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I Hate You, Remember Me
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She hates me.
An accident nearly takes my life and does take my memory.
Are some things better left in fantasy?
I Hate You, Remember Me is a full-length standalone romance novel. Jamie Knight promises to always bring you a happy ever after filled with plenty of heat. And never any cheating or cliffhangers!
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My ID says my name is Brad Dennington. The face in the picture is the same as the one I look at in the mirror. But I don’t know this person. I am a stranger to myself.
The building I’m in has a familiar feel. I’ve seen rooms like this one before—on television. Yes, that’s what that flat screen on the wall is called. I was told it is good to be able to name things. I couldn’t the first few moments after I woke up. I wasn’t even able to provide a name for myself. But some things came quickly, and recognizing what a television set is and the concept behind it was a good step forward.
They gave me my wallet and my phone to help me remember. “Wallet” and “Phone”: two more words to signify items. More re-connections via neurons and synapses. I would probably go crazy if I wasn’t able to hold onto such things. Each old word that is now imprinted anew, and then it means something. It makes me more a part of this world.
It’s not that I don’t know what words mean. And it isn’t like I need to relearn how to do things like brush my teeth or chew my food. But everything does seem new again in some ways. And there are times when I get an odd sense of Deja Vu.
I have slept a lot these past few days and woke up several times from bizarre dreams only to find myself back in an environment I barely understand. It is strange knowing you’re a person but aren’t sure exactly who that person is. You could go mental trying to crunch in your head just how that works; how you can walk, talk and breathe without really comprehending how you got there.
And now, in this world, in what feels like a waking dream, I am in a hospital room putting on my clothes. Apparently, I wear athletic style outfits when I’m not working. Under Armour seems to be my favorite brand. Although from what I’ve read their popularity is on the decline. Does that mean I am somehow out of touch? They told me it is also good to not only identify things, but familiar brand names. All of these associations help the healing process.
They advised me to pay attention to what I do daily. It might jog some of my memories; as if brushing your teeth might unlock the secrets of the universe. They gave me a notebook to write stuff down in. This morning I scribbled I just want things to feel normal.
I’m told I had an accident cliff diving off the coast. According to friends of mine they interviewed, I frequently do such things. Bungee jumping, skydiving, jet skiing––I even saw an electronic receipt in my bank app on my phone for a Zero-G experience. I don’t remember any of what happened, though. Floating in midair for thirty seconds? Seems like something that would stick in your mind.
The doctor told me case studies of amnesia are usually associated with damage to the medial temporal lobe. It can take days, weeks, months, years even to recover your memories. Sometimes, though rarely, I’m assured, the memories never come back. All of the technical medical talk is Greek to me, and that is exactly where the word “amnesia” derives from, the Greek language. And the type I have is the retrograde variety, where I can’t recall memories from before the accident.
Everything still feels a bit fuzzy. I need to be able to focus so I can piece my life back together, but I just can’t seem to do so. It’s all very frustrating. I have to show patience. Because if my mind won’t cooperate, what else can I do?
The nurses tell me someone named Charles Williams is coming to pick me up. But where am I going? I don’t even know where “home” is. It’s all very discombobulating. Ever since I woke up, every move I make is monitored, recorded, analyzed processed. I am given instructions, poked by needles and prodded by hands. I’m sick of people showing me things and telling me what to do. I want whatever life I had back. But if only I knew what that life was.
I just have a small bag with me when the orderly arrives to escort me out. He wheels me down to the lobby in a chair. It feels awkward. Despite the bandage on my head and some cuts and bruises, I am physically fine. It must be for insurance reasons. But I have to say, I feel like a jerk letting someone push me around.
At the nurse’s desk they ask me to sign some paperwork. My name feels unfamiliar as I move the pen on paper. Is this my actual handwriting or a facsimile? All of this is freaking me out a little bit.