. The handyman glanced at me, a look of suspicion leaking into his eyes, and asked if I'd had any idea the opening was there. I reassured him that I hadn't, but he didn't seem convinced.
I crouched down next to the handyman in order to get a better look as he pulled a pry bar out of his tool bag and started working it into the edges around the opening. I felt distinctly uneasy, though I was far from sure why. After some effort, he managed to loosen the section of flooring. Pushing it aside, he was forced to pull back and cover his mouth with a rag, as the smell apparently intensified.
After he collected himself, we both leaned in to get a look. The handyman grunted in apparent confusion. There was some sort of large object in the opening that had apparently been wrapped in trash bags and shoved underneath the floorboards. It was still covered, but it seemed that rats and other vermin had torn through the bag and left it in tatters. I felt nauseous, and my heart started beating hard and fast.
The handyman reached into the hole and tried to push some of the tattered garbage bag out of the way so that we could see what had been wrapped up inside. Finally finding a loose bit, he yanked the plastic aside swiftly, and we both fell into shocked silence.
What I saw was intimately familiar to me. Even dead and rotting. It was my body. It was my face.
No... it was his face.
In the space of a single breath, I lashed out. I felt the distinct... familiar sensation of slicing through soft flesh. I glanced at my hand, slick with blood, taking note of the 3-inch long, razor-sharp claws that had extended from the tips of my fingers. I looked over at the handyman, watching as he gasped for air a grasped weakly at the gashed ruins of his neck. I sighed in longing as I watched the succulent red oozing from between his fingers. Once again, I wished that there was more blood in the human body. It would be so much more fun if it was like how it was in the movies. I sat there for a while, watching curiously until the last bits of life leaked from the handyman?s eyes and his body lay still. No matter how many times it?s been, I never get tired of watching.
I stood and stretched with a sigh. Six months wasn't bad, but I wished I'd managed to keep this up for longer. Finding a new home was always a hassle. I made a note to myself to wrap the body more securely next time.
Reaching down absentmindedly to the fresh corpse next to me, I extended a single claw and cut myself a small slice of tender neck meat. I placed it gently on my tongue and savored the taste as I slowly chewed. I always missed this the most.
I sighed, glancing about the house. It was a nice place to stay, but it was time to move on. I couldn't linger for too long after a messy kill. It was too risky. But first... I had to tie up loose ends.
I smiled, chuckling to myself in a voice far deeper than my recent disguised tones. I had promised my wife a dinner. I didn't say she'd be the one eating though.
Source.
About six months ago, I lost my memories.
There was no clear cause for my sudden amnesia. I just woke up that morning in a room I had no memory of, next to a woman I did not recognize. Strangely enough, I didn't panic. Instead, I rolled out of bed, grabbing what I assumed to be my phone from the nightstand and heading off to find the bathroom. I figured holing up in there would be the best choice if I didn't want to be disturbed.
Thankfully, my phone was able to be unlocked by fingerprint, so I didn't have to worry about a pass code. After that, it wasn't too hard to figure out who I was. I was active enough on social media for me to be able to get a good sense of myself. Friends, family, where I worked, where I went to school, the way I thought and behaved. It was all there. Equipped with the base information of who I was, I felt secure enough in being able to act like nothing was wrong. For whatever reason, from the moment I had woken up and realized I had lost my memory; my main focus was on hiding my ailment. Perhaps I simply had a tendency to want to deal with things on my own? It was somewhat reassuring to think that it was some remnant of my personality showing through. Perhaps I hadn't lost everything.
I heard a knock at the door. It was the woman I'd woken up next to, my wife. I could tell from how frequent and friendly our past text messages were that we had a rather good relationship. I still hadn't had a chance to learn as much about the people in my life as I had myself, so I had to play it safe. I opened the door with a purposeful smile. She had come by to wish me good morning and to ask if I wanted anything for breakfast. I told her that I'd cook breakfast for us if she didn't mind starting coffee. She seemed pleasantly surprised, a good sign. I figured it would be best if any inconsistencies in my behavior were seen as a "pleasant change", rather than something strange.
I was able to navigate my morning routine without any major issue, and then made my way to work with the help of the map app on my phone. I had hoped that, at some point during the morning and my commute, things might start to come back to me. However that turned out to be a little bit too optimistic. All the same, I was able to handle myself well enough at the office. I seemed to have lost only interpersonal memories rather than those related to skills. I was unfamiliar with the work, but I was able to adapt. I handled myself well enough to not draw anything resembling suspicion. My tasks weren't too especially hard or complicated, and I had kept my desk and the files on my computer well organized. It was easy enough to cover up any deficiencies with a bit of wit and a few Google searches. It couldn't be called easy, but I wouldn't go so far as to call it especially stressful either. As such, I finished up my shift at work with little to no incident.
Still though, throughout the day and into the evening, my memory loss didn't improve in the slightest. Even so, I still felt reluctant to see a doctor about it. A quick glance at my bank account was enough to convince me that I couldn't afford any expensive medications or procedures. Plus, I still felt strongly that I shouldn't tell anyone about my condition. The feeling wasn't based in any logic I could identify, but rather something instinctual. Was it some intrinsic part of my personality, or something else? I couldn't be sure.
That aside, despite the lack of signs of recovery, I did discover a possible hint as to what may have caused my condition: an additional... quite odd symptom.
I noticed it that first night while I was in the midst of helping my wife prepare dinner. I was reaching into the fridge to pull out a pack of ground beef that had been in there thawing, when all of a sudden... I felt it. An intense urge. A deep, instinctual craving. My stomach rumbled loud enough to be heard across the room, eliciting a chuckle from my wife. I wasn't laughing though. My eyes were fixed on the glistening heap of moist, red meat in my hands. Against my better judgment, I want nothing more than to rip open that package and shove that raw meat into my mouth by the handful.
