Saphora vol.1 Retention, Page 2

  Present Day.

  With a startling jump, she awoke from a dream all too familiar. A memory of her first experience on Earth. The only experience she could recall before the beginning of her new life. Gripping the sheets that were now somewhat damp, she sprang up into a sitting position and gasped for breath that she felt she had lost. Looking around the room, she groaned, throwing her fists up and back down on the mattress. She was tired of this - of these dreams that she could never grasp. They always ended the same way, leaving her in fear and anxiety. She wanted to get more out of it. But that was proving to be more difficult than she had hoped. So difficult in fact that she was seeking therapy for the dreams. The memories. She, and everyone else were convinced that the dreams were causing her headaches. So she attended therapy twice a week to try and cure what had been determined to be amnesia. Monday and Friday. Today was Monday. And her appointment was in two hours, at one o’clock pm.

  Saphora sighed, shaking her head and looking at the clock on her bedside dresser that read 11:04am. Great, she thought. I over slept. Now I’ll have to fly there. Contrary to what most people believed to be fun, flying took a lot out of her. Sure, it was fun for a while. But Dr. Lupin’s office was almost thirty minutes away by flying – longer by car. Keeping her concentration for that long put a strain on her, and added to her constant headaches. It was funny, she thought. That sometimes having to go see her therapist, the one who was supposed to be treating her headaches, would be the cause of them. And some of the worst. Exhaustion was one of the worst types of headaches. Because not only was there pain, but there was also fatigue. She didn’t take it for granted, the fact that she could fly. But if she could go about her day without it, she did. She usually only flew when she was stressed. Being above the clouds always calmed her nerves. And almost always helped put her to sleep. Because it wore her down, it usually did the trick. Saphora hardly ever used the gift for joy rides around the city. It just wasn’t in her. She didn’t know how or when she had come up with the ability, so in the back of her mind, she was always wondering when it would be briskly taken away from her. She had always thought that it would be, so she never wanted to press her luck. She never flew too high. Just high enough to stay above the clouds. She never went too fast, and she never did any tricks. She was a very careful girl. Just because she could fly, didn’t mean that it would be the death of her.

  She was ready in less than twenty minutes, and was out the door in the next five. Fran had left a note on her dresser, reminding her that she had an appointment today, and not to do anything “rash”. Which to her, meant not doing what she was about to do – fly. Fran was the woman that found her on that fateful night. She was one of the only things, if not the only thing, that made it certain that her dream was in fact a memory. Saphora had gone running down several streets, crying and screaming for help, until finally a light in a nearby house turned on, drawing her attention to it. Fran came out shortly after and went running to her, fearful of what had happened that had caused such a reaction in her. Fran eventually ended up taking her in, after failing to find out where Saphora had come from or what had happened to her parents, and ended up raising her as her own child.

  She was very accepting of Saphora’s abilities, Fran. But she was also a very cautious woman. She was worried that if the wrong people saw what she could do, that they would question, bully, or even harm her. She believed that her little girl was very special – and for good reason. And she didn’t want anyone taking her away, to do God knows what to her. So she was constantly warning Saphora, although she didn’t need to. Saphora knew all too well the dangers of what could happen if she were to be found out. It was unexplainable, which to the public, meant highly dangerous. It wouldn’t matter what Saphora said. She would be branded as a threat to the United States, and therefore the world. Unless she had done something to help everyone, like Superman, or Dr. Manhattan. She would have to become a hero in order for the label of threat to be removed. And that just wasn’t in her. She wasn’t the hero type. So she always took Fran’s words to heart. After all, in every movie, if the target resisted if they were found out, it was always their families that suffered in order to get what they wanted.

  But we’re getting off the subject.

  “Hello, Saphora. You can go right in,” the secretary at the front desk said to her.

  She didn’t even look up. She never had to. She always knew who was coming in, and who was coming out. Saphora couldn’t help but wonder if there were cameras around the office. Some of which would be facing towards the door. The screens of the cameras could be on the computer that was in front of her, granting her access to where everyone was.

  Saphora nodded, walking past the desk and making an immediate right down the hall to the elevator that would lead her to Dr. Lupin’s office. The walls in the hall, as well as a majority of the office, were bland. They were a beige colour. Very dull. Here and there, there were paintings, or what looked like paintings, hanging up on the walls. Tulips, lilies, roses. The only source of colour in the office. But they weren’t actual paintings. They were pictures of paintings. They had all the detail of the brush strokes, with no texture. She knew because she had touched them before, having once admired the paintings. They were, at one point, the only thing she admired about the place. Now, there was nothing. She only came to please Fran. Because frankly, there had been no progress in her case since she had started coming nearly three years ago. She understood that progress didn’t happen overnight. But to have never missed a session in three years, and still have nothing to call an accomplishment? Of course, there may have been the fact that she wouldn’t take the medication prescribed to her for her headaches. But she highly doubted that that was the reason. After all. There was no medication for amnesia.

