Black Mail

"Time heals all wounds, I presume." The interviewer said, getting comfortable on my turquoise Serena and Lily armchair in my lounge room.

"That doesn't apply to me. In fact, what wounds can I heal when I don't remember a damn thing when I was young. The media covered this already. What more information do you want?" I said nonchalantly, blowing at my cigarette.

The interviewer took out his notepad and jotted down what I had just said.

"There isn't anything to write. We are done here. Get out!" I said coolly.

"So you are saying you have amnesia? Then why are you always cold, harsh and brutal when you don't even remember you background? Why are you always intimidating? Why are you on demand on every police check-list, them wanting you to join their department? Then, how is it possible..."

I pressed the cigarette that had been burning between my fingers on the ash tray and stood up as the interviewer continued blowing up with all the questions he could think of. Gawd! It was giving me a headache.

I was angry, but he couldn't tell. Over the years after being kicked out from the only place I tried calling home, I tried my best to hide my actual feelings. Not even a twinge of emotion could be evident on my face.

Hiding feelings was also part of the job. You don't want to sell out your emotions to strangers. It only showed weakness. We can't control what will happen tomorrow. You'll never know who will step on you and who wouldn't. That is why life was overpriced and tagged as unfair. All you have to do is adapt and fight the world before it fights you.

"I said get-out! Normally, I don't repeat myself." I said, still keeping my cool but I was about to lose it.

"Clearly, but I'm doing my job. I'm being paid for extra hours."

"I don't give a damn about your job. You go by my rules under my roof, so I'd suggest you stop being a stubborn pig and get the hell out of my house before I throw you out myself."

The interviewer stood up. His eyes met mine.

"You don't intimidate me at all."

"Oh! Well, that's very good to hear." I said sarcastically and smiling, hiding the rage of madness that was boiling in my veins.

I walked swiftly, brushing my black robe against the grey granite tiles towards the interviewer. And before he knew it, my leg met his back and he fell from the contact, his stomach meeting the tiled floor, groaning in pain.

I squatted next to him and took him by the hair, whispering in his ear.

"I think now you know why I'm on demand on every police department. So, if there are no any other questions, you know where the front door is." I said, walking away, living the helpless man groaning on the floor.

I walked to another room that was painted cream and contrasted by a dark maroon wool carpet that had a smooth and satisfying feeling when one was barefoot. I sat on one of the couches in the room, laying back my head on the head rest and placing my booted feet on the coffee table opposite the couch.

I sighed in exhaustion.

'Twenty four unread mails.' My digital monitor announced, earning a huge loud groan in response.

I lazily stood up to reach for the remote and checked on all the received and unread mails.

"Please write back. We need your help; You are highly considered, blah, blah, blah; The LAPD wants you to kindly check in as soon as possible to interrogate a new suspect. Payment is done for every hour." I read.

"Crap!" I concluded, slumping back on the couch.

As I scrolled down the list of endless mails, the last one drew my attention. It had not been read for the past eight months. The mail had never demanded for my attention as it had at that moment. 

Its subject was a single dark heart and three continuous dots. The hell? What was that supposed to mean?

I questioned myself whether to open the mail or not. I shrugged my shoulders and clicked on it.

Dear Becca Monroe,

It would probably take a while before you open this mail but I'll be patient enough until you read what I have to say,

I'll cut to the chase. I'm the doctor who attended to you when you were six and an old couple brought you to my hospital after they found you bleeding near a railway station. You might be wondering what happened, I do too but I may have an idea. Since nineteen years ago, ever since you were admitted here, I never stopped checking on your brain scans. Together with a neurosurgeon, Mikael Baldowski, we discovered you had memory loss but as the years advanced, we figured out how we could help one remember by connecting the cerebrum which is associated with memory in the human brain to a machine designed by the Chinese to record dreams.

We have not yet tested it, but of course, dangers and risks may arise. You'll be our guinea pig as everyone else with memory loss bailed. We will not force you to but we'll push through with your consent.

I believe you'd want to know what happened that caused your memory loss.

Feel free to reply and give your opinion. 

~Dr. Xander

"Do I really want this?" I asked myself after re-reading the long mail one more time.

Would it be worth it?