Questioning: Doubts And Persistence

The room grew heavy with silence, his question demanding a response, his accusing gaze leaving me no escape.

I averted my gaze, unable to meet his eyes, and replied, "I honestly don't know who he is. I understand this might not be the answer you were hoping for, but it's the truth. My memories are gone, and everything's a hazy mess… It's all a blur. If you don't trust me, you can check with the doctor!"

His frustration was evident; he clutched his head as if it were throbbing with pain. Letting out an exasperated sigh, he retorted, "Do you honestly think I'll buy into this nonsense?"

A brief silence hung in the air, heavy with tension. Then, his gaze bore into me, seething with anger. He demanded, "Ethan… do you have any clue what happened to him or what he's been up to?"

Frustration boiled within me as his persistent questioning grated on my nerves. I shot him an irritated glare, my voice firm as I repeated, "I already told you, I don't know! I don't remember a thing!"

His gaze shifted briefly, and I caught a glimmer of sadness. Then he dropped the bombshell. "Ethan was brutally murdered, in the most gruesome way imaginable. The image of that scene is seared into my mind like a haunting nightmare. Ethan was a cop, a detective, just like me. Can you even begin to fathom the torment of losing a fellow officer like that? And here you sit, telling me you can't remember a damn thing. Do you have any idea what I'm feeling right now?"

I was completely lost in his words. I couldn't quite grasp what he was getting at. "I'm truly sorry if that happened to Ethan. And I'm sorry for myself too. All I can tell you is that I don't remember anything. The doctor mentioned that my memories might come back with time. That's all I've got right now."

He lowered his head for a moment, then raised it to meet my gaze. "Honestly, I'm having a hard time trusting you," he admitted. "But against my better judgment, I'll give you a chance."

He silenced with his intense look at me, he said, "About a month ago, we received an emergency call from the headmaster of the dorm. We rushed there, as we're the closest station and usually handle such cases. That scene wasn't something you'd ever want to see or experience. When we arrived, you and Ethan were there, surrounded by blood. At first, we thought you were both dead, just like the headmaster did. It was only when we checked you and heard faint heartbeats..."

He turned his gaze away from me, his fist clenched tightly, and then continued, "But Ethan was already dead when we arrived. His body... it was in a terrible state, like nothing you'd ever want to see. His heart had been ripped out and thrown on the ground, almost like it had been sliced into pieces. His body was covered in knife wounds, drenched in blood... I can't even begin to imagine the horror of it all."

He continued to look at me and went on, "Strangely, your heart wasn't in great condition either. It looked like it had been yanked out, but not entirely removed... more like it had been shifted somehow. You lost a significant amount of blood, and that might have been what caused your coma."

As he spoke, I couldn't help but doubt his words. It all seemed so surreal. However, the mark on my chest told a different story, one I couldn't recall for the life of me.

As I grappled with the notion of these haunting memories being my own, the enigma deepened.

I pondered the strange versions of myself and the memory of my heart being torn from my chest.

But there was another unsettling piece to this puzzle: the headshot. It was an image that refused to fade from my thoughts, a burning question mark etched into my consciousness.

I hadn't experienced a gunshot, so what did it mean? Did it fit into this jigsaw of fragmented memories, or was it an unrelated piece of the puzzle? It was like a twisted nightmare, but it couldn't be real... could it?

The idea that these were my own memories, my own experiences, was too bizarre to fully accept. Yet, the doubts lingered, leaving me in a state of bewildering uncertainty.

Frustration coursed through me like a relentless tide.

I fixed my gaze on him, unable to contain my exasperation. "You're out there hunting for a killer, and here we are, a whole month later, and you're still chasing your tail. You're wasting your time, and mine too!" My voice carried the weight of irritation.

Regret gnawed at me, mingling with the remnants of my frustration.

Why had I let anger get the better of me? Those words hung in the air, heavy with a sense of missed opportunity and tension.

Noah's voice wavered with a mix of sadness and frustration as he continued, "I know, it's a shame for a detective like me. Ethan was my friend, my colleague, and he was my... Yet a month has passed, and I haven't caught anything related to the case. I keep going over the details in my head, trying to find any leads, but it's like chasing shadows in the dark. I just need to know if you remember anything, anything at all, that might help us find the person responsible for this brutality."

Noah's eyes bore into mine, and he continued, his voice softer now, "You were the only hope, but you weren't awake, almost like another dead person. But now that you're awake, I can't help but wonder if there's a…"

A smirk played on Noah's lips as he continued, "I still don't trust you, you could be a witness to everything, just because of your injury, or perhaps a cunning killer who got themselves hurt in the process. Or to play innocent."

I responded with frustration, "I apologize, and I'm sorry for myself too, but could you please cut the crap?"

Noah's emotions flared as he exclaimed, "You know, you should be dead, but you were lucky, damn lucky! But I guess luck can sometimes play tricks. I can't wrap my head around you claiming to have forgotten everything!"

I was fed up and exhausted, sick of his relentless questioning. I grumbled to myself, weariness washing over me, Fuck it! I'm tired and done with him and his never-ending talk. Can't he just let the fuck be? Like my mother said, he never gives up. It's like there's concrete in his head.

In a weary, but firm tone, I settled back into my hospital bed and sighed, "Enough with this, I'm really tired. Believe what you want, let your imagination run wild. Honestly, I'm not interested anymore. Just leave me be."

I averted my gaze, deliberately ignoring him, and then heard his exasperated sigh.

Just then, the doctor walked in and offered a welcome interruption, saying, "Sorry for the interruption. Tonight, you have permission to leave and go home to rest. You're fully healed now. It's time to reunite with your family and hopefully, your memories will follow. It's better to recover at home. Maybe being at home will help bring back your memories. We'll see each other again soon."

This decision seemed like the best course of action for me. Noah gave me a distrustful look and stated, "I don't like the way this is heading, but I'll be keeping a close eye on you, and if need be, I won't hesitate to have you arrested!"