To Learn the Truth

From the college writing vault: After a night that shatters her memory, Denise seeks out her boyfriend and bestfriend to learn the truth, only to discover she's still blacking out...

Originally Written in 2007 - Revised & Edited in 2024

My eyes snap open.

Where am I?

The darkness of my ceiling greets me upon my awakening. I sluggishly push myself off my bed, as if wading in the water. My long, curly brown hair falls forward in front of my face, while I drop down from my lofted bed to my rugged floor. When I arise, I peer around my poorly lit dorm room and notice my desk. It’s usually cluttered with random papers from class, some scattered pictures, and a variety of books—none of which are there. Instead, my sights shift passed the glass of water and pills and settles onto two books and a picture frame, which seem to be too neatly placed for my desk. Carefully, I step forward, examining the names of the books.

I clearly recognize the first title—Le Avventure di Pinocchio—but I cannot think of why I have the second book. The words Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College are spread across its spine. But, my gaze fixess onto the picture frame. Inside of it was a picture of my boyfriend and I, a rather common shot of us—me giving my usual big cheesy smile, with my long brown hair pulled back while Angelo maintains a stern expression. That shot of us is unmistakable and familiar, but I cannot place where we are in the photo—I’ve never seen the location before. Behind us was a lively, green, beautiful field, green and blue and yellow flowers are scattered around us, but directly behind Angelo and I is a large, gray, leafless, skeletal tree—

An electrifying chill runs through me as I realize someone else is in my room, watching me. I lift my head and from the corner of my eye I see a suited man watching—

My giant red curtains with white polka dots are closed, but I can feel the sunlight’s warmth peeking through them. They need to be opened. Already, I am standing before the curtains and in one swift, sharp motion, I throw them open to unveil the window.

Moonlight engulfs me. I stare out at a disturbing scene: the once lavished field is now empty. No green and dewy grass, just dust, dirt, gravel. In the middle of it is a beautiful, flourishing tree, full of life and leaves bursting with color. I can’t picture where I’ve seen it before, but it all invokes an unnerving sensation that rushes into me when I see that tree.

Thunderous thuds echo throughout my room, like a spirit slamming shut countless doors. I should swivel around to see who it is, but my body is still pushing through the air like molasses. Behind me is just my darkly lit room. Everything unmoved, untouched. Back at the window, I see him.

He is standing in front of the tree, his skin unnaturally pale, his jet-black hair slicked back, wearing a completely black suit with a brilliant blue tie. His lifeless eyes are drilling right at me. I… don’t know him—and yet, he terrifies me. Why? As I ponder this, I realize, something is happening to him. He’s remaining completely still, but something was forming around his stomach, while the dawning sunlight illuminates the sky…

It’s blood!

“To learn the truth, you must remember, Denise.”

I turn with ease this time when I hear my best friend’s voice. By my door, standing tall and unanimated, is my bestie Dorian, wearing his usual patchy jeans and loose white t-shirt. I size him up, noticing how still he is. The only movement is from his lefthand fingers, drumming against his jeans, which cause the small, bloody, cross tattoo atop his hand to wriggle. I glance back out the window and the man is gone. Rain now floods the dried out field, gloomy storm-cloud looming in the background. I try to remark upon them, but no words can escape my lips as I shift my attention back behind me.

Dorian is still staring at me—but blood is spilling from his mouth and dirt now soils his once white shirt. There are three distinct wounds weeping blood from his chest. I release a silent scream, but even my breath is voiceless. I peer down for first time and notice cuts and bruises covering my arms and legs, furthering the jolting fear and dread erupting within. But my hands are not empty, no, for I am holding a knife caked with blood in my right hand. The knife slips away, falling dramatically before firmly planting itself into the floor.

“You must remember.” Dorian’s lips did not move but the words still rang throughout my mind. And it is then that I feel the hot breath of the man in the suit along the nap of my neck—

The dull and speckled ceiling of my dorm room greets me and my frazzled mind, my heart racing from the shock of awakening from a hazy, horrifying nightmare. I still feel the dizzy spins as I lift my corpse-like body from my bed. Like any other hungover morning, I push the bedsheets off me and shake my brown curls out of my eyes. A sigh finally escapes me. I fish around for my cell phone, which could be anywhere from beside me to left behind at my boyfriend’s house. But instead of a phone, I my feelers touch something warm and fleshy.

A leg.

Laying opposite me underneath my sheets is the man in the suit, with the same knife from the dream now lodged into his stomach, the man’s lifeless brown eyes were locked onto mine—

Where am I?

I readily blink as my vision focuses. I’m finally awake, for the first time, and I know it to be true because of the searing pain coursing through me. My whole body feels inflamed, from the bruises across my legs to stinging behind my strained red eyes as the wearily scan and assess this unfamiliar room; there are numerous windows, blinds closed, but stray beams of light shine through; stray beer cans litter the stained, carpeted floor; I’m on rather a lumpy couch. As I push myself up from the stiff and unblanketed furnature, a new sharp, spiking pain sears through my body. Deep, freshly scabbing cuts ran up and down both of my arms.

