Mortal Agent of a Vampire - Chapter 22

When I woke up again, the warm afternoon sun was spreading over me.
For a while, I just lay there, staring at the abandoned rose in front of me. The breeze tossed the petals that had wilted a bit.
I felt lost, my brain a mush, like I had taken a long nap and was stuck in a dream that I couldn’t wake up from.
I struggled for a long time, failing several times, before sitting up from the ground. It hurt all over, especially my neck, as if someone had driven a row of nails into it with a nail punch. You see, I can tell you from first hand experience that the deck is clearly not going to be one of your favorite places to sleep.
It took some more time to build up my strength, but I finally stood up straight.
Overlooking the fence, an imposing lawn unfolded before my eyes, tended to as level as a golf course. A gravel driveway ran through it, winding in a nice loop in front of the porch. The sun beat down on the fountain pool, gilding the splashing water.
Everything was so pleasing to the eye, this was the kind of place you would want to settle down and end your life in. But a voice in the back of my mind told me that something was wrong, that there was a hint of strangeness lurking in those corners that were too familiar to be true, and it was that five percent strangeness that distorted everything, like a wax figure identical to your friend, that revealed the eerie.
I crossed the terrace and went back inside. The hallway was empty, as was every room connected to it. All the windows were open and the wind was blowing in and out. Suddenly, a wave of panic seized my heart. I stood there frozen, holding my breath, as if with the slightest movement my world would crumble and shatter.
If you’ve ever experienced general anesthesia, you know what I’m talking about. During that time, one’s consciousness is completely shut down, you have no concept of what’s happening to you, and you lose even a small part of your memory from before you went under anesthesia. Let’s say you remember walking into the operating room and the doctor telling you to lie down, but behind …… you know there was a conversation between you, but what it was about, you can’t recall at all.
For surgery, that’s a good thing, save all that pain. But I didn’t have any surgery, and all I know is that I have memory loss. Intuition tells me that those are some very important memories. Without them, my life was a thin sheet of paper, a false lie.
By the time I came back to my senses, the sun was slanting in the west. The antique furniture in the house cast shadows on the floor. God, it was as quiet as a coffin. The fear of the unknown pressed on my heart and I fled in a hurry.
I went back to live in my parents’ house. Brian had left for college and his room was empty. Mom said I could change the bed. But I didn’t care about that now.
I spent the next week in a state of disarray. I went back to work at the paper and the editor made no comment about my disappearance. Others only asked brief questions. Often, people don’t really care, they just need a topic.
The real problem came when I simply couldn’t answer. The past month or so seems to have vanished into thin air. I vaguely remember going places, far away, and meeting people. But for what purpose, I have no recollection.
During the break, I drew a map of my memories. It looks like the deviations appeared a year, or two, ago. When I worked at the newspaper, everything was fine, but the rest of the time was always occupied by a big, big unresolved gap. Of course, I’m not one of those people who can’t forget, but I don’t think my memory has declined to that point either. I really regret that I’m not in the habit of keeping a diary, making it so that I don’t even have a point of reference.
It tortured me to the point of going crazy, if I hadn’t found that memo.
It was one morning when my cell phone alarm went off right on time. Last night had been a difficult one, and I wrestled with whether I was too neurotic or whether I really had lost my memory until the wee hours of the morning when I drifted off to sleep.
I hid under the covers and reached out my paw to stop the alarm clock, at a time of day when touchscreens just don’t seem so cute. I kept trying for what …… felt like half a lifetime, and it still didn’t work. I had no choice but to get under the covers and grab my phone. I must have accidentally opened the memo, I rubbed my sleepy eyes as a message came into my eyes, and I instantly forgot that my alarm clock was still ringing.
“I don’t know what amnesia feels like, let’s assume for a moment that I’ll feel it.” The style, needless to say, must have come from me, and I read on, “If you, I mean, me sometime in the future, if you feel amnesia, there’s a recorder in the bedpost of the Little Pantheon, listen to it.”
My heart was beating wildly. It was too much of a hassle for me to even wash up, so I haphazardly threw on some clothes and rushed out the door. Finding my bed took some effort – the little pantheon wasn’t small at all. Luckily I had some deductive mind. There were only two rooms inside that showed signs of use, a master’s room and a gate room (the rest of the bedroom furniture was covered in white cloth), and I humbly chose the latter.
The remaining four bedposts had to be masked. As usual, my luck failed me three times in a row, causing me to think that the tape recorder that held my hopes had been taken away, but when I unscrewed the metal head of the last bedpost, I breathed a huge sigh of relief.
It was there. I took it out and attached it to the stereo. There were a number of recordings in it, and I started listening to the initial one.
“Ahem ……” This was me clearing my throat, listening to my own voice coming out of the stereo a little awkwardly, “I can’t believe I’m talking to myself into a recorder.”
For a moment I had trouble deciding which was more pathetic, this or listening to a recording of myself.
The past me paused for a long moment and sighed hopelessly, “Well, get a grip, I think …… I’d better record this. Just in case, Vince, as he said today, washes away my memories of him.”
