Missing Piece
by Francesco Armada
I feel sick. I feel sick. I feel so very sick. "What do you remember?" asks a doctor. "I remember getting on my bike and riding down 13th Street and seeing bright lights," I respond. "Okay, what about your name?" "My name is... uhhh..." Why can't I remember my name? "I don't remember," I respond. "Huh, that's interesting. Can you tell me your parents' names?" he asks. "I only have my father, and his name is Arthur Sava." "Okay, then what's your favorite food?" "Oh, that's easy... it's..." I seriously can't answer that either?! "I don't remember that either," I reply. "I think I'm starting to see what's going on here. Please wait here for one moment," the doctor says as he leaves the room. That's weird; I can remember my friends, family, and even events that happened to me. But I can't remember who I am. What's my name? I can piece together that my last name is Sava, seeing as how it's my dad's name, but I can't say that for certain. What about the things I like? Nope, drawing a blank there.
My dad walks into the room now. "Are you okay, son? I rushed here as soon as I heard what happened. The doctor says you have amnesia. He also says that you can't remember who you are or anything about yourself. You still remember me though, right?" he asks like a puppy begging for attention. "I know you're my dad, and I also remember my friends, but... Can you tell me what kind of person I am?" I ask out of curiosity. "Of course I can. What father would I be if I couldn't tell you who you are? You're very respectful for starters and also very neat. I've only ever had to pick up after you when you were too young to do it yourself. You took a lot of pride in doing well in school, and you're very smart and capable. It's honestly a miracle how much of a perfect child you are," he explains, seeming very excited for some reason. I see now, so I'm not much of a burden on my father at all, it seems. That must mean I'm mature enough to take responsibility for myself. "Hey, Dad, can we go home?" I ask. "Of course we can, and you need proper rest after that crash," he remarks.
I feel sick. I need to rest, and I need to rest long. I can still remember the layout of this house along with where my bed is. Wow, he wasn't kidding; this place is really neat. I guess I do pick up after myself. Maybe I can use the camera I put in my room last week to watch myself and get a hint as to how I acted around people. But right now, I need sleep. I feel sick. I can't get this feeling out of my chest. It's like a puzzle piece is being pushed into a place where it doesn't fit. I feel sick.
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