You Will Remember Me by Hannah McKinnon (best sales books of all time txt) 📕

Those two words became my new mantra, the only way to drown out the voice in my head bellowing this was all wrong, I was in trouble. Serious trouble.

When the track veered to the left and I’d seen a flickering light in the distance, I’d wanted to run to it. My legs refused. They were at least twice as heavy since I’d started out, making me walk more slowly as I tried to ignore the sharp pebbles and stones digging into the soles of my feet. Getting closer to the light, I could make out the faint shape of a single-story home and I let out an exhausted grunt. Almost there, I told myself. Hobbling up the long driveway, I staggered in the direction of the front door, but when a flash of lightning illuminated the skies and the car parked outside, my feet stopped dead. I squinted at the large blue-and-white letters on the side of the vehicle. The word POLICE.

I scrambled, toes and heels searching for traction, as if they, not my brain, sensed danger. It didn’t make sense. An officer might be able to help me, except I knew—I knew—I couldn’t knock on that door. Couldn’t ask whoever was inside for assistance. I had to get out of there, and so I turned and ran this time, disregarding the stinging in my feet and the searing in my lungs as a primeval fear deep within me took over, urging me to put as much distance between me and the house and police cruiser as fast as I could. I kept going for longer than I thought possible, didn’t slow down until the track widened some more and changed into smooth asphalt. That was when, doubled over from the effort, I finally caught my breath for long enough to steady the pounding of my heart.

I still had no idea what was going on, what had happened to me or why I was so afraid. I racked my brains, but no answers came, and it was still pitch-black when I’d made it to the outskirts of a town. I couldn’t bring myself to knock on anyone’s door. I didn’t recognize any of the landmarks, street signs or houses, had no clue who lived in the latter, but understood they’d call the cops if they were woken up by a half-naked man who couldn’t tell them who he was. Although I knew little else, I was certain I couldn’t take that risk.

When I saw a set of headlights coming my way in the distance, I’d crouched behind some leafy bushes to stay out of sight. I rubbed my face with my hands, noticing the watch on my left wrist for the first time. It looked older, had a plain white face with black roman numerals, and the glass cover and silver metal band were scratched and worn. The time said five fifteen, and as the first rays of sunlight crept their way across the skies above the clouds, I decided it had to be morning. I examined the watch, willing myself to recognize it and remember where it had come from, but only found a blank static space in my mind where the knowledge should have been. Heading underneath the nearest streetlamp, I released the clasp, took off the watch and examined it from every angle, ran a finger over the engraving on the back.

To Brad

All my love,

Rosalie x

“My name’s Brad?” Hearing my voice was like listening to a stranger. “My name’s Brad.” I made it a statement this time, trying to convince myself with certainty. Now I had my name, I hoped other things would fall into place. I stood there with my arms bent, palms facing the sky, as if expecting a miracle. Nothing. Everything remained as strange as it had been since I’d woken up. My name sounded unfamiliar on my tongue and as for Rosalie, I had no idea who she was, or if I loved her back. Was she out there searching for me? Why couldn’t I remember someone who was obviously an important person in my life? My pulse accelerated again as I tried to process yet more questions I didn’t have the answers to. They frustrated me so much I slipped the watch back on my wrist and kept going, repeating my name is Brad, in the hope it would have the desired effect if I said it enough.

A little farther down the road I’d reached a single-pump service station with a store that had a bright, wooden Jim’s General & Deli sign on the door. Perched above it on the front of the roof was a giant, weathered plastic sculpture of a fish my brain somehow identified as a sturgeon. Another sign near the door caught my eye, some company proclaiming they offered the best fishing charters in Maryland. Maryland. Instinct combined with logic told me that’s where I was, although I didn’t know how I felt so certain, or why I somehow also knew this wasn’t where I belonged. I looked around. Two cars were parked out front, one with a teardrop trailer attached to the back. Great. I knew the species of a plastic fish and what kind of trailer this was but couldn’t remember my own name or what I was doing in Maryland. There had to be some comedic value in that—too bad I couldn’t find it. I shook my head, immediately regretting the gesture because of the sharp stabbing pain it caused in the side of my skull.

Staying low, I crept to the vehicles. My immediate and not particularly brilliant plan was to find water, clothes and shoes before retreating someplace else, getting warm and figuring out what to do next, but as I got closer to the trailer, I’d noticed the Maine number plate on the back. Black-capped chickadee. Pine cone. The word Vacationland.

A jumble of pictures flashed through my mind. An old house. Twinkling, star-shaped lights. The sound of laughter. As I tried to grasp