I can’t remember my own name.

It’s strange that I don’t mind. I can remember where I live, where I work, what I had for breakfast this morning, but for the damndest reason I can’t seem to remember a single syllable of my name. I can’t even tell if I like my name or not.

Normally that sticks with me, whether or not I like something. Take Gary for instance. I don’t like that name at all. Every time I hear it, I’m grateful that’s not my name. Gary. Eugh.

But Samuel? That’s a nice name. I like that one, I like how it feels, I like how it sounds when I say it. I like the way it makes my tongue curve. Samuel. It’s a good name.

Funny thing about this entire ordeal is that I can’t find anything that would have had my name on it. No driver’s license, no nametag or ID of any kind. Whenever I try to remember where those objects are, all I can think of is a gigantic white blank, like a snow sheet on my memory. One of those winter storms that’ll take your eyes right out. That’s all I can think of when I think of my name. 

Even my computer has some odd username in the place of where my real name is supposed to be. I don’t exactly blame myself for not preparing for memory loss.

This is my work computer. I can remember what year I bought it, what it looked like before I assaulted the damn thing with sticky notes and took them all off again once I decided to remember anything.

Maybe I should have written my name down.

Damnit. I wish I could just remember. Then I wouldn’t have to sit here and make a big deal about it. It’s easy. My name is. My name is what?

My name is

I suppose I could just pick a name, but I know that wouldn’t work very well for long. I’d run into friends at the library and that old guy near the gas station and they’d say “Hey, how’s it going?” and I’d say

“I can’t fucking remember my name. Isn’t that weird? You all remember your names right? Did I finally work too hard and drive myself crazy? You told me to get out more, you barely know me, and you couldn’t possibly know how much time I spend at home every day day in day out like it’s a fucking thing to do, but you told me to get out more, to get some fresh air. And I didn’t. Is this punishment for not listening to you? For not listening to the one normal godamn thing I’ve found in my life?”

I could drive.

I might get pulled over, but I could drive. Then maybe I could go to the school where I used to work and look myself up in the yearbook. That thing would have my name.

But then again, what if it didn’t? I can’t find my ID or driver’s license even though they’ve been in the same old dusty spot next to my key basket on the end table next to the door for almost five years straight. The wallet left a hole in the dust on that table I only just now realized is made of cherry wood. A wallet that grew suprisingly aethletic legs and just decided to fuck off right out the door.

I could drive. I’d get pulled over. They’d ask me to roll down my window before they say something to the effect of “Hey dickhead, do you have any idea how slow you were going? Because holy shit, you were going about 20 miles an hour below the speed limit. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

I’d ask them if they possibly, by any figment of a chance, knew my name. That would likely queue them to think I’m either crazy or drunk and get me out of my car and into a new one. They’d take my phone and my photo and, of course, ask me for a name I don’t know.

No one on my contact list would answer my phone, so I’d take the opportunity to explain myself to them, explain that I’ve lost my wallet, explain that I’ve somehow lost my name, and anything that contained my name, and that every damn thing that is supposed to have my name is gone. I’d beg, I’d nag and go on and on until someone finally sticks me with a needle for a DNA test. They’d send me packing eventually to a home full of dead ends, nothing that has my name on it, nothing that shows I even live here.

I’d walk into an immaculate room with carpet unrustled and cushions untouched, I’d see a TV so spotless that you could assume it was fresh out of the box, mounted by someone with gloves who left no fingerprints, no sign of his craftsmanship, no evidence he had ever put anything there. There’s a fridge in the back, but it contains nothing but the bright florescent light that beams at me with it’s tiny noise and sanitary glare. I haven’t opened the fridge in days, from what I can remember.

Although at this point I really can’t trust my memory can I? I can’t even remember my damn name. I’d pace the room and search for anything in my own mind that might trigger a clue. I’d try to visualize a friend from long ago, shouting my name, or a sibling doing the same thing when I scratch his face so hard with my fingernails that it bleeds. He had to get stitches. I try to remember the way my mother used to say my name. The feeling is there, but the syllables don’t form. Just white again. I stare at that wintery white, demanding it make sense. The impact I feel is that of TV static, that of white noise, that of nothing. It’s not quite black, but now that I look at it more closely, it’s not exactly white either.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

I get a phone call.

“Hey, is this

“Excuse me? What did you say?”

“I said is this

There’s nothing there. He goes on.

“Well uh, your test should be in the mail, Gary here wanted me to call you to check in and see if you maybe remembered.”

Who the fuck is Gary? And what did he mean by in the mail? It hadn't been long. Were they lying? DNA tests don't form in hours. Had it been hours or days?

“I don’t. You said it right? My name?”

