I nod. “That would be the Lyric I’m talking about.”

He opens a file and glances at a paper inside. “Does she know what’s going on with you at all?”

I nod again. Lyric knows more than most people. Maybe even more than my therapist.

“Do you talk to her about your past a lot?” he asks, shutting the folder.

“Sometimes.”

“About what exactly?”

“Everything I can.”

He meticulously examines my expression over, hunting for cracks in my façade. Like always, I grow uneasy. What does he see? A broken shell of a guy that may never be fixed?

My phone abruptly vibrates from inside my pants pocket, giving me an excuse to look away from his scrutinizing gaze.

Lila: Hey, when is your therapy going to be done? I want to know when I should start dinner.

Me: We should be starting the amnesia therapy soon. It usually only takes about fifteen minutes.

Lila: K. See u soon. And drive careful, sweetie.

“We should wrap this up.” I stand up and stretch my arms above my head, ready to get the next part over. “It’s getting late and Lila needs me home anyway.”

“Alright, lie down on the sofa then.” He motions at the leather couch nestled in the corner of the room near his filing cabinet and the window.

The ceiling has an unpainted spot where the plaster shows through. I don’t know why, but whenever I lie down, I always find myself picturing it caving in and the sheetrock raining down on me.

The doctor turns on some mellow music, a symphony of violins. Then he turns on the camera, sits down in a chair in front of me, and clicks on a timer.

“Close your eyes, Ayden,” he begins with a droning tone. “You’re in a safe place, where no one can hurt you. Now, let your mind relax.”

Like always, I fleetingly feel like I’m falling.

Down.

Down.

Down.

Then I crash into a wall.

You can’t think about it.

You aren’t allowed.

There was a reason for your amnesia.

You think we’d let you off that easy.

You think we’d really let you go.

Don’t think too much.

Or you’re going to lose control.

We’re going to come after you.

Dark eyes… thin bodies…. yellow teeth… blue and red lights flash as sirens near closer to the home. Someone is banging on the door, shouting, “Open up!”

My sister lifts her head, life in her eyes for the first time. My brother is curled up in the corner, though, thin, frail, so close to death.

Our capturers flee, but not without an impending warning.

“No one escapes,” the woman whispers as she stabs her fingernails into my hands. “We’ll come back for you.” Her face… blurred… but the pain… is excruciating.

My eyelids spring open to the patch on the ceiling. The room is quiet, but my heart thunders like a storm inside my chest.

Dr. Gardingdale waits patiently at my side with pen and paper in his hand and hope in his eyes that I’ll tell him I remembered the identities of the people.

“I saw a few images, but everyone’s faces are blurred over and honestly, none of what I’m seeing makes sense,” I tell him as I sit up and plant my feet on the floor. As usual, the room twirls around me in hazy colors and shapes. “They threatened us, though, when we left the house. Said they’d come back for us.” Invisible fingers wrap around my neck and my oxygen supply dwindles. “You should probably tell the police that. Or I will.”

He nods his head at the camera. “They’ll see this when I give them the video tomorrow.”

I massage my aching chest. “Did I say anything aloud to you by chance?”

He sighs heavily. “Unfortunately no, which I find strange, especially considering you’ve been sleep walking and talking so much at home. It’s like your mind opens up after the sessions.”

“Is that common?”

“It’s hard to say.” He removes his glasses and cleans them off with the bottom of his shirt. “This therapy—hypnotherapy as a lot call it—isn’t something performed that frequently. And your case is extremely complex.” He slides his glasses back on. “But, Ayden, if this doesn’t start working... I… there might be some other treatments you might consider trying… they’re a bit more experimental and have risks, though.”

My brows furrow. “What kinds of experimental treatments?”

He pushes his feet against the floor, wheeling his chair back toward a printer. Then he collects a thin stack of papers and hands them to me.

“Shock treatment.” Words jump out at me from the pages. Ice cold water. Injections. Electricity.

“They’re risky procedures,” he explains, looking as though he doesn’t really want to be discussing this with me. “I honestly don’t believe it’s a great idea, but I want to give you the choice. I think that’s important. Just like I know it’s important to you to find out who killed your brother.” When I don’t respond, he sighs. “You can throw them away if you want to. I just want you to be informed. Since you’re still a minor, though, I can’t do anything without your parents’ consent, so you’ll have to talk to your parents.”

“I’ll be eighteen in a couple of weeks,” I tell him, even though I want to throw the papers away.

Some of the treatments are appalling. But as I think of my brother lying dead in his own blood outside that home that stripped us bare, I fold the papers up and stand up to leave.