Chapter 3: Pieces of Me (Jack’s POV)

Three years have passed since the alley. It has been three years since my memories and the life I knew left me. My days now consist only of habits that help me stay grounded in what's left of me. My apartment is a museum of poster boards, sticky notes, and handwritten instructions. There is a message or alert on every corner of the room to tell me of who I am and what I need to do. I couldn't get by without them.

The majority of the sun is blocked by the building opposite from me, so my flat is constantly in a state of half-light and half-shadow. It makes sense, really. I now live in this transitional area. A guy without a future, torn between the old and the new.

The living room is empty except for an old brown sofa, a coffee table with discolored wood, and an armchair that's seen better days. All that's written on the walls are warnings. Take your medicines. Switch off the stove. Check the time. All of these are written by me, however each morning they are all different.

I have a black leather back book open on the coffee table that I have been using ever since I got out of the hospital. I write down everything that happens every day so that, come tomorrow, I can act like I still control the world. Flipping over pages filled with notes, dates, questions, and faces. While not all of it makes sense, some of it does.

The log tells me I get up at the same time every morning. I take my instructed drug. Though most of it seems like background noise these days, I still check the news. Next is breakfast, which is generally something simple like toast or cereal. After that, I try to fill in the blanks, the pieces of my life that disappear every night when I close my eyes, while sitting in this chair.

A voice from the kitchen asks, "Jack?"

That's my caregiver, Ben. Even though we've been working together for more than a year, every morning feels like we just met. He's in his mid-40s, nearly my age, and has a round face and a soft way that helps me accept that I need him. I hate being dependent on him.

"Yes, I am here," I answer, even though even I can't hear how flat my voice sounds.

He enters the space carrying a cup of coffee. It smells familiar, like dark roast coffee. It brings back memories of the precinct and those late nights when my only source of energy was coffee. However, that life now seems like a dream, disappearing a bit more every day.

I accept the cup that Ben has held out to me without turning around. I mumble, "Thanks," as I stare at the journal, trying to understand the jumble of words on the page. However, it is useless. Nothing sticks now.

"How did you sleep last night?" Ben asks in a casual tone, as if he's trying to avoid upsetting the delicate balance of my day.

I give a shrug. "Fine I guess."

He does not press. He never does. I appreciate that about him. He doesn't linger; he's just here. He doesn't make an effort to console me regarding unfixable problems.

I take a sip of the coffee and let the taste linger on my tongue. Ben takes a seat in the couch across from me and begins to thumb through a magazine he brought. He always carries books, magazines, and puzzles to kill time. Having someone watch over me and make sure I don't forget to perform the basics is a bizarre routine. But it's preferable to being by yourself.

I look at the wall, where a clock is ticking away, a steady reminder that time is passing even though I'm not. Nearly 9:00 a.m. Sarah will arrive soon.

Sarah continues to check in regularly. She says it's to check on me, but I know better. Despite the fact that she is not at fault for anything, she feels bad. It was her duty to save me from that alley. Since then, even when it became clear that I was no longer the same Jack Williams I once was, she has been the one keeping an eye on me.

There's a knock on the door around nine-fifteen. perfectly on schedule. As Ben rises to answer, I hear Sarah's well-known voice extending a warm greeting.

It feels as though a weight has fallen on the room when she enters. Something solid, but not one that's hefty. She still has the same piercing eyes and tough-guy demeanor as when we worked together, but she now exudes a gentleness and delicacy that was missing in the past.

"Hello, Jack," she says, giving me a half-smile that stops short of her eyes. She doesn't take any move to open the file that she is holding in her hand.

"Good morning," I say in a hollow voice. "What brings you here today?"

Sarah puts the file on the sofa table and takes a seat next to me. She reclines and observes me for a while, as if she's trying to formulate a response to something she's been clinging to.

"The same ole routine?" Glancing at the book in my lap and the sticky notes on the walls, she asks.

I give a nod.

We are quiet for a while, and I can tell she is thinking about something. Something beyond the standard check-in. At last, she lets out a sigh and bends forward, resting her elbows on her knees.

Her careful words, "Jack... there's something you need to know," come to meet my eyes. "The case is still on. the person from three years ago."

The case.

The one is she talking of, I know. the one who brought about a full transition. The one who moved me into this apartment, full of mementos and reminders of my old self. That case is the reason I ended up in that hospital bed and destroyed my memory.

I just nod to let her continue without saying anything.

Her voice is hardly heard above a whisper as she says, "The killings... they've started again. The same MO. same theme. It is happening once more."

I stay silent for a brief while. It feels like my brain is processing the words too slowly as they come to me. The killing spree has started.

"Are you sure?" I ask, my voice tight, though I already know the answer.

Sarah gives a nod. "Positive. We already have two bodies, both of which are staged perfectly. Jack, it's the same. Everything."

I shut the diary on my lap while running my fingers down the cover's edge. I still remember the facts of the first case clearly. The meticulous method of the murderer and the accuracy of his killings. It like piecing together a puzzle, with every piece falling into its right place. But now that the puzzle had been torn apart, the parts were incomprehensible.

"Is Quinn still locked up?" Even though I already know the answer, I still ask. The man we caught and found guilty of the killings, Richard Quinn, is currently incarcerated for life. He is not at anyway responsible for this.

"He is still locked up," Sarah confirms. "We looked it over. He has nothing to do with what's going on right now. But Jack, someone out there is aware of the facts. He is being copied by someone."

My thoughts race, looking for anything, anything, that makes sense. It's impossible for someone to replicate the original killings, but they are. The case was closed. Few people were aware of the details.

"Were there any others who knew?" I ask, my tone heavy with annoyance. "Were the case files accessible to anyone else?"

Sarah gives a headshake. "It's not that easy. Jack, this isn't just a copycat. It's someone who knows you. Someone familiar with your thought process and approach. This isn't coincidence."

I look at her, feeling the weight of what she said weigh heavily on me. A person familiar with me. I get a chill at the idea that is unlike anything I've felt in years.

With a sad heart, I finally answer, "I can't help you. You know I can't."

Sarah adds quietly, "I'm not asking you to solve it," but there's a look in her eyes that betrays otherwise. "However, I felt you should to be aware."

I stay silent. I just sit there, gazing at the ground as my thoughts whirl around the bits and pieces of my past. I want to return to my old self as a detective, the one who could work any riddle and solve any case. But that's no longer who I am. These pieces are all that remain: broken, dispersed, and worthless.

"Jack," Sarah says quietly, reaching over to place a hand on my shoulder. "It's alright. I simply felt that you should to be aware."

I nod, not sure if it's an agreement or more of a habit. I have no idea how to feel. The case that robbed me of everything is still open and unsolved.

I hear the clicking of the wall clock again as Sarah gets up to go. Nearing 11:00 a.m.

She adds, "Jack, take care of yourself," and walks away.

I'm all by myself now.

With the journal still folded and sitting on my lap in the dimly lit room. The coffee's gone cold, but I don't move to drink it. Rather, I sit there and watch the clock tick away, my head spinning from everything Sarah just told me.

Once more, the killings have started.

I also have a sneaking feeling that the person responsible is somewhat not yet done.