Damn these stairs, I thought as I sailed up the walkway. Fucking things never once passed up a chance to give me a headache. I always hit my head on that low ceiling . . . what idiot made up low ceilings anyway?

       “Yo.” A voice behind me. I turned around.

       “Oh, hey.” I couldn’t remember his name but I knew the guy. Names didn’t really matter around here anyway, we could just call each other “bitch” or “cock-smoker,” and we’d all know who the other meant. The guy grunted and shoved me gently as he passed. Wasn’t nothing personal, we just pushed each other around a lot. It was friendly.

       “Hey, asshole, have you seen her anywhere?”

       The guy turned around with a blank look.

       “Huh? Who?”

       “My fucking girlfriend, you moron, who’d you think?”

       “Oh.” He seemed to think for a second, then shook his head. “I dunno, man.”

       “Lotta help you are.”

       I continued up the stairs and went into the chick hangout. Wasn’t nobody there but I figured I’d take a look anyway.

       I almost slipped on a bottle that had been carelessly left on the floor. I caught myself and picked it up, squinting to read the label. It was about half full, so I popped the cork out of the bottle and drank some of it. Nasty and bitter, but it woke me up.

       A couple seconds later I found the note on her hammock.

       Hey Cat, went out with Laura, see you tonight.

       Love, Bonne

       “Shit.” I crumpled the note and felt a sharp pain in my hand. I didn’t remember getting hurt, but then again I didn’t remember jack anymore. I threw the note on the floor and examined my palm. I was surprised to see that I had a bandage wrapped around.

       With a morbid curiosity, I peeled the layers of papery cloth away. The inside layers had some dried blood on them. I winced and kept unwrapping until my hand hit the open air again.

       It looked pretty gross. I couldn’t tell from looking at it how I’d gotten it . . . maybe I’d been burned or stabbed. In any case I didn’t much care, because I was still alive, so it must not have been too bad.

       I went to wash my hand and put new bandages on. I looked at myself in the grungy mirror and decided I needed a shower, but that I wasn’t gonna take one. I was officially dirty, but I really didn’t give a shit.

       Running water cut across my palm and made me scream. I yanked my hand away from the stream and bit my lip, choking off the sound. I’d forgotten that sometimes bad chemicals got into the water around here, and they probably weren’t anything I particularly wanted in my bloodstream. I cursed and turned off the water.

       I went back into the chick hangout and rummaged around in Ellie’s closet. She always had pure bottled water around, that would do to wash my hand. If she bitched at me later for using it I’d just say I’d forgotten it was hers, or that I didn’t remember doing it at all. Who knew; by the time she found it was gone, I might have actually forgotten and wouldn’t have to pretend. That was the one good thing about my memory; since it was so full of holes, I got away with murder and they just accepted it. Everyone was always real gentle with me if I said I didn’t remember something, especially if I acted like it upset me. One thing I did remember was that I got special treatment ’round here if I acted pathetic.

       I wrapped my hand tight with another bandage and fastened it. I’d have to ask someone later what had happened to me. I wished past events didn’t grow legs and run away every time I tried to remember. Maybe there was a drain in my brain that slowly sucked out everything when it had been sitting around too long. It wasn’t fair; other people had room in their heads for other memories, why didn’t I? Maybe my specialty took up a lot of room in there. I didn’t know what that meant but that was something people always said with reference to me. That I had “a specialty,” and that I was “different.” I didn’t know what any of it meant. I always asked people to explain me to myself. But it was like every time they explained, the information fell through one of the holes in my Swiss cheese brain. I did remember how shocked people were when I asked them what they meant by specialty, though. They couldn’t believe I didn’t even remember about that. I never knew when someone was going to act weird when I was using my specialty, because I didn’t know what it meant to use it. I’d figured out that it was best to only interact with people who were already my friends, because they all understood what it was already. Every once in a while I got a glimmering of understanding about it, thinking for a moment that this must be “specialty,” but then it would disappear again. I remembered foggily that it had to do with my ability to kick people’s asses. I knew I was good at that. I didn’t ever fear for my health or my life on the streets; I was more afraid for my sanity.

       That was one reason I liked Bonne so much. Something about her struck me as familiar every time I saw her, and so I clung to her. My earliest memories included her, and she had been the first person, according to my memories, that had ever hugged me. She was calm and understanding about everything from my specialty to my memory, and she patiently filled in the gaps when I asked her to. I didn’t remember if we’d ever had sex but it didn’t matter to me. I wanted her for who she was, not for her body.

       Where was Bonne anyway? I’d forgotten what the note said and had forgotten where I’d left it. I began searching for the note again, but when I found myself back in the chick hangout emptying out the garbage can, I couldn’t imagine what I was doing that for. I wondered where Bonne was.

       She’s probably in the computer lab, my brain suggested, and I nodded. She was probably out using my handle to post insulting messages on other people’s chat boards. She thought it was amusing to piss people off and have me get the hate mail. I thought hate mail was funny, though, so I didn’t mind getting it. The couple of times my account had gotten in trouble, Bonne had fixed it. I could have just changed the password to lock her out, but I didn’t bother. I would probably lock myself out if I did that; my password, after all, was her name. I couldn’t remember anything else but her.

