On Baker-Miller Beach

I think the amnesia must have started not long after my illness. I mean, I knew that. There were the absences I was told I had in the middle of conversations, when I’d just stop

then be back without noticing I’d gone.

There was the difficulty I had in remembering my friends’ names or the details of their lives – oh, I didn’t know you had a brother! Then the fact that most of the arithmetic I’d learned was simply gone and I had no idea what to do with a piano anymore. The long fugue states, though, they were news.

I woke up one morning in a sleeping bag on the sand floor of a sparse forest. Between vast bare tree trunks the sand undulated around hundreds of yawning burrow mouths. There wasn’t a twig of undergrowth, just trees, sand and holes. Everything was pink.

The sand was pink, the trees were pink, their broad pale leaves, pink, and once I navigated my way out from under them the sky was pink. Perfectly still pink water stretched away from a pink beach to meet the cloudless pink sky. The air, sand and water were all exactly blood-warm.

I stood in the water and strained my ears for a break in the pristine silence. My breath and the slosh of my footsteps seemed contrived, like the foley sound in a low-budget science fiction TV show.

Away down the beach an enormous rusting boiler lay half-sunk in the sand, round lid open toward the horizon. Nothing moved. I had no idea how I’d arrived there. I tried to pin down the last thing I could recall but it was like trying to remember what you had for lunch last Tuesday.

I’d seen The Quiet Earth. I’d seen Planet of the Apes. I knew what was up. I’d finally sidestepped in the multiverse, all the glitches were at last explained.

Then the rest of my class started to chunter their way out of their bags among the mutton bird holes and the sun finished rising behind the island. The day turned blue. I’d lost three weeks.

*Names are changed regularly to improve clarity

The wrong ostracon

I don’t know what I did. You wouldn’t, though, and you’d never find out.

You wouldn’t see it coming. If you were paying close attention there might have been a day or two of people exchanging subtle eye-rolls when you walked in. A faint, wincing paranoia might have started to snag at you. But you wouldn’t be prepared. Nobody ever was. That might have been the point.

Not knowing could be down to the amnesia. Equally in my case it might have been some sort of social blindness, except that it wasn’t. There were others, victims and reluctant perpetrators, all equally ignorant. When we talked about it later we called it the Silence.

It was a sudden weaponised ostracism. You’d come in one day to find yourself invisible. People would look through you, talk over you, make plans in front of you and leave you out. Buses would often leave without you. If you tried to talk to someone they’d cut you dead or wait serenely till you were out of their path.

There’s a special kind of haunted isolation that comes from being surrounded by people who won’t acknowledge your presence except to pointedly deny you attention. It’s not the sort of soft loneliness you can retreat from with a book, oh no. The Silence would follow you.

Reading or drawing or doing any other thing to keep yourself occupied would somehow turn up the freeze. They’d get louder, more animated, more affectionate toward each other, popping snacks into each others mouths or forming cross-legged conga lines of neck rubs. Without ever explicitly acknowledging your presence they’d work to ensure you knew you were being left out.

The icing on the cake was that when the Silence got turned on me I was stuck on a desert island with thirty of them and none of anybody else. And I still don’t know what I did.

It was apparent from the moment I woke up on that last day that it was my turn in the barrel. I was always late to breakfast, preferring to wait until everyone else was done, but it got packed up in front of me when I came to get some. Questions about the day’s plans went unacknowledged. People started conversations with one another if I persisted in trying to talk to them.

The second last conversation I had was with Obs. I was nominally friends with Obs. His mental health issues hadn’t become apparent yet but he was already as odd as a bottle of chips. At that point we hadn’t connected far beyond some shared interests: D&D, early Pink Floyd records and home marijuana cultivation.

Nobody else was usually interested in talking to him so I imagined that cutting me off would be a kind of social suicide. He did it anyway. It seemed so gutsy that I wasn’t even offended. “I can’t be friends with you anymore,” he told me. “How come?” I asked. “It’s not worth it,” he said. “I understand,” I said.

I didn’t.

I was wrong about it being a bad move though. He got suddenly – if temporarily – much more popular.

My very last conversation was with Bam. We were sixteen. We’d been close since we were nine. “I can’t keep talking to you,” he said, looking over his shoulder. “It’s just not worth it.” “I understand,” I said.

I didn’t.

Thankfully the next day involved a choppy three hour barge ride where nobody else had figured out the trick of sitting in the wheelhouse watching the horizon and eating gingernut biscuits with the pilot so I was happy to be left out of the communal activities. Breakfast didn’t seem like such a missed opportunity either, viewed over.

The Silence lasted the duration of a number of very, very long bus trips then petered out over a few days once we were home. Obs and Bam drifted back to talking to me, teachers started addressing me directly again and everyone else went back to what passed for normal in Arcadia.

I watched poor Obs go through the same thing later that year. He quit school immediately to begin a steady career in full-time pot smoking.

I never found out what he was supposed to have done. You never did.

*Names are changed regularly in the interest of public safety