Therapy: Part 3

As I lie on the bed, reaching out with my thoughts, I begin to feel it. Like ... a part of the air that's warmer than the surroundings. At first, so subtle, but as I focus, it becomes second nature. Like getting back on a bike – I haven't lost the skill.

The strange thing is, though, that I can't remember learning it. More and more of my memories are coming back to me, but I can remember nothing past my twentieth birthday. Over a third of my lifetime is still locked away.

Now, what does this mean? It feels like ... anxiety. But good anxiety. Maybe that's the wrong word. Hope, that's it. I smile, and as I do so, I can feel the hope give way to relief, and joy. I open my eyes, and look at the masked man beside me.

"I think I did it," I say. "I could feel your emotions."

"Good work," he says. "They're saying you'll be allowed out in a few days, so it's important to ensure that your powers are under control first."

"What about the other thing?" I ask nervously. "The telekinesis thing."

"That should be easier," he tells me. "Your empathic abilities, by all accounts, are milder than your telekinetic abilities. If you reacquired your empathy this quickly, you ought to be in full control in no time. Try it now."

He removes a pencil from his suit and places it on the bedside table. I focus.

I try not to let my mind wander, but once again, I find myself trying to place this man. He calls himself One Thousand And One, and apparently, before the accident, so did I. I knew him, I knew the suit, and ... now I can't. Sometimes, I try to force the memories out, and I sometimes try to sneak up on them. But there's nothing there. No deja vu, no hint that he was ever a part of my life. It worries me sometimes, but whenever he arrives, and seems so warm, and caring ...

The pencil lifts into the air. Immediately, I feel like I've got hold of it, and I manipulate it – spinning it, weaving between the legs of the table, flying over the bed and back underneath it.

One Thousand And One catches it, and replaces it in his pocket.

"See?" he says.

"What happens when I leave?" I ask.

"You'll need regular check-ups," he replies. "But that's the hospital's business. If it's alright with you, I'd like to keep visiting you."

"That'd be fine," I say.

"When we can work out of your flat, we'll have much more freedom. We can start trying to work this out properly."

And that's the other thing. Memory loss isn't particularly convenient when one needs to know how one lost one's memory in the first place.

-10001-

As I enter the flat, I'm suddenly hit by a strange sensation. I immediately begin to remember many things – names, incidents, places ...

I'm told that this is to be expected. In the hospital, only a few familiar faces and stories could help trigger my memory, but in the flat, I'm surrounded by cues and clues; pictures, smells, decorations, magazines. All sorts.

During his second visit to the hospital, One Thousand And One described my flat to me, but I'd imagined it smaller. And messier. I walk slowly through the living area, taking in the atmosphere, and pass into a cosy kitchen. I take a look in the cupboards, spotting many ingredients that I can't imagine using.

I check the bathroom, and then the bedroom, in which I find a neatly-organised filing cabinet. I browse through a couple of the drawers, but once I've found the folder I wanted, and an empty pad of lined paper, I head back into the living room.

-10001-

"This page lists all my relatives," I say. "Mostly complete, but excluding anyone born after nineteen ninety-five. This page lists friends and acquantainces, and currently only includes those who visited me in hospital – including you." One Thousand And One nods. "This page will be a list of everyone who knows me as Grey Matter or, more importantly, Therapy. That'll involve research. Finally, I've drawn up a table of the week, which I'll fill in with my normal schedule – again, research."

"I should have known," said One Thousand And One with a chuckle. "You've got it all planned already. Suppose you won't need my help, will you?"

"Actually, I do," I say. "You're the only one who knows my identity, so you have to help me with everything you know about me. And my memories are coming back now, so you might as well tell me why you're called One Thousand And One in the first place."

"Not yet," he says.

"Why not?" I snap. "What possible reason could you have for keeping that a secret? You've already told me that I knew before the accident. Remind me, and it might jog my memory further."

"That's unlikely-" he starts, but I interrupt.

"I'm a lecturer in psychology," I say. "And I've accumalated an impressive amount of notes on retrograde amnesia, and I reread them all this afternoon. Which makes me the authority, doesn't it?" I grin.

"I suppose you're right," says One Thousand And One. "Alright, then. I'll meet you back here tomorrow."

"What for?"

"A day out," he says. Seeing my frown, he says reassuringly, "As I said, the number itself isn't important. But it's linked to a place, which I think will be a big help to you. Now! Let's fill in some of those pages."

And so, still a little bit put out, I sit down with him, and we fill in my book.