  It had gotten to a point where she had wondered if she minded never remembering. Except for the nights that the dreams haunted her. It had been almost sixteen years since that night, bringing her to about the age of 22. They couldn’t be sure, because she didn’t know how old she was when she was found. But those years were more than enough time to create a new, comfortable life without her past. Aside from the nights with dreams, she was beginning to care less and less about whatever she was missing. She would, however, like to know how she gained the ability to fly. She remembered perfecting it, but not obtaining it.

  “Ah, Saphora! Come in, come in,” Dr. Lupin greeted, putting down his cup of coffee. The scent filled the room, and Saphora’s nostrils as she entered the room. The bridge of her nose scrunched up at the smell of it. But she knew that her nose would eventually become immune to it, once a few minutes had passed. She closed the door behind her softly, keeping the handle turned until the door was shut before letting it quietly click back into place.

  She sat down in the chair in front of his mahogany desk, and gave a faint smile. He returned it tenfold, making his glasses bounce up as they were lifted by the roundness of his cheeks. As she situated herself in the chair, she watched as the doctor took out one of the many files about herself. She found it strange. She and the doctor had only ever talked about so much and yet there were as many as four binders filled with information. And unless he was rewriting everything they had been talking about, she doubted that there could be so much from just the small conversations that took place. She had never seen what was in the files, and had never asked. But each time she met with Lupin, her curiosity of what could be inside grew.

  He placed the fat binder on the surface of his desk with a somewhat loud plop, before smiling up at her. She couldn’t help but narrow her eyes. It was things like that. The subtle references of mocking that made her hatred for him fester. It was like he was saying, “I have all this information – on you. And you’ll never get to see it.” But again, she set aside her feelings of distaste, and powered through for Fran.

  “How’re you doing?” he asked, looking up at her. She cleared her throat.

  “I’m alright, thank you. Yourself
, doctor?”

  He laughed and proceeded to open the binder, flipping through the many sheets of paper, trying to find a specific area to stop at. She didn’t know what or where that was, but considering that they always started with the repeating of her dream and/or memory, she could only assume that it had something to do with that. He grumbled softly as he flipped through, before chuckling again.

  “You’ve been coming here for nearly three years, and you’re still so formal with me. Why’s that?” he asked, taking a sip of his coffee and pushing his glasses back up onto his nose. She shrugged and answered simply.

  “Because you’re still in a formal position,” he glanced up at her, setting his mug back down with raised eyebrows.

  “True … Why don’t we get started?” he said, having found the page he was looking for. She nodded, somewhat indifferently.

  “Have you been waking up out of breath still?” he asked. She nodded.

  “Yes. I woke up like that today.”

  “I see. And yesterday?”

  “No.”

  “The day before?”

  “No.”

  “The day before that?”

  “Yes.”

  “And before that?”

  “No.”

  “I see,” he said, scribbling away onto the page. Perhaps it was some sort of chart, taking note of her sleeping patterns. That was in fact what it was. But she couldn’t be certain. The binder was at an angle that prevented her from seeing it properly. She watched as he wrote, before he started talking again. “And have you been having any headaches when you wake up like that?”

  “No. Not usually.”

  “Mhm,” he hummed, writing again. “Well, they don’t seem to be worsening, just happening more often. You might start experiencing headaches with them if they keep happening so often,” he noted. She didn’t think that was the case, but she nodded anyway.

  “Have you been taking your medication?”

  “Yes.” Lie. She’d yet to take one pill in the three years.

  “Do you need a refill?”

  “No.”

  “Alright. Be sure to let me know when you do,” she nodded. “Now then … Have you remembered anything, since the last time we’ve spoken?” he asked. She frowned, and shook her head. If she had, she would have been anxious to let him know, and hear his response, despite her opinion of him.

  “I see. Can you tell me the night you do remember? About the night you met Miss Mousescawits?” he asked, leaning back in his chair. She sighed. She had been asked to repeat what she remembered in every visit, regardless of the doctor. She figured it was to see if the story would change at all. To see if she was lying. Or maybe to see if anything had been added, that she didn’t realize she remembered. Either way, it was a process that drained her. Because it didn’t matter what else she could remember about the night. It was before that night that she wanted to remember, if she was to remember anything. That night was unpleasant, aside from meeting Fran. And being made to constantly repeat it only worked on her nerves. If anything, she wanted desperately to forget that night.

  “I woke up in a kitchen … Everything had been destroyed, but a counter top. A marble counter top. This man walked in when I woke up.”

  “Do you know what he looked like?”

  “No, but he had red hair.”

  “Okay, continue.”

  “He asked me if I knew who he was. I didn’t. And then he asked me if I knew who I was. And I said Saphora.”

  “Why did you say that?”