I swing my legs off the couch in an attempt at standing, but the room is still viciously spinning. I settle back onto the couch, lowering my head into my lap as I whisper, “What the hell happened?” I tightly clench my eyes shut, but there’s nothing there. I hold no recollection as to why I’m hurt, how I got here, where here even is or anything else that occurred yesternight. I mean, I’m not totally amnesic: My name is Denise Perdita; I’m a sophomore at the University of Hawthorne Bay; 20 years old townie who grew up making fun of the universe I now attend. I vaguely recall a party last night—at my boyfriend’s place. Was this his trashed living room?

I step around the abandoned solo cups and scattered can, walking over to one of the windows and peek between the dusty blinds to home in on my location or anything recognizable. The welcoming sight of the dozens of lively trees that littered my college campus greets me. The beautiful rays of the sunrise warm me and a memorable view confirms this is Angelo’s spot. But then, I see someone step out from behind one of the trees. My heartbeat escalates as his dead brown eyes leer back at me. It’s the same man in the suit from my nightmare.

I stumble backwards and my eyes dart back and forth, as memories flood back to me. In front of the couch was a nearly empty glass of water that I—

Where am I?

My bloodshot eyes stare lifelessly back at me in a grimy bathroom mirror—Angelo’s bathroom. My heart is still rapidly racing, attempting its prison break from my chest. A large gash above my right eyebrow is my latest discovery. I had no idea how long I’d been standing there in Angelo’s bathroom, but I couldn’t recall walking there—all I could do was continue looking at my broken reflection: my usually neat and well-kept hair is in a soggy disarray; my once-cute white top had now been tie-died with blood and mud. Is this even my blood? I peel the damp top off my skin, feeling only my usual smooth skin, uncut. And my overpriced blue jeans with the designer rip had been torn apart, revealing a deep cut in my left leg.

With all my nailbeds blackened and the facet running, I must’ve been planning to scrub them (and everything else) clean. So I furiously scrub at my hands, trying to figure out what happened—and who the hell was this blood-covered suit I kept seeing? I gather water in my hand before splashing it across my face.

“You a’ight?”

I jump, as my thudding heart nearly forfeits its existence. A small gasp escapes me, as I see Dorian standing in the doorway of Angelo’s bathroom. Dressed just as he had been in my dreams (and as he did most days of the week), Dorian was rocking his jeans and a long, loose white tee. His renowned and charming grin stretched across his face while he did his cool-kid lean in the doorway.

“No,” croaks my strained and hoarse voice.

“What happened?” asks Dorian. Shoving off the wall, I watch Dorian through the mirror stepping inside of Angelo’s bathroom. His long brown hair dangles in front of his face, but he leaves it unmoved, allowing his gentle and focused brown eyes to stay on me. With his tatted-hand, he points at me, noting, “You’re hurt.”

“I’m aware,” I murmur, shaking my head. “But I can’t… I can’t remember what happened.” I attempt a frustrated gesture which ends up looking more like a wacky-wild-inflatable tube-man. “I was here—with you and Angelo. We were all at a party at his house. And we were drinking and others were smoking—and that was the last solid memory I had, and that was in the first thirty minutes of the night! Clearly, a great many things must have happened to me before waking up here.” I twister around, parting his hair, in order to properly stare him down. “You were there. At the party. What happened?”

Dorian’s reply is a simple shrug. “I left. It was still pretty early into the night.”

“Why?”

He shrugs again.

“As dodgy as ever I suppose.” He remains unmoved, though I wince at the insult. “I’m sorry I… well, I’m sorry.”

“No need to be.” His lopsided grin masks balance the hurt and love from my words, slowing growing into his usual brilliant smile, illuminating his handsome face. “You know me… I—well, I had to go out and get something.” Dorian’s words hang in the air between us, while I wait for more. His smile sets, his lips shrink, narrowing. “My stash was pretty low, so I left to get more from my… dealer—so I left the party. I didn’t want another incident to happen like a Jessie’s place, so I made sure my dealer left. Besides that, I mean… it was an Angelo party. And I will forever love you, cause you’re my nearest and dearest—but I’ll ate that bastard, forever ever and ever.” He shrugs again. “You know just as well as I that his parties are pretty fuckin’ lame.” He watches, hoping his words would faze me—but I am too distracted from the pain and the confusion and the frustrations of forgetting all cycloning. And yet, by just being here, Dorian was emitting a calming presence, more so than he normally did—but I didn’t know why.

“I can’t stay for long,” Dorian insists, stepping back. “Angelo’ll be back soon.”

“Wait,” I say suddenly. “Why are you here?” I cock an eyebrow. “How’d you get in?”

“Just some lite breaking and entering.” Dorian steps back out of the bathroom. “I just needed to make sure you were ok.”

“How did you know I was in any danger?”

“Those bruises on your arm look like they came from a hand,” observes Dorian.

“But how did you know?” The anger in my demands startles me a bit.

“I have to go Denise, Angelo’s almost back.” Dorian delivers an annoyingly exaggerated, yet welcomingly dashing wink. “I’ll bump into you later,” he reassures. However, his tone shifts, which unnerves me, “Do not tell Angelo you saw me. Under no circumstances, alright?” He starts to leave, but stops. Dorian nods his head towards something behind me. “Those yours?”

