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January 1, 2045
Hallee
As my eyes crack open, I blink a cream-colored cover into focus. The fabric is soft, lightweight, and somehow fluffy. I can’t quite think of a name for it, other than unfamiliar.
This bed is unfamiliar.
This room is not my own.
A chill snakes up my spine, shocking my heart to thud faster as I try to recall the events from last night.
Or the night before last.
Or the night before that.
It’s not a hangover. There’s no pounding in my head or overwhelming nausea. Just underwhelming nausea, but that’s probably because it’s getting harder to breathe.
What mess did I get myself into last night?
Why can’t I remember any of it?
Tossing the covers aside, I roll to plant my feet firmly on the floor. The cold hardwood shocks them, but my shoulders relax as if the squeak of the creaky floorboard is familiar to me.
Maybe this place is mine? Surely I have a home, but the further I reach for the memory, the more lost I become.
If this place isn’t mine, then where has its owner gone off to?
“Hello?” I call out.
“Hello?” I insist, but no response answers my question.
Who does this room belong to? The boxy furniture is as white as the unsettlingly blank walls, and it’s all so hollow it’s making me feel hollow, too. Even just one small pop of color would bandage the sting of the doctor’s office ambiance, but apparently appearing welcoming isn’t on the owner’s list of priorities. It would be on mine. Wouldn’t it?
Does anyone even live here?
“Hello?”
Is the air thinning? I swear it’s thinning. Has to be because the room is swaying through my blurred vision, intensified by the bone-chilling silence. What is going on ?
Why can’t I remember anything?
My lungs fight against my emotions for a deep breath. Running through the doorway on my left, I crash directly into a bathroom vanity. The counter slams into my gut like my growing questions slam into my brain.
My name . . . what is my name . . . ?
Like the rest of the place, this bathroom reveals nothing about the owner. It’s neat, clean, and seemingly untouched. The gold-rimmed mirror is practically glowing on the wall, ready to reflect and unveil the mystery of my appearance. Do I have to look into it? I guess I should know what I look like . . .
Bravery lifts my gaze, only for a moment, before fear stomps it back down. The brief glance was enough to notice long blonde hair framing a soft, timid face, but not enough to note any other details about my appearance, and shame punches me in my gut. What a coward.
Yellow sticky notes stuck to the side of the mirror catch my eye as I release a heavy sigh. To read them would be an invasion of privacy for whoever this cold, sad apartment belongs to. I shouldn’t, really. Shouldn’t, but—curiosity gets the best of me. The first one is written to Hallee, whoever that is. She must own the place.
Good Morning, Hallee. Happy New Year . . . it begins, and the handwriting hits me with a second pang of both comforting and alarming familiarity.
You are probably feeling fairly panicked right now. It’s not the first time you’ve felt this, but I know you can’t remember. What a rough way to start the year, am I right?
The first note concludes, and I don’t hesitate to read the second.
It is January 1st, 2045. You’ve been given a Gift by the government to free you of your anxieties, regrets, and mistakes.
Panic is correct. This pounding in my chest is pure, undiluted panic, yet through welling tears, I dare to continue.
Everything else you need to know is bound together and sitting on the coffee table in the living room, written in the story of your life.
Oh, and Hallee? You have roommates.
A loud crash sucks the breath from my lungs, and my hands instinctively raise to shield my face seconds before I’m dragged out of the bathroom by my hair. My assailant is spewing words so quickly it’s impossible to make them out, but fear and confusion are powering her. I’m less alone than I feel.
“Hallee!” I blurt. It’s the only name I can remember. She freezes at the admission, left hand mid-air and wound up for a slap.
It’s hard to understand someone’s expressions when you don’t know them, but I’d swear there’s a desperation behind the overpowering disdain in her eyes. A brief blink of confusion, and then a plea to connect with another pair of eyes stuck in this quicksand of fear. She’s less alone than she feels, too. Doesn’t know it though, so she’s a coiled python ready to strike.
“My name is Hallee! Please don’t hurt me!”
Tears water the seed of realization that I know nothing about myself. I have nothing to soothe her restless hunger for understanding.
I have nothing to soothe my own.
As her face shifts into contemplation, my stomach sinks. The thought didn’t cross my mind before I foolishly claimed the name of a stranger, but the sticky notes said Hallee had roommates. Those roommates would definitely know what she looks like, which must be why the firecracker in front of me has turned into a mute. She sees right through me.
“Hi, Hallee. It’s good to meet you,” she whispers, replacing the fight in her voice with a breathy gentleness.
“You’re kidding me.” I chuckle, hysterically. My sanity must’ve found the exit because it’s running out the door. “Who did I almost lose my head to this morning?”
My question hangs in the air for longer than it should before she replies, “I wish I could tell you, but I can’t remember.”
The sticky notes weren’t a joke then; we must be living in a gift .
“Hallee isn’t my name. Well, I guess it might be? I can’t remember, but I didn’t want you to hurt me.”
The shock on her face rattles any shred of peace I’ve started to feel in the realization that I’m not alone.
“I wouldn’t have actually hurt you,” she mumbles, crossing her arms to maintain her tough exterior. “At least, I don’t think I would have.”
“Okay, good, because I need to show you something.”
Hesitantly, she accepts my outstretched hand.
The sunlight dances off of the pristine marble countertops as we creep back into the bathroom. Our reflections may be strangers staring back at us, but we are united and prepared to take on whatever comes next. My heart skips in hope, ignited by the glimmer of connection binding us as two individuals who have experienced a life-altering circumstance, together.
