I attempt to open the door to my room. This time, the handle turns and I am able to go into the room filled with books.

I could pull a random volume off a shelf and look at it, but the doors to this room call my name. I walk to one and attempt to open it, but the handle doesn’t move at all. I walk to the other and try it, but it also seems locked. Even if my space has expanded slightly, I am still a prisoner.

For some reason, this thought feels comforting and familiar. But a prison should be less fancy, I think. I’m not really sure, though, because it's more of a feeling I can’t envision.

It feels like a haze across my thoughts, and pain obscures any further knowledge of this; with a sigh, I stop trying. The best way to avoid pain is to accept the situation and just live with the flow.

I grab a random book from one of the shelves. The cover says, “A Leader’s Way of Thinking.” Flipping the book over, I see a blurb that says, “Learn to think and act like a leader following Governor Rillewald’s expert advice!”

A leader. Does this apply to me? It feels like it should.

I amble to one of the chairs in the middle, sit down, and begin to read. The words are like a jumble of thoughts and things that mean nothing to me. The author rambles, and the words collide at odd angles in my head, but I keep reading the sentences, which feel like fish flopping out of my mind.

One of the doors opens, and the woman with black hair walks in. Her black hair is now braided up around her head like a crown. She glances at me and then quickly looks away at one of the bookshelves.

“Are you back to be my friend?” She says to the books she’s looking at.

She runs her hand along the spines of the books and finally turns to look at me. “Well?” she asks while looking straight at me.

Is she talking to me? She waits, staring at me. “Are you asking me that question?” I ask back.

She nods. “You said when you came back we could maybe be friends. I was hoping you’d come back to be my friend.”

I don’t know this woman. “I don’t remember any conversations with you. I don’t remember anything from before this morning.”

“Oh,” she sounds surprised. She blinks and then runs her hand across her braided crown. “I guess you came down with memory sickness as well. Are you locked up because Patrick doesn’t want people to see you like this also?” she stops and shuffles her feet. She seems to be waiting for me to respond.

How do I answer her when I don’t even know what she’s talking about? The man who called himself Patrick McNeil said something similar. Memory Sickness. Had I given that to myself in the past? Why would past me have done that? I shrug. “I’m not sure. That man, Patrick, he said I was a bad person. He said…” I leave the sentence hanging. For some reason, telling this woman that he called me a murderer feels horrible and wrong. That’s not me!

The woman frowns, the wrinkles marring her perfect face. “I don’t think you’re a bad person. You seemed nice. You said we could be friends when you got back. Maybe we can start anew together now.” Her face transforms into a hopeful smile, and she reaches in my direction with her hand.

Why is she walking toward me with her hand outstretched? Her hand sits there, hanging like my apparently forgotten promise. “Why are you holding out your hand to me?” I ask.

She looks down at her hand, and her smile slides away for a second as she concentrates on why she is holding out her hand. Then her smile returns as she looks up at me. “I think if we shake hands, we can make an agreement.”

An agreement. “An agreement to be friends?” I ask.

“Yes,” she eagerly nods.

It can’t hurt as I don’t seem to have any friends. I hold out my hand, unsure what this shaking ritual entails. She reaches forward, grasps my hand, and gently pulls it up and down before letting go.

“Now we are friends,” she proclaims.

I smile and nod, is this all there is to being friends with someone?

She sits down on a chair across from me. “Since we are friends, we can share everything with each other. No one here ever wants to talk with me! My husband used to always frown and look uncertain without responding when I tried to speak with him, but recently, he’s taken to looking sad and slightly dejected if I speak with him, which is e.ven worse!”

I nod along. “He is quite an enigmatic character.” The words feel suitable to describe him, but momentarily I question why these words describe his hidden behavior. I’m not sure. It might be the same reason that any words make sense. Words must be ingrained in my thoughts at a deeper level than the knowledge of my past self.

Her smile has turned a little sad, “You’ve met him once and you already understand. He’s so handsome, and I wish I could get to know him better. I wish I could sit down next to him, run my fingers through his brown hair, and lean against his muscular shoulders. But-” her eyes glance away toward the door that she entered from and then down at her lap as her words hang in the space between us. “He holds himself at a distance I can’t seem to cross over.” she finishes, staring down at her hands folded together on her lap.

