I can’t help wanting to fight back when they try to put me under. Because as much as I want to padlock what is left, I know I can’t. I know they will creep in and steal more. What I ate for dinner last night, the name of the first girl I kissed. And I do not know how much is left. What I remember now mostly are words—the ones they say endlessly, the ones that make me want to do something that would get me thrown in the Quiet Room: “Most likely,” “Eventually,” “We don’t know,” “Wish we knew more,” “Wait and see.” Failed attempts at reassurance, they are empty, meaningless, insubstantial, placeholders for what is missing.
I feel the pinch of the first needle. Pot roast, I think, and tuck the memory away in a dark corner. I hide Emily Sachs away someplace I’m sure they’ll never look. I won’t know for sure until I wake up. But for now it’s the best I can do.