As she reads the sticky notes, her muscles tense, tightening her grip on my hand, and without a word, her retreating footsteps expand the space between us. There’s probably a bathroom attached to the room she woke up in, but I don’t follow. She should get to learn her name alone. It’s the only piece of autonomy that I can offer her, my newest and only acquaintance.
Seconds could be hours and hours could be days, but when I finally tip-toe into her doorway she’s frozen, white-knuckle gripping the edge of the counter. Tears gleam in her wild eyes as they rip from her sticky notes to me.
“I’m Marlowe,” she says, trying out her name like she’s trying on a new sweater.
A gentle smile raises my cheeks as my mind begins construction on a new castle of characteristics that will now be addressed as distinctly Marlowe . Long, auburn hair falling just above her waist, eyes as blue as the ocean. Model height, and porcelain doll skin that’s peppered with freckles.
“Hi, Marlowe.”
Not an acquaintance, but my first friend.
Dean
The translucent curtains in this room are absolutely useless. The sun may be silent, but it’s still a brutal alarm, beaming through my closed eyelids and demanding I rise. Not yet, I groan, forcing my heavy limbs to roll me to my stomach. Burying my face in the pillows is the only escape from this existence. But where exactly am I? This stranger’s bed must’ve been the destination of a wild night—why can’t I remember her?
Or me?
Or her under me?
My sleepy eyes rise before the rest of me, searching for pictures of my conquest, but there are only bookshelves filled from floor to ceiling. Probably the kind of books where the girl takes off her glasses and the guy finally realizes the masterpiece that’s been standing in front of him all along. Except if a man is so inept that he can’t recognize beauty when it’s standing right in front of him, his man card needs to be confiscated.
A neon red cover requests to be read, but it’s clearly mistaken me for someone else. My priority is to get the hell out of here before running into the mystery lady. There’s no need for the uncomfortable exchanging of details. I’m not relationship material.
At least, I don’t think I am.
Who have I become?
Shoes are nowhere to be found as I stumble into the gray sweatpants and white T-shirt from the floor, but time is not of the plenty. This walk of shame will be taken barefoot, and alone.
Tip-toeing to the door, every expletive known to man sounds off in my head as I open it. Just my luck that the loudest door in the world is in this apartment and has turned my stealthy exit into an opening set at a concert. Hopefully I’m not here to see the main show, although I am a little curious about what she looks like.
Laughter pierces through the door’s echo as I slam it shut. Damn, it’s super lightweight. Startles me enough that I almost let my calm facade slip, but don’t. Never let ’em see you sweat.
To my surprise, it’s not my mystery lady behind me, but two men. They must be boyfriends of the women who live here, taunting the new guy escaping from his one-night mistake.
“The front door is that way,” the one with the buzz cut says, sounding oddly entertained. Nodding a silent thank you, I speed walk my homestretch to freedom.
“Read the note on it before you go,” his friend says with a chuckle.
Do you remember your name?
Must be a joke, except—my sanity slips through my sweaty palms. It’s, um . . . well . . . my name . . .
What the hell is my name?!
Their smug grins transform into empathetic glances.
“Keep going,” they mutter, like two annoyed brothers waiting for their little one to catch up.
Right, you don’t remember your name. Actually, you don’t remember anything.
Here’s what you do now: go to the refrigerator, grab a drink, and sit on the couch until there are three of you. The answers to your questions are in the books on the table. When you are all together, you can start. Most importantly, you did not have a one-night stand. This apartment is yours.
Replacing fear with composure, I press my shaky hands over my eyes and start to believe I’m in a dream, until the opening refrigerator makes me jump.
“Beer?” Buzz Cut chuckles.
“Only one?” I joke.
Our clinking bottles cut through the tension in the room, and Buzz Cut sighs strongly enough to blow open the curtains of his brave facade. His face blanches with each step back to the couch. Looks like he’s seen a ghost, but I can’t fault him too much. It feels like we’ve all seen one.
The one with jet-black hair breaks the deafening silence. “Are we ready?”
“Do it.” Buzz Cut nods, and somehow we’ve gone from strangers to a team in under thirty seconds.
He reaches for the three books on the table and opens the first, extending it out to me. I guess I’m Dean.
“Hudson.”
“Matt.”
“Dean,” we sound off.
Hudson glances between Matt and me, running his hands over the top of his close-cut buzz. I’m not exactly a small guy, but he’s a personal home defense system, and his deep blue eyes are an unsteady ocean of trouble. Polar opposite of Matt, whose blue eyes are much lighter, like the clear waters of a fresh spring that reflects the color of the sky. Really piercing, yet somehow comforting. It would be hard to hide anything behind them. His shaggy black hair would be a shield if it were slightly longer.
That leaves me . . . hair too long to be short, but too short to be long. Build too lean to be ripped, but thick enough to be intimidating.
Dean.
How long does it take for someone to recognize their own name?
By the third read-through of my book’s short-written explanation, our circumstances begin to make sense. It’s New Year’s Day and we’ve been given The Gift of Forgetting , courtesy of our generous government. We live in this apartment together, and none of what happens this year will matter in the next.
Lifting his beer bottle, Hudson clears his throat.
“Cheers to a fresh start, gentlemen!”
My gut twists at the uneasy tone hidden beneath his excitement. Call me a coward, but I don’t think I’m ready for whatever’s to come.