The Meeting

My meeting with Janet was brief, friendly, and maddening.

It was tough on me. I really couldn't let on that I had no memory of whatever I was doing before the break-in, but she somehow needed to know that everything wasn't going as smoothly as it was two weeks ago. Whatever "it" is.

Janet approached me with a kiss on the cheek which was more sisterly than anything else. This was immediately clarified by the few times she referred to herself as my "sister", though I couldn't immediately ascertain if she meant it in the blood sense or in the "we're in this together" sense.

Either way, she knew something was up and arrived with an envelope of cash, a swip card, and a statement: "Tell me you still have the CD."

"Of course I do...you mean *this* one??"

I showed her the one I found in the false bottom of the desk drawer.

"Quit screwing around, Michael."

She told me that the cash and the swipe card were what she was to give me "in case this happened". "This", I assume, is the rather rude intrusion of a couple of weeks ago.

Not sure how she knew of "this" specifically, but she did.

She was very worried that she was followed, so she kept her visit brief. Much more brief than I was hoping, since I wasn't able to gleen too much information from her.

"What's the swipe card for?" I asked her.

She became rather annoyed before giving way to concern and asking if I was sure I was all right. "You're sure you weren't here when this happened?" she asked.

"Nope. I was out. Crazy thing to come home to, let me tell..."

She interrupted me by frantic scribbling on a piece of paper which she ripped out of a notebook with a tortured sound.

"You really need to be more organized, Michael. Go here."

The piece of paper bore an address I was unfamiliar with.

I objected, more to get more information from her than to really express my doubts about the plan, but was again cut off by Janet.

She was stern, exasperated, caring, and sympathetic all at once. She left the apartment but not before turning around and simply saying:

"Do it, Michael."

The Countdown

In a mere few hours, Janet will arrive at my door. I have this feeling like I should have a bouquet of flowers in one hand and a baseball bat in the other, just in case.

I'd be lying if I told you I wasn't anxious. I've had this exact feeling before. I just can't place when or why.

I can't come right out and tell her I don't remember anything, but I need to try and get as much information from her as possible without getting her suspicions up.

Oh, and I am doing laundry today. Just because I can't remember shit doesn't mean I like walking around in dirty underwear!

If this is my last post, it's either that she finished the job the others started or keeping this up isn't good for my immediate survival, based on what I can gleen from Janet.

We'll see.

The Walk

Well, thanks to that credit card receipt, I have a name. But that, and a buck will get me a cup of coffee.

I decided to put Janet off for one more day. The black around my eyes is starting to turn a pale yellow and I really don't want her to think I'm as bad off as I am. I need to play things off as if I remember everything. At least until I figure out what side she is on. And what side I am on too.

She's getting anxious, though. So, I'll probably have to see her tomorrow.

I went for a walk last night to get re-acclimated to the city and to see if I could jar my memory at all. Not much is working for me, but I find it strange that the only phone calls I am getting are from Janet. No family. No work wondering where I am. No landlord banging on my destroyed door looking for rent. No mail in the mailbox. Someone went through a lot to make sure I am as clean a slate as possible.

The walk was productive though, in that I returned to find the door and windows repaired. No idea who did this or why. The place inside is still a mess as I haven't been motivated to clean it up, but I do need to do it before Janet comes. She knows something happened, but I need to minimize it to her or I'm sure she will flip out. I seem to vaguely recall that about her.

While trying to put my desk back together again, I found a CD in a false bottom of a drawer. No label, of course, but I popped it in my computer and was immediately prompted for a password. I have no idea what that could be. So, for right now, I am out of luck.

Of course I tried 45317. You don't think I am that off my rocker, do you?

The Phone Call

Funny thing about getting cracked in the skull. You sleep a lot. Which might not be a good thing, but I'm not so sure I feel safe going to a doctor right now.

Last night's phone call was from someone named Janet. This, I ascertained, only after a serious of yeah's, umm's, and sure's from my side of the conversation. I wish I could remember why I never invested in caller ID. That would have saved me some trouble.

Anyway, Janet could tell that something was a little askew and made it clear that she was coming right over.

Not sure how I feel about this, so I told her that it might be too dangerous in case the bad guys came back. I assured her that I was OK and that maybe we should meet in a day or two, when I felt better.

She pissed and moaned about it, emphasizing how important everything was without being terribly specific, but finally relented.

Truth is, I could care less if those guys come back. I needed some time to figure out if Janet was the friend she seemed to be.

I swear, if some guy with a cheesy moustache named Teddy shows up at my door, I'm having myself committed.

45317

My head is killing me.

Which would make sense, if it is close to being in the same state as my apartment.

It's 10:40 PM. At least that's what the digital clock that hurts my eyes reads.

When I came to, the apartment door was kicked in, splintered. Some asshole broke the windows in the joint for no good reason. The room was ransacked...whoever was in here was looking for something and given how thorough they were in their destruction, I'm pretty sure they found it.

When I went to grab my throbbing head, I found in my swollen and bloody hand, a cell phone that has seen the wrong side of a heavy boot or something. Just like my head.

The cell phone squaks out some tortured ring, but none of the buttons work. I can't see the display, either.

I go through my pockets and find a receipt for someplace called Paragon. I was there, I guess, in the last few days. My waitress' name was Kate and I apparently paid with a credit card that said my name is Michael.

That's news to me.

Everything is news to me, except for some weird number that forms on my lips, as if I was born with it.

45317.

I don't have any idea what it is, but it's all I know and all I can remember right now.

Oh. I do remember seeing a movie like this. If I start tattooing things on my body to remember, I'll be very upset. I'm determined not to have this turn into a screenplay.

Despite the intruder's attempts, it appears that my computer is still functional, as evidenced by me setting up this blog as a sort of diary to try and find out who I am and why they did this to me. Something's missing. CD cases are empty and strewn all over the place.

I guess I have to find out what's gone. And why I can't remember anything but 45317 and that damn Memento movie. Pretty ironic.

There goes the cell phone again.

Wait.

That's the land line.