My attention is instantly caught by a small, unlabeled, orange medicine container atop the toilet. I’ve never seen Angelo taking anything before, not from his doctor or recreationally that I knew of. Reading the container, these are drugs I’ve never heard of, and as I think to ask Dorian if he has, he’s already vanished into the day.

“Denise?” I hear Angelo’s voice followed by the closing of his front door, his jingling keys hollering after him.

I clench my jaw, staring at the empty pill bottle with, knowing these might be the key to something—but whose are they? Carefully, I slip the container in my pocket before Angelo peers into the bathroom. A concerned, furrow brow hangs across his expressive, morning face. I gave him a little wave. “Hey babe.”

“Thank God, I wasn’t sure if you were gonna be alright.” He walks up with my black denim jacket in hand. Angelo firmly places the jacket around my shoulders before he gifting me a tight, warm hug with his large, muscular arms. “I went in search of you last night. I found you unconscious in a field and carried you back here. You were mumbling about something—”

Roughly, I push him off me. “What was I saying?”

“I was… pretty tanked,” Angelo sheepishly admits “Wasn’t really focusing, I guess.”

“Well, when did I leave your party?”

“An hour or so after Dorian left with his dealer,” says Angelo slowly. “Don’t even know why Dorian was even at the party—but uh, you didn’t say where you were going. You just left. I could only guess that you went after Dorian when you didn’t hear back from him…” My confusion must be revealing itself. “You don’t remember any of this, do you?”

“I guess I… forgot parts of last night. I was at your party, that’s crystal clear—well, no, it’s more like looking at a memory through a fishtank,” I mutter. “But yeah, absolutely no memory after getting to the party.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” Angelo hugging me again, but truthfully I didn’t want it. Why did Dorian say not to talk to Angelo? If I went to find Dorian, did I not find him? Angelo was still talking, but I wasn’t paying him any attention until: “…I’m pretty sure you have class in like half an hour.”

Releasing me from his hug, I see him, standing there in the hallway is the man in the suit just as lifeless as he had been before. He’s closer this time, but his face is blurred out, except his beady brown eyes, tractor-beaming onto me. Closer now, I noticed his black suit has mud on it and dried blood was covering his lower half.

“It’s almost ten?” Angelo turns around, glancing back and forth, before returning to my startled self, unsure of what is wrong. He snaps his fingers in front of me, but I cannot look away from the suited man. Angelo grabs my shoulders, shaking me. “Hey! Are you all right?” The man has vanished.

“I gotta go,” I insist. I walk beyond Angelo, heading straight to the door, pushing it open and dashing down the steps. Though brilliant light of the rising sun sizzles into my dreary, blood-shot eyes, I still carry myself onward.

“Call me after class!” Angelo shouts from the house, as I storm off. He jauntily, adds “Just focus on getting better! Your memory will come back to you when it needs to.”

I feel his yearning need for affection back, but I don’t turn back. Do I even want my memory back? All I can do is try to think back and try to figure out Dorian’s connection to—

Where am I?

I’m staring at the saddest pale-beige landline phone—the same model that’s in all the dorms. Examining my surroundings, I quickly recognize the stupid rap and punk band fliers that litter the walls of Dorian’s dorm room. How did I get here? “Why do I keep blacking out?” I murmur to no one.

“Care if I interrupt?” It’s apparent Dorian is getting really comfortable in doorways, now standing in the one to his room. “I mean, if I’m allowed to enter my slightly unhumble abode.”

“Did you let me in?”

“Still a little hazy on the deets, huh?” The typical Dorian sigh and dramatically slow headshake are accompanied by a chuckle embedded with disappointment. “Nah, you let yourself in. Door was probably open or something.”

“Ugh!” I slam my fist again his closet doors, as frustrated echoes trail from the room. “Why is this happening!” I collapse into the chair by his desk, burying my face in my arms. “Why can’t I remember!!”

Peeking out from my arms, Dorian’s standing over me, his hands pressed together, with a twistedly clever grin forming at his lips. “Need me to stop and pray for ya?”

Cue: eye roll. “Ha, ha. How clever and original—the empty prays from the Atheist.”

“Hey, in my defense, not an Atheist, it’s much more like aligned with like ‘spiritual complexities’ more than anything,” he retorts. “Well, let’s try to jog those hazy memory-banks of yours. Forget last night—or well, forget trying to remember for just a sec. Let’s go allllll the way back to that one afternoon that we went down to the Santa Monica pier?” My inquisitive stare back to him worries him. I clarify about which pier trip he’s referencing since there were many ventures there in our youngster days. He elaborates, “When I broke my arm.”

“Oh,” I say, accompanying a reminiscing chuckle. “We’d been there all day, stuffed full of sugar and candy to fuel us to ride on every single ride we could possibly get on.” Then, a giggle. “And, of course, you ran into that wall and broke your left arm—and always said that was the reasoning behind choosing which hand to tattoo a bloody cross upon—which, also, never really got the symbolism there. Pure irony.”

“Well, I swear to God that the wall came out of no where!” Dorian protests. He smirks, nodding several times. “I know, I know, it’s my own fault. If I wasn’t trying to run away from that guy whose cigarettes I jacked—but that’s not the point. Do you remember going on that one rollercoaster?” There’s a sly stare, a knowing look incubating within him as I shake my head. “You were crying and nearly threw up?” Still, I shake my head. “Yeah, you never talk about it whenever we talk about that day. You forgot—because you wanted to. Our brain protects against the all that rather frightful trauma.”