“Yeah. We looked you up in the books here after you left, didn't need a test. I can tell you right now, your name is

Again there’s nothing that hits my ears. It’s not like he stopped or the phone disconnected or something. It’s like his voice, altogether, stopped existing for the moment it decided to say my name. The way it abruptly stops and starts again, there’s no inflection or breath or any indication that it’s anything but not existing just to avoid saying my name. He’s gone on talking again, and I hang up the phone. 

At my back is a couch I haven’t sat in for years. Next to it is a bed I got up from this morning, but its sheets are unruffled and smooth. I look at the computer I was on just this morning. No oil marks on the keys, a perfectly clear screen. I could have sworn yesterday I was just getting over a cold. I checked the trash can and saw nothing inside. No tissues, No tissue box. No water bottles, no food, no rats.

My humidifier is off, empty. Even when I touch it, the buttons don’t make that familiar click I know is supposed to be there. Then again, as I turn around and try to find a proper place to sit, I don’t exactly remember purchasing a humidifier. Did I get it as a gift? From a friend? From the library? Or the pub? I can’t remember the last time I talked to someone in either of those places. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I even went to any of those places. Where did I get the damn humidifier? Not as a gift. Then where? I try turning it on. This room is too quiet. I want to hear it make noise. Nothing happens. I smash my fist down into it. My hand hardly hurts, and I do it again. Again. I’m slamming my hands into it as loudly as I possibly can, over and over.

There is no noise. No sound from me hitting this stupid fucking humidifier. Now the sting is fading. Nothing I hit makes any noise. I try to rip a shelf off the wall but it stands firm, all its contents sealed onto it like they were soldered together. I try rolling my chair back by yanking on it with both hands, but it refuses to move. I yank over and over, like trying to pull a gigantic weed out of the ground, but the chair is fixed to the spot, not even groaning under the strain. I suddenly realize I haven’t heard myself. Not at all today. Not breathing, not speaking. Just the words in my head have been playing in my mind, making a voice, but I’ve not been talking. Just my words bouncing around, all around in here.

All the words except my name.

The first sound slices my ears into a joyful attentiveness. It’s the sound of a slip of paper whisking underneath my door. The test. It’s here. I let go of the chair and stand straight up again, noticing that since the paper’s noise had graced my ears, they had not been inclined to hear a thing else. Not even the droning of nothing lingering inside my head, not even my own thought bubbles making the sounds of what I thought was my voice bounding in my brain. My skin began to feel as if a cloud of smoke were enveloping its surface, creeping and settling down as if it had every right, and all night, to grow accustomed to the curves and nature of my body. It had not much competition, because I had stopped moving.

My eyes were resting on the test result paper, the last thing I had heard in what must have been a long time. It lay motionless, face down on the carpet that suspended it up like sheep carrying a rather large and fat king. I couldn’t see any writing on the part that looked at my ceiling, but I knew my carpet, those tiny sheep could see the letters that spelled out my name. 

I felt the air in my chest exhale like a pillow when you squeeze it just a little bit tighter, just a little bit longer when sleeping at night. You have no idea you even do it. I stared at that paper for what felt like only a few seconds, but before I could blink a second time, my room had descended into the grey twilight of the evening.

I couldn’t see. I couldn’t tell if it was the smoke I felt across my body, or maybe the fact that it was getting darker, more late in the day as minutes ticked on. My eyes stayed glued to the spot where the paper was, even though I could no longer see it.

And then it all went away. The smoke, the darkness, the stillness I hadn’t realized I felt in the air, it all vanished as if it were a singular moment in time. And for all I knew, that’s what it exactly was.

I was on the floor, leaning sideways against the back of my couch. My eyes were still on the base of my door, but no DNA test laid there. No paper. It was gone.

There was a knock at my door. A quick rap, excited. I heard movement outside, I heard bottles clanging, a hushed whisper followed by a badly disguised laugh. Another quick rap, more insistent this time.

And then they shouted my name.

It hit me with no surprise. I knew my name. But for some reason it felt as if I should be surprised by how it sounded. Something about the way it felt, about the way it made someone’s tongue curve when they said it. They shouted it again.

I tried to lift myself up off the ground but quickly realized how exhausted I felt. My chair was in the same place it has always been, firmly planted against a desk that saw no work, and a monitor that gave off no light. The carpet in front of me was untouched, not having been thoroughly or even gently walked over in...days? Weeks?

I didn’t remember the last time I opened the refrigerator, but yet again I couldn’t remember the last takeout order I had. Or the last thing I even ate for that matter.

There was no hunger though. The door kept thumping and the people behind it kept shouting my name, shuffling behind the doorway with god knows what in their hands, or on their minds, or on their lips. I couldn’t exactly remember which friend it was just based on the sound of their voice, or by the way they said my name.

Sometimes my memory really is terrible. I had already forgotten what they were saying.

Whatever it was, it can’t be that important.

I stared down at the carpet below my feet. It pointed straight up, at the ceiling. Almost as if I were looking down at it from my ceiling fan.