`My first memory is comprised mainly of darkness, and cold, and a tight constriction in my chest as I flailed for the air which seemed so utterly far away. They tell me it was four months ago I struggled to breathe in that frigid river, and my savior had come in the form of a chubby teen as pale as a cave fish. How I had gotten into the river – and pretty much everything else, for that matter- is a complete mystery to me. The few things I have remembered from the time before the hospital are these: the name Anaxandra, drowning in the river, and books. I know not whether Anaxandra is me, or my mother, or a friend, or a name I merely took out of a book and stored in the back of my brain, but that is what I am called now, for I have no other name to call my own. The river I have described to you. As far as books go, well, I remember reading them. Hundreds of them. I remember plots, main characters, places, how I cried at the death of Dumbledore, how afraid I was for the hobbits as they crossed into Mordor… and yet, I do not recall where I went to school, my mother’s name, how old I am, or where I lived. And, of course, all of these memories surfaced weeks after my admittance into the hospital.
Therapy takes up much of my time, although my time is not particularly important as it is. I am shown novels of all kinds (many of which I recognized immediately), and faces of all colors and shapes (none of which I have recognized yet). I am made to fish, dance, do gymnastics, sing, and eat various dishes in the hope that any one of these activities will trigger a suppressed memory. None has yet helped. The doctors are beginning to give up hope, especially as with no relatives or money, I cannot –pay for treatment. I know that as soon as I am recovered enough, I’ll be sent off to be adopted. Still no relation can be discovered. I know not whether I had no living parents or whether they merely do not care about me enough to find me. I prefer to believe the first.
People are frightened of my lack of self, and so avoid me once they know what I am. So often I will be on one of my many minor excursions into the outside world in search of memory when someone will ask me about myself, oddling of a person as I am. With dark red hair highlighted with purple cascading in a waterfall down my back tied under a kerchief, blue-grey eyes, square rimmed glasses, usually witty shirt, plastic Time Turner, bag covered in buttons, laptop covered in stickers, and, of course, the ever present wheelchair, also highly decorated, (I would need one for the rest of my life-the fall into the river had not done wonders for my health) made people give me a double take, for I am not the sort of figure common in a small town like the one the hospital is located in. In fact, I am often surprised that there are any people left to question me, especially as few ever come back after their first encounter. I try to be polite, but it rarely ends particularly well. For example:
Stranger: “Hello, I’m George, what’s your name?”
Me: “Uh…. Anaxandra.”
Stranger: “Nice to meet you, Alexandra.”
Me: “Sorry, it’s not AL-exandra, it’s AN-axandra. Most people get it wrong the first time.”
Stranger: “Oh, that’s an interesting name, what nationality is it from?”
Me: “It’s Greek, actually.”
Stranger: “Is your family Greek?”
Me: “I don’t know.”
Stranger, laughing: “What do you mean, you don’t know?”
Me, sighing because all my conversations end like this: “Well, I was in a horrible accident in which I almost drowned, but I survived, however, I can’t remember a thing before it. I have no idea who I am, where my family is from, what my name really is, or anything else about my old life. All I can recall are the events of the last four months.”
Stranger, no longer laughing: “Oh. I… see. Well, goodbye then!”
And then they run away, and I continue rolling around town, feeling more lonely and lost than ever. I am told to consider myself lucky to be alive, but I must wonder- is someone truly alive if they have no identity and no sense of self? It frightens people because they see themselves in me- they see their own lack of self, I think, and see what they could be if they forget their history. I suppose I’m a sort of warning to them, but I’d prefer to be one of them than to be a warning.
Soon, I suppose, I will have an identity- another orphan up for adoption, like a puppy no one wants. Someday, I shall have a new life, and my old one may be forgotten, but for now, I’m stuck in limbo. This is both exhilarating and terrifying. I can create for myself a personality, recreate myself in a whole new place, with entirely different people. I can be who I want to be.
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