Authors: Rob Reger
Losing my will to write regular entries. What’s the point? The shrink says he will have me cured of amnesia in three days, tops. Waste of time to keep writing…it’s just a habit that I’ll soon be over.
A lot later
Not over the habit quite yet. In fact I feel like dwelling on my memories of Blackrock. It’s such a novelty for me to have MEMORIES of anything. I’ve been thinking about the day I came back to the El Dungeon with Schneider after Wichita, and both Attikol and Ümlaut tried to take credit for bringing me back, and Raven had already forgotten she ever missed me. Ahahahha hah ahha. And the time Schneider was asking my parents why I hadn’t been reported missing. “Well, this was the eighth time, and she always came back on her own…” Weirdos. And that time Attikol asked Raven if she would let him romp through her hair some moonlit night, and Raven was all, “Uhhhhhhhhhhhh…no?” HAHAHA! And that especially rowdy game of Calamity Poker when Attikol challenged Ümlaut to recite Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18…in Morse Code. “Deeet
de deeet deeet deeet de de deeet de de de de deeet…” And most of all: finding the cat collars and learning Miles’, NeeChee’s, and Sabbath’s real names. McFreely’s real name will probably remain a mystery forever now. Belgium!
Oh, that reminds me. I never did go see Schneider’s grandmother, the town vet, to ask if she had stitched up Sabbath’s ear. Probably my only lead on the cats’ real owner. Had a moment of sadness for whoever that person might be, because let me tell you, they are missing some goooooood cats.
Then had an hour of sadness for myself, because I am also missing some gooooooood cats.
Much later
It’s late, late, late. I snuck out and walked around downtown Zigzag for a long time looking for something familiar. If you can believe it, and this is kind of embarrassing, I almost had myself convinced that me being here was all a big mistake, and these nice people were just complete idiots who were mistaking me for their daughter. And then this kid on the opposite corner called my name, and I thought about how even I recognized myself in all those pictures, and I should just give it up and figure out how to be Molly. Anyway, I let the kid do the talking. Not that it made any sense. Something about a comic he was knitting? About this girl who made the ultimate sacrifice—for beets! Or something like that. And he asked me if I’d be meeting up with the others later
and I said yeah but then I bailed on actually going. Maybe tomorrow. Not sure if I am actually interested in rejoining my extensive circle of well-dressed, chipper friends.
Not sure if I am actually interested in ANYTHING related to being Molly Merriweather.
Ehhhhhhhhhh.
Friday
Saw the shrink again today, but nothing about my former life is getting clearer. Shrink-man says to just give it time, and until I get my memory back, he will keep telling my parents I shouldn’t go back to school yet. (Doesn’t he realize that’s really not good motivation?) He also says writing in this journal is counterproductive to my goal of regaining my identity, so this will probably be my last entry.
So I guess this is it. Bye, Dear Diary.
Whatever.
Later
There are doubts! There are serious doubts!
I hate to say it…
BUT
I may not be Molly Merriweather after all.
(!)
Things fell apart after dinner tonight when Sharon asked me what I wanted to drink with dessert, and I said black cherry soda,
and she laughed and said, “There’s orange pop in the fridge.” POP!!! I am not from this household, I tell you. And if I had ever actually lived here, those ponies would know me.
ALSO: I don’t recognize the taste of the air, the smell of the water, the kind of towels in the bathroom, the mac’n’cheese, the night sounds, “my” stuff, or “my” name.
Am feeling VERY confused. Not sure what to do. Am going to start with some straight talk with Sharon and George.
Later
Evidence pointing to me being Molly:
Evidence that I’m not Molly:
Still, I don’t know if I can really BELIEVE that I’m not Molly Merriweather without further evidence.
For example…meeting Molly Merriweather face-to-face.
Will just have to go find her.
Much later
Waited until Sharon and George were asleep, then snuck out and walked around until I found that kid again who knew me, or thought he did. I asked him where everyone was and he said at the usual spot. I said let’s go and I let him lead.
We got to this overpass where a bunch of scruffy-looking kids were hanging out and as we walked up, sure enough, they were all like “MOLLY!” and “Where have you been?” and stuff, but then, when I got into the light from the trash-can fires, they kind of got silent and were all staring at me, maybe because I still hadn’t said a word, and then this one girl was like, “Hey, Molly—you seem…
different?” and I told them I was Molly’s cousin and I was trying to find her, and then everyone had their story to tell:
It appears as though I was a rich, popular, well-dressed girl who kept a neat bedroom and hung out under the overpass at night with a bunch of runaways. Oh. Except I WASN’T.