“Are you saying that’s what happened last night?”

“I’m just saying that sometimes your brain may think some experiences are just better left forgotten,” Dorian says. “In the end, not all memories are worth having. Do you force yourself to hold on to and deal with that memory—or do you relieve yourself of the hurt and pain by removing it from your mind?” Now, Dorian’s giving a nervous, knowing smile. “I know, I’m kinda deep and insightful at times, right? I ain’t sayin’ that you have to agree with my nutty commentary—I’m just throwing out suggestions.”

“But where was I?” Arising from his seat, I stand beside Dorian, leaning into him. “Angelo said I went to try to find you. Did I ever find you?”

“You don’t remember yet.”

“I can’t remember!”

“And you don’t remember anything else?”

“Other than my disturbing-ass dream,” I mutter. “No. Just… that this man that I keep seeing had something to do with it.”

“A man,” Dorian repeats unquestioningly.

“In a suit,” I add. “He was there in my room—at least, in the dream. He was standing in this place… with a beautiful tree. And he was gushing blood—and I was holding a bloody knife.” I swallow hard before I finishing, “You were there. You didn’t look… you looked hurt too. More so than me. You said I had to remember.”

“Well,” says Dorian, holding a dramatic pause, before concluding, “dreams are invaluably important.” The words hang in the air before we burst into laughter of Dorian’s overdramatizations. “’Cause, I’m sure that small bit of clichéd advice wasn’t obvious.” His warm and charming grin starts to flatten. “But I mean, it’s up to you—if you really want to try and remember or just decide to forget. But I guess DreamDorian and I may have a few things in common: I believe that memories are what make us who we are. It’s how we live on in people’s memories, even after you stop being a part of their lives. Even after death.” Dorian laughs this time. “But first—and let me tell you, you have not the slightest idea how this disgusts me—you have to go talk to Angelo. There’s still something he hasn’t told you yet.” His line of sight locks in on his phone, “And you may want to inform the authorities.”

“I don’t think Angelo’ll want me to do that,” I note.

“And to Angelo I’d say, ‘Fuck you, Dumbass,’” Dorian replies, stepping back and walking away. You peek down the hall where Dorian swivels around, casts a wink your wink, and turns back around, throwing up a peace sign back at you, revealing his bloody cross tattoo. “Heavy emphasis on the title of ‘Dumbass’.”

“I’m so glad my boyfriend and best friend get along oh so well,” I narrate to myself. An exasperation escapes me before picking up the phone and dialing 9-1-1. I mull over what I can even say to the police and realize I’ve started pacing back and forth as the phone keeps ringing. When a voice finally response on the other end of the line, my attention freezes me elsewhere.

Without breaking stride, the man in the dirty, bloody suit walks by the door.

“Hi, is anyone there?” repeats the voice on the other end of the phone. But my thoughts are lost in trying to remember who this man is. And then, it clicks. The man was Dorian’s—

Where am I?

I stop, surrounded by dozens of my fellow classmates in the middle of a pathway. I’m outside in one of the university’s quads and the afternoon warm rushes upon me.

“Now what’s wrong?” snaps Angelo’s voice. He’s ahead of me, slowing his pace, as his frustration fuels his full body turn, agitation beaming from his cold brown his eyes. “What is it?”

“Why are we walking?”

Angelo’s furrowed brow begins to further furrow. “You have been way too weird today. We’ve been talking to each other for the last five minutes—” He stops himself and his eyes meet with mine. “You’re blacking out again, right?”

I’m torn. Dorian and Angelo had always pitted themselves against one another—but now I don’t know who to believe, or even whom to trust, not even myself. I knew that neither boy was being completely honest, but I couldn’t turn my back on either one of them. They had the answers that I needed. So finally, I ask, “How did you know that?”

“You just told me a few minutes ago,” he persists, “right after you explained the whole thing about calling the cops.” Angelo’s inflections mirror the rage tightening his lips around the word cop. “So now I’m just doing what you told me to do. We’re going back.”

“Going back?”

“To where I found you.”

Nervousness churns within my stomach. Speechlessly, I resume walking.

Angelo matches pace with me as we weave through the crowd of busybody, college students, but he keeps glancing my way, checking on me. He finally breaks the silence, “Listen, I know you’re scared about what’s happening, but how this ends… this is all really up to you. And sometimes you just have to accept that some things are just better off lost.” I shoot him a dirty look, but he deflects. “I understand that you want to know what happened—but God has a plan for these things. I mean, every does thing happens for a reason, right? Maybe you just weren’t meant to know what took place that night. Maybe whatever happened there was so horrific—so tragic—that your mind couldn’t possibly come to terms with what happened and He relieved you of the pain of remembering. Or perhaps it’s just you.” My bloodshot eyes hone in on him. “Maybe you don’t want to remember.”

I avert my gaze from Angelo, focusing forward.

