Breaking Free

It nags at me all the time now--like a memory you know you should remember but can't quite put a finger on. It teases the back of my mind and taunts my lack of memory. I know he's important to me, but I don't know how and I don't know why. I can't seem to recognize his face, and that bothers me. A lot. Why would a perfect stranger be so important to me?

I've tried asking, but it doesn't work. I can't get the words out. Any sounds that do escape my lips come out as incomprehensible blabbering, and I've seen their response. Their looks. His look: fear and sympathy. At first they're scared to be in the same room as me. It's like I have a disease. Then I catch glimpses of shame, scolding their own reaction before smoothing over into wide smiles; fear and uneasiness still lingering in their eyes.

Any noise I do make, they instantly nod their heads with a "Yes, that's right!" I want to scream at them, "You idiots! Can't you see I'm trying to ask you a question there is no "yes" or "no" answer to?" Sometimes I don't blabber. Sometimes I say actual words, but I know they're not the words I mean to say from their reactions. So I've taken to communicating the only way I know how, by handing out little slips of paper. They just look at me like I'm insane.

Who knows? Maybe I am. I used to have all these flashbacks: shouting, laughter; then intense pain while everything fades into a blinding white and silence roars in my ears. I would just shake and cry as the flashbacks tore through my mind without ceasing. Almost any time I fell asleep the flashbacks would crescendo, and I'd wake up screaming. I felt very much alone. I couldn't dwell on anything but memories of pain and suffering. The pain was so intense I couldn't even remember my own name. I barely even remember it now. I was doomed to wake up screaming and screaming for the rest of my bloody life...

Until one day it changed. I noticed him for the first time. I woke up screaming to settle my eyes on his face when I had hitherto been ignoring all ideas of anyone else existing. The only people I knew were the ones who tortured me in my sleep. But this...this astonished me. There were people when I was awake. Then it all fell into place.

Since that day I first saw him, this stranger I do not know, it all started coming back to me piece by piece, memory by memory. I started probing each new memory that came to me for any signs of his face- there were none. And so it was, that I escaped from my past to come right back to it, but it was different. It used to be that I couldn't flee from my past because I was living in it; every moment I was tortured. Now, I was endlessly searching it to move on to my future. I felt myself getting stronger, more in control. I still wake up screaming sometimes, but it's different. I'm over it, and I owe this to my stranger.

Oh, how I wish I knew who he was! I've tried communicating with him more than anyone else so far. More so than the man who shares the room with me. I know he had a really important role in my life. Several of the flashbacks of my adulthood feature him, but it doesn't seem as important to communicate with him. I suppose that is partly due to the fact that he is right here in the same room whenever I meet him, and I can recognize him. It's the unrecognized face that haunts me in my sleep.

Funny how I came out of one sort of insanity only to fall into another. I went straight to the fire out from the frying pan. In my dreams I was constantly chased by evil pursuers or tortured by them, the effect of the risk factor in such a deadly job, but I was a good protagonist. I promptly frustrated them by refusing to die. Weird how I can remember every detail in a few moments out of my life more than its entire longevity, huh?

Now my dreams consist of his face...not in a sexual way...he is much too young for that. But there is definitely love. Ugh! I can't possibly have any emotional feelings for him! I don't know him. I don't. I don't. I don't. See what I mean? This is driving me mad. It was so much easier when I was stuck reliving my torture over and over again. It is even a nice change of pace when my old torture dreams bleed into the dreams with him. At least I can identify with the pain. I've experienced it before. It is a memory ingrained in my brain, but I understand it. I know why it happened, I know how it happened, and I know who brought it about.

The trouble with the boy is I'm not familiar with his face. I don't know who he is or what he wants. For all I know he is one more torturer coming to haunt my every move. Hell, if that's the case, he's doing a great job. I'm stuck in my own mind and cannot converse with anyone. I can't form my mouth around the words. I don't remember the feel of a quill in my hands. Even my gestures are mistaken for that of a crazed woman. So, I'm forced to sit here alone with my thoughts.

I've become obsessed. I've memorized every detail of his face, and they swim around in my mind. His brown eyed round face is not memorable. In fact, he would be forgotten in a moment's notice while passing by on a street. So why can't I forget him? I would rather forget him than be stuck endlessly searching for his connections to me. I've tried to tell myself there are none. But then why does he visit me? my mind always whispers back. It makes me want to scream. Great. I thought I was over the screaming. Like I said...out of the frying pan and into the fire. But, I don't think he's harmful to me. If only I could find out who he was, I would feel more comfortable.

I sometimes think he is the key to bringing me back into the world; but then, I also remember his sorrow-filled eyes as he watches me. He does not seem to hold much hope for me, but I hardly blame him. I do not hold much hope for myself either. Still, he doesn't throw away the wrappers like the others, even though I know the old woman instructs him to. But I think he might be humoring me. Wait...the old woman...She's related to the man who shares the room with me. I can feel my eyes widen. His face is round like the boy's! Round face. Brown eyes.

Suddenly, the mind block snaps as memory after memory starts to pound me. Crying. A baby. My baby. My lips form around a word I haven't spoken in such a long time, "Neville."