I feel as if I know this distance. I stand and walk over to her, kneel, and take hands in mine, watching as her eyes look up at me in surprise. “I think you just have to close the distance. Like you did a moment ago asking to be my friend. Just go up to him and be affectionate. Show that even without your memory, you can still care.”

Her eyes widen and she smiles brightly. She leans forward and hugs me. “My dear Hope, I think you are right! We all just need to be more open.” It feels weird to be hugged, but I like this strange openness with my unknown friend, who I think might be the wife, Azalea.

If we are to be friends, though, I should confirm her name. “I apologize that I haven’t asked sooner, but is your name Azalea? I don’t want to rely on assumptions about what I’ve heard.

She lets go and sits back in her chair with her eyes wide and her hand touching her lips. “I’m so sorry I forgot to introduce myself. I was so excited that you were back. I didn’t even think you might not remember my name.” Her hand lowers, her eyes glance at me, then to the side, and back at me as her head tilts slightly downwards. “Yes, I am the lady Azalea McNeil, wife of Patrick McNeil,” she smiles and reaches forward, taking my hand. “And you are?”

A sensation like a weight lifts off my mind. For the first time, someone is asking who I am, and not telling me who I was. I can be anyone. Genuine happiness pulls my face funny into a smile, “I am not sure who I am, but I think my name is Hope.”

She starts laughing, and I join in. It is freeing and joyful. She stands and pulls me up with her, her face radiating joy. “To new beginnings!” she shouts, pumping her fist in the air.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

It seems fitting, and I punch toward the sky, “To throwing off the past!”

Our laughter quiets as we share a smile of understanding. We are not who we used to be, and our names will not be our chains.

She grabs the book I was attempting to read and walks to a two-person couch. I follow and sit down next to her.

She turns the book over in her hands. “Do you understand this book? It looks like something my husband would read.”

I shake my head. “Not really. I understand the words, but the things it says feel foreign.”

“Maybe if we read it together, we can parse what it says. I feel like if I can understand more of my husband’s world, I can bridge the gap between us more easily,” she says, opening the book to the first page.

“It’s worth a shot. Let’s work together to make sense of this world.” I lean in and read the words on the first page out loud.

Together, we discuss and parse out the confusing concepts and develop our own understandings.

At about three pages in, the maid named Rebecca comes in. “Lady Azalea, it’s time for your-” she pauses and looks at me. Her eyebrows raise, “appointment,” she finishes.

Azalea gives me an apologetic smile and shrugs. “Same time tomorrow?”

I nod, and she leans in to hug me before leaving with Rebecca.

I don’t feel like continuing to read the book I was reading with Azalea without her here. I peruse the bookshelves and instead choose a book that calls itself “A biography of John Mordstadt”, whoever that is.

I sit down and begin to read this story about a man who grew up with working-class parents who worked hard to give him a decent life. Do I have parents? I move my hand over the image of the two people with a small boy standing between them on the cover. I hope so.

The door opens, and Rebecca steps through. “It’s dinner time, M’lady. " Her impartial voice lends no urgency to the announcement, but it doesn’t seem like something I should ignore.

Setting the book down on one of the end tables, I move to the door and follow her to the dining room.

My eyes catch sight of Azalea first. As our eyes meet, she gives me a tiny smile before dropping it and looking away.

On her right is the man who barged in on me earlier in the day. Patrick. Her husband. He frowns at my appearance. Unlike Azalea, he doesn’t look away and watches me as Rachel leads me to a seat across from him. I wish I could run away from the stare.

At the end of the table farthest from the door, an old man with no hair on his head mutters through a scraggly white fluff of facial hair as he pushes around mashed-up food on a plate in front of him. No one else has food yet.

Rebecca walks to him and sits next to him. She helps him lift food to his mouth.

“So, umm, Patrick,” Azalea pulls attention back to our end of the table. “How was work today?” She smiles sweetly at him, probably hoping to lighten the tension at the table.

He glares at me. “Little Miss ‘can’t remember anything’ is making my life hard. I have to take on all her work, deal with all the reporters, and prepare the trial case against her while also helping organize a public defender for her.”

What work? If this involved me, why couldn’t he at least talk to me? “Maybe I could work the defender or help with some of the work you are doing?”