“Fine,” he grumbles angrily. “Don’t listen to me. I’m just trying to protect you from—”

His panic-ish backpedaling fades to the background while my foreground focus falls upon the crowd in front of us. At first, it is merely a herd of random students—but then he appears. Coming up from my left-hand side, I see the man in the suit, still wearing his dark blue tie, aiming his approach at us. His strides are steady and for once, his eyes are not entranced with me, and he walks right by us—and as he does, his head sharply snaps. He’s staring straight in the eyes. I see his full pale, pasty face clearly for the first time: his dark, thick hair is gelled back and a thick scar is lined above his right, bushy eyebrow; he’s of the Caucasian persuasion; his bloodshot eyes rival my own; there’s an inescapable familiarity about him—but I can’t place how I know him. His head snaps back, set back on his path, vanishing into the group.

“Did you see him!” I gasp, fear forcing me to a halt.

“What? Who?” Angelo stops, peering through the crowded quad. “What’re you talking about? Who was it?”

“Did you see the man in the black suit who just walked by?” I demand, grabbing Angelo. Though he steads them, my hands are trembling.

“No, hon.” Roughly, Angelo sheds my grasp only to grab my army, escorting me out of the crowd. We claim a bench, his large firm hand interlaces with my still shaking hand. He tilts my head up, our eyes meet. “Do you remember him from somewhere?”

“I’m not sure,” I admit. The only memory I can link is back is in my dream. “I think he was there—last night, since I saw him in my dream. I was holding a knife with blood covering it and he was bleeding.” Angelo takes hold of both of my hands. As I expect, Angelo’s overprotective concerns shroud him as he tries to mask the fear spreading across his face, but there’s something else. Wonder and curious dance across his gaze, his eyes darting pack and forth as he’s seeing something on my face I can’t quite place. I say, “I think I may have—”

Where am I?

“—So then, what do you remember next?”

The sun is descending off in the distance. I glance back and forth for a moment—Angelo is still beside me on the bench, but it’s a different bench, and he’s looking down darkly at the ground, defensively crossing his arm. We were in the middle of park that must have been several miles outside of campus. Angelo’s car is parked on the nearby road.

“What do I remember next?” I repeat.

Angelo closes his eyes, tilting his head back, pushing down further frustrations. “This is where I found you,” Angelo explains very matter-of-factly. He must have just told me. My body tenses and I nervously examine the beautiful terrain. “You were alone when I found you. You were bleeding. I don’t know if you came from somewhere else, but you were crying out for me—so I found you.”

“Oh.” My body tries to relax, but doesn’t. “Where was I passed out?”

“Right here,” Angelo says, pointing somewhere, while I continue gazing upon all the lively and beautiful flowers that cover the field. It was an odd notion to face a detached feeling of familiarity in a place I could not properly recognize. “You said some kind of fight happened nearby and you hid here to protect yourself—are you even listening?”

“No,” I reply. None of this made sense. The sensation of remembrance is unique, those pleasantries that come with placing the perfect pieces of previously puzzling memory back together. The ecstasy of the jig-saw effect. But it was as though I was jamming in the pieces to the wrong puzzle. Still, there’s a tickling of remembrance—but not here. I return my attention to Angelo, who’s inspecting something behind me. “Where did you find me?”

“On the other side of the tree.”

As I turn around, dread attempts to sweep me off my feet, as something familiar finally falls into focus: An enormous, gray, leafless, dead tree stands in the middle of this beautiful field of grass and flowers. The picture in the dream. I grind my teeth, no ease keeps my center, trying to think back to the dream and what else was on that table: The picture frame, the water and pills, and those books.

The books. They weren’t a part of yesternight’s memory—but they were trying to tell me something. What were their names?

Angelo asks, “Do you remember this place at all, Denise?”

I negate his query with a head shake. Should I even mention more of my dream to anyone other than myself? Uncertainty becomes me, but the titles buzz through my head. The first book was definitely Pinocchio…

“Well, if there’s something on your mind,” Angelo insists, stepping in closer until he was only inches away. “What is it?”

The next title snaps back into my mind. “Do you know the ‘Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College’?”

“By Thomas Gray?” My literary insights erupt a simple shrug from his response, but my boyfriend continues, certain of he’s right. “It’s that renowned ode, where a pretty famous and well-known phrase was derived: Ignorance is bliss.”

* * * *

Silence fills the whole entirety of the ride back to campus. I know dealing with me is wearing away at Angelo. Repeating a traumatizing conversation he’d already had with me likely wouldn’t help. Sitting in the silence, I consider the place we had just left. In my dream, that place felt distant and detached—like it wasn’t real. But when my dream-self peered out of my polka dot curtains… the place I saw, I knew I was connected to it. And wherever Angelo had taken me… it wasn’t the right place.

