“So, no stray memories?”
She wasn’t a bad person, for a therapist. Doctor Howlett. Made me think of wolves, that. I shook my head and lied to her face, “None.”
I wasn’t going to tell her what was going on, this feeling that I’d been on vacation and now it was over, but I really hadn’t remembered anything. Except how to beat up muggers.
Nothing useful. “At least I’m not writing bad goth poetry.”
She laughed. “I almost wish you would. That’s surprisingly normal. Most teenagers try bad poetry at some point. Or bad fiction. But usually bad poetry.”
Occasionally, I supposed, somebody tried good poetry and made a career out of it. “I’ve tried bad poetry. I don’t have any talent, so I stopped.”
“Sensible.”
I sometimes got the feeling she almost liked me. Or at least found me easier to deal with than most of her “cases.” I wasn’t depressed, I had absolutely no desire to kill myself, and I had no interest in drugs.
I just couldn’t remember a dang thing, but other than that, perfectly well adjusted, me. And failing all of my classes. “For what it’s worth. I need to find something I’m good at. Ideally something that’s not flipping burgers.”
“I think you’ll catch up. Besides, that’s what GEDs are for.”
She was entirely too cheerful about the matter. I scowled a little. “I seriously…look. I can’t catch up. It’s like I never went to school. I’m starting to think my real parents were incompetent homeschoolers.”
“Maybe they were. That’s even a data point for finding them.”
Maybe I didn’t want to find them. Heck. “Isn’t it true that sometimes people develop amnesia because they hate their life?”
“Sometimes.”
“So, how do we know I’m not forgetting them because they’re annoying or crazy and I don’t want to go back?”
Gently, “If we find them…”
I couldn’t just get up and leave, but I knew. If they found them before I hit eighteen, I had to go back unless there was a good reason.
And the thought of doing so…was completely empty. No fear, no desire, nothing. As if they weren’t worth my notice. Or as if they no longer existed.