Becoming Amy - Julia Solovieva

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slam and footsteps moving away, before I even realize where I am. I look around. And the first thing that the spotlight of my paranoia highlights for me to see is the walls. All around this place. It is not really outside, it is inside this whole facility, a cozy little inner yard. To be honest, I kind of expected something like that, subconsciously, half-consciously. Paranoia aside, it is not wise to let a patient who has recently had a car accident and a head trauma wander around in the streets or some public park or garden. At least not unsupervised. And I would prefer being enclosed in four walls to being supervised by Thomas any day.

      Apart from the walls the place looks very nice. There are trees, bushes, flowerbeds, and everything is bright and colorful, succulent. Narrow winding paths are paved between the plants in what seems like a random order with cozy little nooks and inviting benches. At any other circumstances I would fall in love with this place and never want to leave it again, but everything else that is going on spoils the fun.

      However, being outside, breathing fresh air and looking at something – finally! – other than the white walls feels really good. I put the folder and the player on the nearest bench and walk around for a while to stretch my legs. I also like that, at least in this small garden, I have some choice concerning where to go: I can turn left or right or even turn around in the middle of a path and go back. Not that I have been cooped up inside for such a long time, but even this illusion of freedom feels… Well, feels liberating. I would spend the whole hour just walking, but then I remember the things I brought with me. It is, after all, in my own interest to have a look at them now and not to put it off. Although I do not really feel like listening to “my favourite” music or looking at pictures of “me”. Although I kind of know what the result will be.

      Despite my pessimistic mood, I decide to be done with it now rather than later. I sit down on a bench, put the headphones on, press play, and open up the folder with the photos. This time it is not childhood, but teenage years. The girl in the photos is thin, blond and freckly. There are fewer photos with the father and more with some friends or classmates, a few of the photos are of what seems like some kind of trip with what seems to be some tourist attractions. The girl looks happy. She looks very much like me. But she is not me. First I just think it in line with my paranoia and with “Amy does not feel like my name”. But then, on a bench in a lovely inner garden, in the middle of some cheerful song, looking at a photo of a smiling teenage girl, I realize that it is not me. These are photos of some other girl, also, probably, her favourite books and music, but why they are trying to persuade me that I am her – I have no idea.

      I take off the headphones, almost rip them out of my ears. I jump up, drop the photos, drop the player on the ground. I want to run, no matter where, just get away from these place and these people. But then I hear voices. Someone is behind the glass doors, and they are arguing, almost shouting at each other. With some difficulty I suppress my desire to flee – and where would I run, anyway? – and listen.

      I can recognize the two people – they are Doctor Smith and Thomas, but I cannot make out any words. I pick up the fallen things and as slowly and quietly as possible walk to the door and sit on the bench nearest to it. Unfortunately they have lowered their voices a bit and I still cannot make anything out – just the intonations. Thomas seems to be very upset with something – if I were not so upset myself I would make a joke about him being upset over his name – who on Earth is named Thomas, anyway – or hair color – and Doctor Smith seems to be trying to calm him down. They exchange a few other sentences I cannot make out, and then I hear Thomas shout:

      But it is not her! Not Amy! I can’t see her like that! And you are making me spend time with her, talk to her! This is unbearable!

      For the love of God, shut up, boy! – Surprisingly, Doctor Smith manages to shout and hiss this phrase at the same time. Impressive.

      But I am not really impressed. I am not even listening anymore. With all my power I am fighting my desire to run. But I cannot run, not that there is anywhere to run. If I could leave I probably would, but then I would never find out who the hell I am, who the hell Amy is and why the hell I am supposed to pretend to be her. While the two men are still talking, I manage to calm down a little bit. I get up, move to a bench slightly farther away from the door, put the headphones on – even turn on the player – and start looking through the photos. I am looking at them, but I do not really see them, my mind can hardly register the images in front of my eyes, but all I need to do is pretend that I was not listening to them, that I did not hear what Thomas cried out, that I was not even aware that they were at the door and the hour was up. I hope I am enough of an actress to be able to do that. Finally, out of the corner of my eye I notice someone enter, but I pretend not to see them. I even start humming to whatever tune is playing and look even more intently at one of the photographs. Suddenly someone grabs one of my headphones, cold fingers brushing my ear, and pulls it out. Thomas is standing above me, his face such a deep shade of red that it seems painted on, his eyes watery. I pretend not to notice that as I look up and smile at him.

      Time’s up, – he barks. – Come.

      Oh, is it? – I say innocently. – I haven’t noticed. This is such a lovely garden.

      Mm, – and this is the last “word” I hear from Thomas for today.

      I get up and follow him. This time I do not feel like talking either. And so we go silently along the white corridor until I suddenly realize that we are not going back to my room. My mind seems to have memorized the way just enough to understand that we are going somewhere else. First I want to stop and ask where we are going, but then I change my mind. Judging by the mood Thomas is in, the only response I will get will probably be something in the lines of “none of your business”. But even if he were so kind as to tell me, what would it matter? I do not seem to have any choice whatsoever in what is happening to me here.

      After some more walking and even a couple of flights of stairs – well, that is new – we arrive at – drum roll – another white door. Thomas opens the door, gestures for me to come in and as I come in slams it down behind me immediately.

      I find myself in a room very much like the examination room where I woke up, but with much more equipment, buzzing, beeping and blinking with various colored lights. I do not like the look of it at all. Doctor Jones is sitting at a table in the corner, writing something, and as I come in she looks up and smiles welcomingly.

      I am sorry we have to do it without prior warning, – she says apologetically, – and without lunch. But this should be done as soon as possible.

      Wow, her voice is pleasant. She should not have been a doctor, but a teacher, or voice actor or a person who records audio books – something along these lines, someone who speaks a lot. I almost wish I could ask her to read me a bed-time story. But she is going to do something to me, and even her pleasant, warm, honey-like voice cannot distract me from it.

      And what exactly should be done as soon as possible?

      Some tests, – she says casually, like it is something ordinary, something she does every day. But then maybe she does. – We will start with brain waves first. I will attach some sensors to your head. Then I will ask you some questions, show you some objects and photos, and the machine here will record your brain waves, which we then will be able to analyze.

      But why? You already know what is wrong with me, don’t you?

      Well, we do and we don’t. We know that you can’t remember, but there is a number of reasons why that might be, so we need to have a closer look at your brain to determine that.

      “Have a closer look at my brain” does not sound comforting at all. I cannot help but snigger nervously. With all the tension building up, I would need hundreds of hot showers to wash it away.

      I am sorry, – I have to apologize

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