I squirm and adjust in the passenger seat, stealing glances at Angelo while he drives. Though he’s looking ahead, I notice when his sights weren’t focused on the road; Angelo’s fixation is split between the road ahead and his wooden cross that dangles from his mirror—no, no it’s something else. Beyond the road, Angelo is stealing his own glances out at the landscape to the left of him, trying to turn his attention as far away from me as possible. Certainly, he’s been stubborn—just as he always is and always will be. Ever since we had started dating, it had always been the same. Angelo yearns to protect me—but honestly, I didn’t always need…

Wait, is he looking for something? Watching him, Angelo’s head moves back and forth and back and forth—he is waiting for something. My own gaze moves beyond him, and I’m glancing back and forth too. We drive away from the grassy fields that Angelo dragged us out to see and the ground beneath us became gravely. I don’t know what Angelo is searching for—

It’s the only noticeable, bulky, black object to the side of the road—everything else out there is just stout shrubbery. The man with the suit stands tall and looms menacingly, his head gradually turning as the car passes by. But that’s not what steals my frightfilled attention. Behind the man is a giant, beautiful, blossoming tree. And I can’t release it from my mind as we drive by the tree—nor can Angelo. The unnerving feeling that resonates within me united with a past memory. The same feeling was summoned forth in my dreams when I first saw that damned and astonishing tree. As I came to name those feelings, a sharp notion squeeze my heart, causing me to ball my fist up. Beneath this feeling came anger. I am somehow connected to—a consensus I’m realizing Angelo has come to as well. He doesn’t want me to remember it. But Dorian does.

In that moment, I know the decision I must make my own—

Here I am.

Night welcomes me. I’m outside, away from campus, standing before a building, unsure once again of where I am. I’m grasping something. Looking down, I realize it’s a piece of paper. Carefully, I unfold it and the first familiar thing is the handwriting: it’s mine. A literal note to myself—I anticipated that I wouldn’t remember something important or mayhaps just arriving here. My handwriting is written as though I had to write it in a rush—perhaps before I forgot, or maybe so someone wouldn’t see. It reads, “Angelo is hiding something from you. The police told you to come here, if you wanted to learn the whole truth about that night. Do not be afraid, this is what you must do.”

I’ve given myself a chance to learn the truth.

“This is all kinda cryptic, right?”

Hesitation stalls me, but I turn; and there he is: Dorian, approaching me. His same coy smile widens across his handsome face, stopping only a few feet out of reach from me, standing underneath the spotlight of a stray lamppost.

“Hey again,” I softly say.

“Well, this is a slight change of scenery.” Dorian’s infectious grin fades away. “Have you decided on your choice, Denise?”

I try to take a deep breath, before I clamp my jaw shut, grinding my teeth—until my jaw unclenches, gifting myself another deep breath. “I don’t really know if I have been thinking about this all day—since I keep blacking out, I barely know what even happened today—but I’d like to think I have. Just living through this day, I realized that I cannot and will not dismiss this. I woke up this morning and managed through a hole-riddled day. This is not living. I need to fix this. I need to learn the truth. Does that mean I have to remember? No. But I’d like to. I mean, if I don’t, all I’ll be able to is look back, realize I was just too scared to take a stand, and allow for these ghosts to consume me.” A covert chuckle covers my confoundment. “Angelo took me to the place where he said he found me—but I couldn’t remember.” I gaze downward at my written warning. “But I realized what you were saying and I do. I want to remember—but every time I even begin to start remembering anything from that night this man appears. It’s like every time I almost touch upon the memory, I’m pulled back into this vast vacuum—and then I forget again.”

“Which is strange, right?” I wait for Dorian to say more, but his silence is all that fills the air for several seconds. I fold arms, my foot already tapping, my amusement has felt any action that was circulated through my body. He groans, clearing his throat before finally circling back. “I mean, the blacking out the events of that night is strange in general, sure—but starting to black out each time you think back to that night is strange. Hell, you should start being able to piece things back together right? You should be beginning to remember things.”

I shake my head. “All I’m remembering are pieces of my dream.”

“Then maybe this isn’t what you think.”

“What is it then?”

Unease and uncertainty weigh Dorian in place as he shifts back and forth. “If your memory isn’t coming back, then perhaps this actually was something that was done to you.”

I can only stare at him, waiting for more. But there’s nothing more to say.

Dorian extends his tattooed hand my way, pointing at the door. “Your answers lay there.”

I groan, turning away from Dorian, re-folding the paper, and starting towards the door. “You’re of course not coming with me, right?” I presume, without looking back.

“I’m sorry I… well, I guess I’m just sorry. It’s not that I don’t want to be more straight forward—I can’t,” he says as I reach for the door. “Don’t be mad.”

“I’d never,” I reply. “This whole thing is just… strange, weird, annoyingly frustrating.”

As I start to turn the knob, Dorian says, “It’ll all be over soon.” Pausing, I assume he’ll say more—it’s Dorian, there’s always more to say. As I wait, he finally confides, as his words carry a lightness to them now. I may not be looking his way, but I know the sound of Dorian’s words when he’s smiling. “I know I’ve been acting pretty weird, but I hope you can forgive me. All you need to do is hold on to your conviction—you want to remember. Because I love you.”

You groan again, “I know that, you idiot, and I love you too! But what are you talking about—oh.” My heartsinks, I scan around the area but Dorian’s gone, probably vanishing away from wherever he had emerged from. So, I turn back to the door, reaching for the hand and electric jolt surges through my chest, and begin to lose my breath. I see him clearly, I see him immediately, I see him indiscriminately: in front of me is the man in the suit. And he’s… just standing there, his eyes level to my own, his gaze lifeless firing right through the glass door and into mine. I see his lips moving for the first time, but what he’s saying doesn’t matter. I may not know where I am, but my answers are here. I turn the knob and—

Here I am.