This sudden impulse was... worrying to say the least. Surprisingly enough though, it actually ended up making a lot of sense. A quick Google search found that, among other things, a craving for raw meat can be caused by a vitamin B deficiency. An additional search confirmed that such a deficiency could also have an effect on memory. That didn't necessarily account for the severity and the sudden onset of my symptoms, but it was enough to convince myself to put off seeing a doctor for the time being. I made a mental note to pick up some supplements on my way to work tomorrow, and got on with my evening.
My life has gone on like this for the past 6 months.
I?d succeeded in seamlessly integrating myself into this unfamiliar life of mine. Perhaps even close relatives wouldn't be able to notice anything different about me, and, if they did notice a change, perhaps they would only assume it to be a natural one. It was hard to tell if my memory was returning or not. I was becoming more familiar with my life, sure, but was this from me actually remembering my past or just from me learning about it? I had worked hard to fill in the gaps, and now it was hard for me to tell if what was filling in the blanks was new or old. Either way, I wasn't quite sure if I cared anymore.
My craving for raw meat didn?t go away, even with the supplements, but it hadn't worsened either. Cooked meat helped a little bit, but it was like trying to satisfy a craving for pizza with a tomato: just not quite right. I carried this craving with me as a sort of constant tension. I grew used to it, and was even able to disregard it, but it never went away.
I could have gone on like that forever, if it wasn't for what happened today.
My wife had been complaining about a smell that had been permeating the downstairs for some time. For whatever reason I was unable to smell it myself, but she insisted that it was there and getting worse. Eventually, I agreed to take the day off from work and have someone come over and see if they could take care of the odor. As an apology for putting it off for so long, I promised her a nice dinner when she got home that evening. She seems satisfied with that, especially since my cooking and improved so much recently.
Eventually, at around eleven in the morning, the handyman I'd hired showed up. I still couldn't smell anything myself, and was still a bit doubtful there even was a smell. However, when I saw the handyman's face scrunch up in disgust the moment I opened the front door, I knew for sure that my wife hadn't imagined anything. I made a mental note to put even more effort into tonight's dinner.
After some small amount of searching, the handyman determined that the odor was worst in the dining room. As best as he could tell, the smell seemed to be coming from under the floor. Judging from the smell, which he described colorfully as "rotten filth", and where it seemed to be coming from, he figured it was likely that a small animal had found its way into the crawl space, gotten stuck, and died. I didn't really have any input on the matter to offer, as I still couldn't detect even the slightest hint of an odor even right next to the apparent source. What was wrong with my sense of smell? Did this have something to do with my condition?
I had no idea if we even had a crawlspace, let alone where the entrance might be. So for the time being I helped the handyman get the dining room table and the carpet underneath it moved so that he could get a look at the flooring in the area.
Once we'd gotten everything out of the way, they handyman crouched down to get a closer look. Shortly after starting though he paused, looking confused. Apparently, he'd found an opening. Not an actual entrance to the crawlspace, but a place where someone had apparently messily cut through the floor in order to gain access. The flooring had been carefully put back into place, but it hadn't completely masked the existence of the opening. The handyman glanced at me, a look of suspicion leaking into his eyes, and asked if I'd had any idea the opening was there. I reassured him that I hadn't, but he didn't seem convinced.
I crouched down next to the handyman in order to get a better look as he pulled a pry bar out of his tool bag and started working it into the edges around the opening. I felt distinctly uneasy, though I was far from sure why. After some effort, he managed to loosen the section of flooring. Pushing it aside, he was forced to pull back and cover his mouth with a rag, as the smell apparently intensified.
After he collected himself, we both leaned in to get a look. The handyman grunted in apparent confusion. There was some sort of large object in the opening that had apparently been wrapped in trash bags and shoved underneath the floorboards. It was still covered, but it seemed that rats and other vermin had torn through the bag and left it in tatters. I felt nauseous, and my heart started beating hard and fast.
The handyman reached into the hole and tried to push some of the tattered garbage bag out of the way so that we could see what had been wrapped up inside. Finally finding a loose bit, he yanked the plastic aside swiftly, and we both fell into shocked silence.
What I saw was intimately familiar to me. Even dead and rotting. It was my body. It was my face.
No... it was his face.
In the space of a single breath, I lashed out. I felt the distinct... familiar sensation of slicing through soft flesh. I glanced at my hand, slick with blood, taking note of the 3-inch long, razor-sharp claws that had extended from the tips of my fingers. I looked over at the handyman, watching as he gasped for air a grasped weakly at the gashed ruins of his neck. I sighed in longing as I watched the succulent red oozing from between his fingers. Once again, I wished that there was more blood in the human body. It would be so much more fun if it was like how it was in the movies. I sat there for a while, watching curiously until the last bits of life leaked from the handyman?s eyes and his body lay still. No matter how many times it?s been, I never get tired of watching.
I stood and stretched with a sigh. Six months wasn't bad, but I wished I'd managed to keep this up for longer. Finding a new home was always a hassle. I made a note to myself to wrap the body more securely next time.
Reaching down absentmindedly to the fresh corpse next to me, I extended a single claw and cut myself a small slice of tender neck meat. I placed it gently on my tongue and savored the taste as I slowly chewed. I always missed this the most.
I sighed, glancing about the house. It was a nice place to stay, but it was time to move on. I couldn't linger for too long after a messy kill. It was too risky. But first... I had to tie up loose ends.
I smiled, chuckling to myself in a voice far deeper than my recent disguised tones. I had promised my wife a dinner. I didn't say she'd be the one eating though.
Source.
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