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before rubbing his forehead. “No and No. You are being convicted for doing a bad job. You can’t keep doing the work you were doing when you were doing it improperly.”

“If I can’t help with the workload because I am bad at it, why can’t I at least talk to the person set to defend me?”

His lips twist into a mocking smile, “Because I’m the one prosecuting you, and I can’t let the public know you’re claiming memory sickness now. It would go against the very case I am making against you.”

“What did I even do? Why are you so convinced I’m such a terrible person?” The last words came out louder and higher pitched than I meant them to. My chest feels tight. Why am I stuck here at this table with this man who clearly hates me?

“You my dear, supposed Hope of the people, went about giving memory sickness to all the lawmakers you didn’t like. You might as well have killed them,” his hand points to the old man at the end of the table. “They’ve all ended up like my father. Unable to work and needing constant care. You even took down the governor of the state so you could take his spot and wreck our state. So many things you’ve done wrong, and you will pay for it.”

His slight smile sends a shiver through my body.

A man with tightly cut blonde hair carrying two plates of steak and asparagus enters from the door at the other end of the hall. He glides over and sets a plate in front of Patrick and Azalea before smoothly exiting.

Patrick picks up his knife and saws into the steak in front of him. He smiles as he pops a bite-sized piece in his mouth.

I wish I could leave. Do I have to sit here in this room? I’d almost rather not eat.

The man comes back and places a bowl in front of me. It looks like some sort of rice stew with veggies or something in it.

Azalea looks between Patrick and me, the corners of her eyes crinkled with concern, but no one says a word. Patrick continues enjoying his steak. This seems to be some sort of statement about my position in their household.

I can’t stand it anymore. “If you hate me so much, just let me leave. I’ll disappear and you’ll never have to worry about me again.”

Patrick shakes his head, “You still don’t understand Hope. We’ve gone too far for that. There is no turning back now. You are only enjoying the comforts of my family’s home due to a court order allowing you to reside here rather than in jail, but you might as well be in jail. That’s why you're being fed prison food, so eat up. You’ll need the energy. Oh, and you don’t get to leave this room till you finish eating.”

I try to think of something to say, some way to convince this man that I am not who he thinks I am. All I can do is eat this food and get out of here. I take a bite, and while it’s bland, nothing seems wrong with it. It’s just so flavorless it’s almost hard to eat. But I feel like I’ve had worse. Bland veggie rice soup isn’t that bad.

I scarf down the food and stand up as soon as I finish.

Patrick looks surprised but then waves Rebecca over. “Take her back to her room and lock her up for the night. We can’t have her escaping.”

She nods and walks toward the door. I dutifully follow, knowing that right now there is no escape for me.

As soon as we enter the room she grabs my shoulder. “Stay standing here, M’lady. You must be changed into night clothes now.”

I stay where she’s directed as she undoes my dress and pulls it off. She hands me a thin white gown and underclothes in a pile. “You can change into those after you take your evening shower.”

Then she leaves. I recheck the door, but it’s locked. No reading after dinner apparently.

The only thing to do is shower and sleep. The bathroom’s shower seems to have no way to turn on, but when I step in completely undressed, the water comes pouring out of the ceiling. I wish I could make the water a touch warmer, but I don't know how. Oh well. It is what it is. I’m stuck in this place. I step out, and the water stops. After a quick dry-off, I change into the silky dress before lying on the soft bed.

Will all my days go like this?

They do.

Monotonous. The only bright point in my days is Azalea. She’s the sweetest soul as she keeps me company through the days.

We find books on dating advice. She tries it on Patrick and tells me how it goes. At the dinner table, he even starts to engage in conversation with her. He mostly ignores me.

Each day: get up, get dressed in some cutesy gown by Rebecca, eat breakfast, spend my day in the library with some snacks provided by Azalea, dinner, and bed.

No ending. I lose track of the days after five, or maybe it was before then. I think I counted day five twice.

I’m not quite sure, so I attempt to keep counting. I hit day fourteen the other day. Day twenty.

Oh, who even cares what day it is anymore! This is my prison of time. Infinite repeating time that never ends.

Day something, the routine is broken. At the door to bring me to dinner is the serving man with short blonde hair, wearing a black suit, and blue eyes that captivate me and make me afraid to look at him. Where is Rebecca?