My heart throbbed at the sound of that name, as if something wanted to jump out at me, I pressed pause, nothing. I calmed down a bit and continued listening.
“So let’s start at the beginning ……” I said.
Then I heard the most absurd and crazy story in the world. And even crazier than that, one of the main characters of the story was me.
Originally, when I started writing this note, I was going to cut from here. It’s more dramatic, right? However, I don’t think I can write a good story with interludes with my skills. So let’s be traditional and talk about the cause and effect.
The recording was fussy, but it was no use, no inspiration came to me. To be sure, I listened to it over and over again until the memories were almost implanted in my brain. I could even recite the minutiae of one of the passages, but it wasn’t my own after all.
I began to doubt the authenticity of the recording. A creepy thing occurred to me, what if …… what if I had schizophrenia? Was it all just a figment of my imagination? I was afraid to look deeper. What’s scarier than knowing for sure that you’re crazy?
Thankfully there is some evidence that this recording stands up. The little pantheon is here, and I called my classmate in real estate, whose account matches the recording. I also found my book. But other than that, the traces of Vince’s existence seemed like chalk on a blackboard, completely erased by an eraser.
I had to retrieve my memories. Some might say I should have wisely walked away, or a classic word, let go. But I’m not the kind of person who gets over it. If the recording didn’t lie, then what Vince, the asshole, took with him were memories worth cherishing for the rest of my life.
Even vampires have to be reasonable, you don’t toy with someone like that, give them a thrilling experience and then take it away from their life. It’s not fair. Not even God has the right to do that.
I have to find him. But the recordings offered no clues as to where he might have gone.
I almost died here, but in a flash of inspiration, I thought of a helper.
A day later, I was sitting in Muhammad’s cabin in the woods. Luckily, he was real, and the recording hadn’t lied to me.
Across the table, Muhammad frowned and stared at me.
“Come on, cheer up,” I said reasonably, “You said I was welcome back.”
“You said,” he pointed out, “that you had amnesia.”
I pull out my recorder in silence, number twenty-seven, fast forward, and press play at two minutes and fifty seconds, “When …… left, Muhammad said I was welcome back, and I hope it wasn’t just talk, that I’ll likely need him in the future.” I hit pause, “There’s another part where you say I’m very much to your liking and I hope you’re just saying that, would you like to hear it?” Vampires have divine powers, but we have technology.
“Can’t.” Muhammad sighed, “Well, I did say that, but I didn’t mean in this context.”
“Oh, pictures are for reference only. Understood.” I stood up.
“Now I see how Vince chose you, it’s the exact same scoundrel.” Muhammad said, adjusting his tone, “Okay, sit down.”
I did as I was told, “You’ll help me?” I looked at him with eyes that were surely sparkling with stars.
“I’m not sure how much I can help you.” He was such a cautious guy.
“Just tell me where Vince is.”
Muhammad waved his head, “To be honest, I don’t know. And, even if I did know, I couldn’t tell you.”
“Why?”
“Vince washed away your memories, he must be in real trouble. I think it’s best if you let him handle it.”
Unable to argue, I resorted to a roundabout tactic, “Well, can you help me get my memory back?” Well, what a roundabout way to go.
Muhammad bobbed his head again, the North African version of a bobblehead doll, “That’s something only Vince can do.”
“I thought you were more senior than him.”
Even the obvious provocation in my tone didn’t enrage him, Muhammad laughed, “I am indeed, but this situation is different.”
“Different how?”
“The human mind is complex, and in order to get your memory back, you have to find out exactly what mental cues Vince was putting on you at the time. I can try, but if I’m wrong, your entire memory will be messed up, like dominoes, one wrong step, one wrong step. Are you willing to take that risk?”
“Messed up how?” I was a little confused.
Mohammed thought for a moment, “For example, you might think you’re not yourself, you might treat your parents like enemies ……” his voice faded.
I winced as I imagined myself waking up in a life like that, it would be a living nightmare.
“There’s no other way?”
“Like I said, you have to find the mental cues he’s putting on you.” Muhammad leaned forward, “It could be anything, a token, a place, a word …… It’s like a key.”
“To unlock my memories.”
“Right.” Muhammad leaned back in his chair again. If anyone had heard this conversation, they would have thought we were playing solitaire with the lyrics.
“But how do I know what Vince would choose as a …… uh, hint?”
Muhammad gave me a strange look, “You tell me, you know him better than I do.”
“Maybe, but it’s the pre-amnesia me.” I deflate.
“Technically you haven’t lost it, it’s still in your head,” Muhammad said, “using your physical memory.”
“You mean the sixth sense?” Body memory, a word that was not only strange, but inexplicably nasty.
“Something like that.” Muhammad flattened his lips, as if disappointed that I hadn’t taken him up on it.
I stood up, “Thanks.” We shook hands and he walked me out of the forest.
“Well ……,” I stopped before leaving, “You were kidding when you said I knew Vince better than you did, right?” Going by the recordings, they should have known each other for a hundred years.
Muhammad laughed a little, “In fact, I think you know him better than any being in this world.”

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