Alicia Atkins

You knew what you were by the time you could spell the word mendacious.

You were a killer.

Out in the back lot, out in the sun, the earth off-gases a potent smell of wet grass.

I take the time to orient myself, to memorize the way back to the house.

The doctor, what was her name, said that my memory will be erratic, temperamental even.

I've learned what that means in practice.

I don't always know what I've done in the last few hours, and I don't always remember how to get where I want to go.

If I stare hard at the dirt track leading back to the house through the sunflowers, though, I'll remember the way, at least for as long as I require to get home again.

The doctor also says that I'm lucky to have survived a catastrophic head injury with my personality more or less intact.

She told me one of her patients woke up as a blank slate.

She knew her name and retained her memories, but who she was, her personality, was just... gone.

Her only choice was to wander through her life as a stranger to herself.

For me, it's the memory.

Erratic and temperamental barely begins to describe it.

I can cry at the drop of a hat, but I also seem to be more cautious, and that feels like an improvement.

Any personality changes are strictly for the better.

For the erratic part?

Well, I know I share a birthday with Ted Bundy, but I had to look up who he was online.

Then I had to look him up again the next time his name popped into my head, because I'd forgotten I'd read it the first time.

Which might have been the second or fiftieth time, for all I knew.