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Pope had felt off all day. There was nothing new about it, but it still brought this unshakeable uneasy feeling along.
He hadn’t felt like anyone today. He hadn’t felt like someone.
Every action was made by automatism rather than will or motivation; he ate out of bare necessity, but the thought of chewing felt foreign, and food rolled in his mouth nauseatingly before he could muster the courage to swallow; he had made his bed, but his hands hadn’t felt like they were actually smoothing the blankets, hands humming weirdly above the surface of the fabric.
By noon, he had already brushed his teeth thrice and showered twice, trying to reset the taste of his mouth, the feeling of his skin. It hadn’t worked.
Once the clock hit 18:30, Andrew decided that he might as well try to go to sleep. It rarely ever worked in his favor, so might as well get this attempt over with.
He brushed his teeth yet another time, making sure to avoid his reflection in the mirror above the sink before closing the bathroom lights and going to his room, where he slowly put the bedding back.
Slipping into bed and laying his head on the pillow, Andrew stared at the ceiling for a while before finally closing his eyes.
A ringtone startled him out of his relaxed state. Propping himself up on one elbow to pick up his phone, he took the call after reading “Smurf” off the lit-up screen.
- Yeah?
- Hi, baby.
- What do you want?
- I just wanted to know if you wanted me to make an extra lasagna to bring back home tomorrow.
- No, I’m okay. I’m gonna try going to sleep again.
The tone of his voice stayed the same, but he hoped she would catch on to the fact that she had bothered him.
- Alright. Goodnight, Andrew.
He hung up.
Pope placed the phone back on the small night table, let himself fall back against the mattress and closed his eyes once more.
Back to trying to sleep.
He just had to breathe, to not think about anything, to not think about the sound of the wind against his window, to not think about banks, to not think about jobs, to not think about Smurf, to not-
Smurf.
Smurf had just called. They had talked. They had talked about... about... about...
A frown appeared on his face, and his eyes were now wide open.
What had they talked about? He had just hung up. How could he not remember?
It was fine. Nothing important if he couldn’t remember it. Nothing important...right?
Important or not, Andrew could not recall what they had talked about, and it somehow remained the only thing he could think about.
The man sat up, letting the blanket fall on his lap as he repeatedly smoothed his hair back with shaky hands.
He just had to remember.
He forced himself to take a deep breath. Everything was fine. He just had to think a little bit more about it, focus.
He had picked up the phone, they had both greeted each other, and then... then... Smurf had asked...
Andrew grabbed at his hair, groaning as he planted the heels of his feet into the mattress, bringing his knees closer to himself to lean his elbows on.
He could not remember. He could not.
A stray tear fell from his burning eyes, and he tried to blink the others away as he whined, tugging at the handfuls of hair he had in his grip.
He could not remember what had just happened. The more he tried to think about it, the further it felt. Why couldn’t he remember?
He couldn’t just call her back either because how would he even explain it all without sounding completely out of it?
But why could he not just remember it?
The memory felt trapped behind a huge wooden door, pressing against both sides of his head, and every time he tried to peep through the keyhole, the door just kept growing thicker and thicker.
The churn in his stomach rose to the back of his throat, and he quickly swallowed, coughing on leftover spit as he started to sob, fingernails digging into his scalp.
Why couldn’t he remember? It had just happened. He had talked to Smurf; he knew it. He knew she had asked a question, and he had answered it.
Andrew swiped his phone back with a trembling hand, unlocking it and checking the call log.
Smurf had called.
Something in the back of his mind seemed to settle.
Okay, he was not completely losing it... yet.
What if this was only the start of it all? What if he were to keep forgetting more and more? It had been less than fifteen minutes and he could not, for the life of him, recall what they had exchanged.
Fear grabbed at his heart, and Pope reached for his notebook and its associated pen that were kept on the bedside table.
Loosely crossing his legs to use his ankles as a table, Andrew flipped through the pages until he reached an empty one.
Bringing the pen down as he felt his pulse beat in his ears, he began to write.
My name is Andrew Cody.
I live in Oceanside.
My mother’s name is Janine.
Julia is my twin sister.
I have three brothers named Deran, Craig, and Baz.
He stared at the few sentences. Good. That was good. Now he could not forget, not like what Smurf had asked him on the phone.
But what if it had been an important question after all? And he had just answered whatever? What if it was to compromise a job? Put someone in prison? Get someone killed?
Andrew groaned as he wiped the itchy tears from the skin of his cheeks.
He glanced between the halo of light next to his leg and the dark room in front of him.
He couldn’t risk it.
His finger lowered back onto Smurf’s open contact, and he brought the phone to his ear as he took a shaky breath.
He could do this.
It barely rang once before it picked up.
- Andrew?
- Hi.
Pope mentally slapped himself for the way his voice sounded.
- What’s wrong, baby?
- I... uh... I know you called, but I can’t remember what you asked or what I said, but I know I answered, but I don’t remember what, his words wavered.
- What?
There was surprisingly no disappointment, or anger, or shame in her voice. Just pure confusion, which was understandable after Pope’s uncharacteristic ramble.
- I can’t remember but I can’t stop thinking about it, and I don’t like it, it-
He stopped his sentence short, knowing he’d only dig himself deeper, knowing he was already way too vulnerable and it was nothing like him. Saying it was scaring him would be showing more than too much fragility. Pope was not fragile, could not.
He was already on the verge of erupting back in tears, throat squeezing shaky words out of his throat.
- That’s alright, baby. You were probably still a bit drowsy when you picked up the phone. I had only asked if you wanted me to make an extra lasagna for you to bring to your place.
The recollection it brought wasn’t as clear as he had hoped, but he could now vaguely remember that it had been question of bringing something.
- Hmm. Then, no. Had I said no?
- You did.
- ‘kay. Night.
- Good night, baby.
Pope hung up for the second time in twenty minutes, putting his phone aside and lying back down to stare at the ceiling.
Lasagna.
This whole thing, only for it to be about lasagna.
Andrew took a deep breath; everything ended well.
But he still had forgotten something less than twenty minutes after it had happened.
Letting his head fall to the side, he looked at the window’s light glow, hidden by the thin curtain.
There was no way he could manage to find sleep now.
Getting out of bed and leaving his phone under the mess of blankets, he took a seat in the living room.
Tonight would be yet another night spent sitting in front of the television screen, attempting to drown out the traffic in his head.