       I remembered Bonne’s sweet face at the beginning of my memories. I remembered feeling dazed and dizzy after kicking the leader guy’s ass. I hadn’t been hurt at all in that fight, but I remembered he had. I knew from Bonne’s words that I had used my specialty to defeat him, but I couldn’t remember what I had done. I had a distinct memory (which was very rare) of just standing there and watching him fall. I didn’t know why I’d needed to defeat him, or what our fight had been about. I hadn’t even known why I was there. I still didn’t know why I was in this gang or how I’d gotten here. Everything about my past was like fluid, like ten strange dreams laced together by common circumstances. I knew I’d come to this place with someone I’d known well at the time. It was a guy but I didn’t remember him now. I’d made some sarcastic comments about the gang’s living quarters, and my companion had laughed—I remembered his voice—and had said I was “doing my comedy again.” People always thought I was really witty, but I had no real understanding of why. I just said things the way they were. Maybe that was what was funny. I’d noticed that people liked to weave webs of language and arbitrarily call it “a joke” or “the truth.” There was no real difference, in my opinion.

       Skinny arms slid around my waist. Her smile drove all thoughts of the past from my mind.

       “Hello, Kitty-Cat,” she joked, standing in front of me now. She pushed my curls out of my eyes and gave me a kiss on the forehead.

       “Did you have fun at the labs?” I asked, trying to impress her with my memory. I tried the hardest for her, hoping maybe she’d think I was getting better. But her face darkened.

       “I wasn’t at the labs, sweetie.” She held my hands and pulled back from me. I looked at her, admiring. She wasn’t a model but she sure was hot stuff to me. Brown, crinkly hair framed her crooked smile, and she wore a gold whistle around her neck. I wondered suddenly if it had been a present from me.

       “So,” I said, “how much hate mail will I be getting this week?” I grinned.

       “I told you I wasn’t at the labs, hon. I was out with Laura.”

       “But didn’t your note say you went to the lab?” I let go of her hands and scratched my hair. I was sure I remembered that.

       Bonne smiled. “You found my note, I guess. That’s good. It doesn’t matter where I was, I’m with you now.”

       I put my arms around her and held her to me. When she finally drew away and took my hand, I gasped. My hand felt like it was on fire. I held it up in front of my face to see that it was bandaged. When had that happened?

       I started to take the fasteners off the bandage so I could see what was wrong underneath, but Bonne’s hands stopped me.

       “Leave it alone, honey-honey. It’ll be fine.”

       “What happened?” I asked breathlessly.

       “Let’s not go there,” she suggested, taking my other hand.

       We moved towards my bedroom, and I knocked my head against the ceiling on the way down.

       “Goddamn it!” I snarled.

       “Be careful, honey,” Bonne’s smooth voice intoned. I didn’t know how to be careful.

       “I hate these ceilings,” I growled. “Buildings shouldn’t have ceilings. They’re always in the way.”

       Bonne looked at me with a curious stare as I rubbed my head. Sometimes she looked at me strangely and I didn’t know why. I wondered if it was something she was thinking or if it was something I was doing.

       I took Bonne to the roof of the tower. I liked it better up there than I liked my room, but there was nowhere dry to store things up here. Nobody ever came here but me and Bonne and a few birds, so it was a perfect place for us to talk privately. Anywhere else we were often interrupted, but I didn’t know why this place was any different. Bonne said it was because there weren’t any stairs so it was impossible for anyone else to get up here. I asked her why if people needed stairs to go anywhere, why didn’t we? That was where she usually got silent, then changed the subject. Every time I brought it up again, I remembered talking about it many times before without ever getting an answer out of her. She always gave me the bullshit answer that it was because of my specialty, but I’d stopped buying that. My specialty couldn’t be the reason for everything. But according to her, it was why I lived with them, why no one ever caught us for the things we did, and why I was the protector of the gang. Protector-Cat, I liked the sound of that.

       When it got dark and the metal roof got cold under us, I took Bonne back inside. Ellie was home, and so were a lot of people I didn’t remember. I knew them all, though. Ellie was bitching about someone drinking the last of her water. I felt sorry for her, one of the only girls living with a bunch of us hoodlum guys. I went to her and told her I’d get her a whole case of Evian if she wanted it, and she brightened, saying I was the coolest guy in the world.

       Someone decided we were going out to eat as a group, so we left to find a restaurant. As we were walking, someone made a joke about “watching out for the pigs,” and everyone laughed. I caught the serious tone underneath the joke, though, and I resolved to keep my eyes peeled for the pigs. I didn’t know how I’d recognize them, but I was going to protect my family from them at all costs.

       We were seated at a big round table and I sat next to Bonne so I could hold her hand. When the waiter arrived someone ordered, and soon there was a plate of lasagna in front of me. I started to pick up my fork but I couldn’t because it hurt my hand. It was all bandaged up. I wondered what had happened to me. I tried to take the fasteners off but Bonne stopped me with her touch, asking me to eat with my other hand. I was too clumsy with my left, so Bonne had to feed me. She commented that it seemed strange that I could be so helpless when I was special. There was the specialty thing again, that mystery that apparently hid in my eyes, where everyone could see it but me.

       Between bites of lasagna I talked, and everyone laughed like I was telling jokes. I didn’t mind, though. Everyone was having a good time because of me. Bonne wiped sauce off of my face after I was finished, and I smiled and kissed her. I looked at my circle of friends. I didn’t know who they were or where I was, but I was sure I was home.

See a drawing of the "concept art" for this short story

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