From a mildly strange dystopian:
You frown. You bite your lip. You run your tongue over your teeth.
I’ve seen you do this twice before, and this, this is where everything always falls apart.
I close my eyes.
“My name is...”
You stare off at the wall, and I can see you fighting to remember. Any second now, you’re going to dredge it up and the doctor and I will have to leave and let the green gas slide up out of the floor, knock you out. Any second now, you’re going to say, like you have said every time, “Claire.”
But you just stare at the wall until the Doctor says,“It’s okay if you don’t remember.”
And you say, “I don’t.”
Your voice is flatter than I’ve ever heard it before in response to this question. There is none of the warmth, the smile, the life of when you say Claire.
Finally. You’re ready.