I’m walking through a door—different from the one I last remembered opening—and heading down what appears to be a long, windowless hall. Next to me is a woman, wearing scrubs and a white jacket—she’s a doctor? I don’t know her, but even in silence, she’s lent me ease, comfort, and I know she can help.

Help me find these missing truths.

All I want is to remember.

The doctor stops at door, places her hand on my shoulder, and her emerald eyes pour into me. “Do you remember where we are?” My head shakes a simple no. “You said your boyfriend showed you the site where you were attacked, but you felt there was something…wrong? It is because you weren’t found nor attacked there.” My stomach tightens. “The site you were attacked at was at a nearby location, next to a giant, lively oak tree.” The floor beneath me gets pulled away. “That’s where it happened.” Our heads turned towards one another at once, and once again the doctor asks, “Where you are now is a morgue.” She’s a coroner. “You told me that you were seeing things—that you saw a man.” The woman wraps her hand around the knob of the door, pushing it open.

Inside the room is a table, with a police officer standing beside it. On the table is a body, covered by a blue cloth.

“Guilt sometimes itself wraps around us, sometimes making us see things, sometimes making us forget.” The coroner stalls, and I see her clenching her jaw. She wonders, “Are you sure you want to know? Do you really want the truth?”

And I know that the instant that I look at this dead man face-to-face, all this forgetting would stop. I tell the doctor, “How can I not?” before I enter the room.

I stand beside the officer, who greets me and meets me with some level of skepticism—warmth may not be in this officer’s nature. But the doctor is still warm and kind, though a bit nervous all the same.

“When the police made it to the scene, one of her colleagues said he was the only one there,” the coroner explains. “There were three different sets of footprints—blood was spilled everywhere. Some was his, some was another man’s, and some we are deducing was yours.” She restrains the words, before they emerge from her, “He was stabbed to death.”

I glance down at the blue sheet covering the body and then I gaze back at the doctor. This is why I’m here.

“Can I… see him?” I ask, my voice laced with hesitancy. The doctor and cop exchange momentarily glances before they both nod in concurrence at one another, and both nod back at me. I hold my breath, carefully and cautiously reaching for the blue cloth that covers the body with my small, trembling hand. As I lift up the sheet, I stop as I eye the victim’s hand. “No,” I whisper softly. A small, bloody cross is tattooed atop his left hand. “No, no, no, no,” I gasp. I lift the sheet off of the upper half of the man, and there he is. Dorian looks so peaceful as he rests upon the table, his skin heavily discolored, and his eyes forever closed. Tears swell forth and my whole body cannot help but shake.

“The man you’re looking for is named Hugh,” explains the officer firmly. “We believe he was your friend’s drug dealer—and is responsible for what happened to you and your friend.”

“Dorian,” I whimper, placing my quivering hand across his cold, still chest. Between my sobs, I touch his cold, still face and try to remember the last time I saw it. But I can’t. My memories were stripped away. I pull my hand away, thinking back to how warming and beautiful his smile had once been.

But he’s gone. My last “memories” of him from today aren’t even real—they’re just my delusion, fragmented mind trying to make sense of this nonsensical trauma. They’re as real as that strange man in the suit who I keep seeing, who I know isn’t really there. But whenever I try or start to remember, I’ve only forgotten more. It’s in this moment, the truth cements into my mind: I won’t be able to remember everything anymore from that night. But I will uncover the truth of whatever is missing without triggering any more blackouts. I stare down at my best friend, knowing that the strange happenings and blacking out had nearly come to a close.

The coroner and officer wait with me for several minutes, until my tears begin to lessen. I’m unsure what invites her to speak, but the coroner finally says, “Now I don’t know why, but your boyfriend has lied and left out information as to what happened last night and where he found you.” I’ve already pieced this together, and as I sniffle away my sadness, I’m unsure of what I’m expected to do next. “The police are waiting outside to take you to the house. They may need to question him further about where he actually found you and whatever else he may be lying about.”

* * * *

It’s approaching eleven o’clock when the police car arrives at Dorian’s house. My memory is still gone, but all I can do is scroll through the facts: That field in the dream had been the one I was attacked in, there was some kind of fight that killed Dorian, but left me alive, and the man I was seeing must have been this guy in a suite, Hugh—who I thought I murdered. But he’s alive. And although I’m done trying to remember, there are still two pressing questions: Why did Angelo lie to me and why was I forgettin? As my hand settle upon my pocket, I felt the small bottle of medicine that I had stolen from Angelo’s bathroom still residing there.

When we arrive to the house, all the lights are off except for the one in the living room. The policewoman shuts off the lights to the car, so he doesn’t notice us right away—but I also assume he doesn’t really care. I then see his silhouette inside the living room. He’s just… standing there, looking at something. At someone? All I can do is wonder and watch. What on Earth has Angelo’s interest at such a late hour—

Another familiar silhouette appears in the window frame. Another light comes on and he’s clear as day: he isn’t wearing the black suit anymore, but I instantly recognize him. His posture and height are just as I envisioned him, and his black hair is still slicked back. He’s talking to Angelo and then he turns and I see his face—the chill the courses through me when I notice the scar above his right eyebrow.