  “Because he said it.”

  “Did it feel right to assume your name was Saphora?” She nodded.

  “Yes. I knew it was Saphora when he said it. Then he asked me, if I knew what I was.”

  “What you were? What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know. That’s what he said. I told him I didn’t know, and he told me to go with him. But a woman told me not to.”

  “A woman?” he repeated, leaning forward. She’d never mentioned the woman before. A voice, yes, but it being a woman, no. Dr. Lupin was intrigued. She slowly nodded. “You believe the voice that spoke to you was a woman?”

  She nodded again, and he began writing in the binder again. “I see, I see. Go on. Did the woman sound young? Old?”

  “She sounded like a woman.” He nodded, and continued to write, signaling her to go on.

  “She told me to say what she said.”

  “What did she say?”

  “I don’t remember. But when I said it, the man fell back into a wall. Then she told me to run. And I left the house, and ran down the hill to hide from him.”

  He had stopped writing, and was now leaning on his desk, listening intently. She stared at him, having finished her story, and waited for a response. He looked on for a few more moments before pushing his glasses back up.

  “You… You said when you said what the woman said, the man fell back?”

  “Yes.”

  “Into a wall.”

  “Through three walls, and into the fourth.” His eyes widened a bit and his head slipped from his hand.

  “Through three walls?” She nodded. “How?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Were you hurt as well?” She shook her head.

  “I fell back on the floor, but I wasn’t hurt.”

  “How is that possible? Did you push him?”

  She shook her head, but then hesitated. She didn’t know. She couldn’t remember.

  “I … don’t know. I don’t remember how it happened. Only that he flew back.”

  “I see… Why don’t we take a look at your back now?” he said as he wrote a bit more. She nodded and stood, making her way over to the bench in another part of the room. Once he was done writing, he closed the binder, put it back in the drawer, and took out another one not as thick, before locking the drawer. He made his way over to his leather chair, carrying the binder and his mug. Both of which he placed on an end table beside the chair, before rolling up the sleeves of his button up collar shirt to his elbows.

  “Alright, let’s see that back,” he huffed, walking over behind her. He was always doing that. Trying to fill in the looming silence with something. He often repeated himself in order to do so. Remembering that her hair was down, she quickly twisted it around and pulled it over one of her shoulders, holding it in place with one hand. She took in a deep breath as he pulled her shirt back so that he could see beneath it. He studied the intricate, oddly designed interlocking patterns that almost read as hieroglyphics – because they were. When she had first started coming to this man, the birthmark, as they called it, was only located on the back of her neck. Since then, it has spread to her right shoulder, and slightly down that side of her back. It was off white in colour, a few shades lighter than her skin tone, making it noticeable if it was being looked for, or at. It almost looked like a white-ink tattoo, which it was often mistaken as. They were on the verge of giving it another title. He stayed quiet as he studied the area, his bare hands gently grazing over certain areas that interested him.

  She looked around the room as he took his mental notes. She looked at his desk, the photos, the plants, the chairs, the carpeting. Anything and everything that would keep her from feeling like a case study. It was the part of the session that she hated the most. Being made to feel like an object of observation was one of the few things that could anger her. Perhaps it was because that she secretly feared it. That by some chance, the constant observation would give way to discovering her ability to fly. And then just like that, she’d be hidden from the world. The rumored infamous Area 51 would burst into the room and take her to some quarantine to be analyzed and poked at. She feared that at any moment the doctor would find something alarming. Something odd that would draw attention to her. But as always, after a few more moments of minimal observation, Dr. Lupin released her shirt, allowing it to flatten against her back, and moved to sit on the chair in front of the sofa.

  “Well, it doesn’t l
ook like it has spread anymore since last month,” he concluded. She nodded, letting go of her hair, letting it stay on her shoulder until her movements caused it to fall back.

  “Does it hurt at all?” he asked, making his way to his seat and sitting down, crossing one ankle over the other, his hands folding over his stomach. She shook her head no.

  “Good,” he mumbled, taking the binder into his lap and opening it up to take notes.

  “Alright. Let’s talk about your dreams now. Have you had any other ones? Anything strange?” he asked. She gave him a look. As if her only memory of her existence wasn’t strange. He cleared his throat, nodding as he caught his mistake. “Right, I mean. Well, any other ones that you haven’t mentioned?” She hesitated before answering, which made him curious and eager to press her on.

  “Well?”

  She shook her head no.

  “Are you sure?” She nodded.

  “They just haven’t been happening as often I guess.”

  “Oh. Well is that a bad thing?” he asked, jotting the note down. She shrugged.

  “I guess not?”

  “Well I should hope not. Less nightmares are always a good thing, right?” he asked with a smile, his glasses inching up over his eyes. She stared at him - at the faux compassion, and nodded, generating a smile of her own.

  “Yeah, I guess so.”