pink dog

Her fingers played  with some pink post-it notes on her desk. She kept sticking their tales to one another. A blue pencil rolled away, nearly falling from the edge of the desk. She caught it right away.

The sigh she let hover around in her chest escaped. So bored.  Still… She felt exhausted. The ashtray was empty. She looked at it. Not a smoker, remember? …No. She did not remember. She was a supposed nonsmoker. Now she wondered if her guess was right. The truth was – she could not remember. At all.

That is the definition of amnesia, she told herself. So tired and annoyed by it all. The watch on the wall showed that the doctor was late. Already five minutes. She hated it when people were late. Something recoiled in her stomach. Enough waiting.

With the pencil she was playing, she started scribbling. Doodles of dogs… She surprised herself. They were pretty good. “Pink dog.” She said it out loud. Good looking dog.

“Do you finally remember something?” A familiar voice asked. Startled she looked up, and smiled, as she recognized Dr. Harold. She shook softly her head and formed a NO with her lips. For some reason she  did not want to hear her own voice. It seemed strange to her. Not only that – she did not dare to disturb the aura of her doodles on the pink post-its. Any sound could have snapped her out of that state; the state of whatever-there-was forming a  lump of gravity in her throat, chest and head…

She felt  like a forgotten clay lump in nearly human shape. Like a thing someone left on a potters wheel… And the clay waited to be finished, to become whatever it was meant to be. Sadly she had no idea who she was, or what she planned for herself. She smiled her little crooked smile at Dr. Harold.

“Tell me about it.” He pointed at the dog she made. “What’s its name?”

“Dog.” She repeated.

“Dog?! Why? That’s not a name.” He managed a throaty laugh, and let himself sink into the couch across her desk. “It’s a stupid name. Your name isn’t woman, or human, is it?”

“Not stupid at all.” She threw an angry glance at him.

Knocking.

Mike, the nurse, stuck her head in. “Pssst, doc. Seizure. Room 218.” She slammed the door. Dr. Harold put his coat on, and smiled at his patient behind her desk.

“Mary, could you draw me some more? They are pretty good. You’ve got talent. I’ll be back in couple of minutes.” He rushed out, closing the door more delicately.

Mary sighed and looked at the doodles. They were good, she had to admit. Somewhere in her useless head, there was talent hidden. Behind all that clutter. Somewhere. She just had to find something she could hold onto.

 

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