“That’s the man,” I whisper to the officer, “the one who I’ve been seeing. Hugh.”

That’s all she needs and the policewoman emerges from her vehicle. Silently and without authorization, I creep out of the car, quietly following behind the cop. She draws her gun. As we both near the house, I start to overhear Angelo’s voice.

“Get out of my house,” Angelo sternly demands. “I did everything that you asked of me—now leave me alone.”

“No, Angelo, not until I know her name,” his low, angry voice scowls. Hugh. And even though I can’t remember hearing his voice until now, it unnerves me with familiarity. “If you don’t tell me what I want to know, I will find you, come after you—and then you’ll join your friend, Dorian, by the blade that I gutted him with. Now, tell me the name of that bitch who tried to kill me or I’ll do worse to you.”

I hear Angelo gasp with fear, and that seems to be the cue for the officer to move in. She promptly kicks the door open while I remain outside and out of sight. I hear her gun cock and a dead silence follows after she shouted, “Freeze! Drop the weapon, now!”

The policewoman and Hugh begin shouting back and forth at one another—the woman trying to calm the man, who didn’t believe she would fire. After a series of rapid shots, I hear both Dorian and Hugh exclaim with fright, their weapons clattering to the floor. Are they both alive?! Swearing and cursing swarm the air as moments later, Hugh is emerging from the house, hands cuffed behind his back.

While the officer reads Hugh his rights, I stand and come towards the door of the house, where I find the trembling Angelo. He’s fixed on the knife, which is embedded in his floor. He briefly sees me approaching, turning back onto the knife, likely too frightened to face me.

“Tell me,” I demand, stopping directly in front of him. He tries to wear a mask of certainty, but I see the guilt and the fear exposed beneath it. “Tell me why you lied to me.” I wait. I know all the ways he comes up with lies and excuses—I know why he cast his eyes downward, his gazing dancing back and forth. Finally, I scream, “Tell me, Angelo!”

“I did it to protect you,” he blurts out, still looking downward. “I didn’t… want you to know what you did to him—to Hugh. You were so distraught, so hurt, so… broken when I found you. I mean… I even prayed for you, but you were barely making any sense. I didn’t want to bring those memories back to you—”

An abrupt slap cut him off. My small hand’s impression simmers across his face. “Stop lying to me,” I snarl. “My memories can’t resurface. They won’t. I will never be able to think back to the last night I saw my best friend. And it’s not cause ‘everything happens for a reason or cause I wanted to forget—since, in all honestly, would I ever want to lose those thoughts? Something was done to me. And all I can remember is this fractured dream, in which a picture of us with that phony crime scene behind us was next to a glass of water with pills scattered by it.” I reach into my pocket to pull out the small medicine bottle. “Our picture was surrounded by lies… You did this to me.”

It was then that Angelo finally made eye contact with me. He holds it, and his lips tremble, as a tear trickles forth. “When you left my house, you seemed so determined to find Dorian. But when you woke up after I found you… you told me that you wanted the pain to stop. The fear of being attacked, the bloodshed, the pain, the violence—you wished it would all go away.” He sighs. “The blackout must have been a side affect. The pills were just supposed to smite those haunting memories from that night …”

“And yet, after I took them, I was just haunted by my forgotten thoughts.”

“But I did it to protect you.”

“At first, yeah, I assumed you did it because you’re so overprotective that you’d smother me to death.” I shake my head. “But then, how did Hugh know where to find Dorian that night? How could he just randomly be at your house tonight? And most importantly—why does he know your name?” Angelo shifts uneasily. “You told him where to find Dorian, didn’t you?”

“Dorian was dangerous, Denise,” Angelo proclaims. “I know you. He’s always been a Heathenistic bastard. He’d get into fights, do drugs, practically flunked out of school. And he never saw the damage that was done to the people around him because of his actions. And you two were close, but he’s changed over the years. Things changed. You changed. You had me, and he was so lost that he couldn’t protect you anymore. This was inevitable—but I can protect you. I mean… you’re the only person in this world that’s even worth protecting. I lov—”

“Shut up!” Angelo’s excuses immediately cease. “You lied to me, violated me, assisted in murdering my best friend, and smothered my last memory of him.” I turn away from Angelo and see the officer standing at the door. “I’ll never forgive you.”

“Angelo Garrison,” says the officer, “I’ll be needing you to come with me. There are further questions we need to ask you.”

“I’m sorry,” Angelo softly insists.

“Dorian died, you felt guilty, so you made me forget,” I mutter, still facing away from him. “I don’t need your protection, Angelo. Nor do I want it. Never have, never will. You say everything life happens for a reason—well this didn’t just happen. This was your doing. And now, all I need to happen is for you to disappear.” I walk out of his house, never looking back. I’ll never remember what happened on the night, but it doesn’t matter—I’ll cherish whatever memories of Dorian I still have. And I throughout this hellish experience, there’s one certain thing I can turn to – my mind, my dreams, and my gut.

In dreams, my mind will whisper the truths I need to know, my memories will reflect the moments that made me the me I am today, and my gut will ensure that asshats like Angelo are out of my trajectory. No matter what truths get stolen from me, my truth of who I am and all that I value will always reside with me.