Saphora: vol.1 Retention (The Athena Universe) (2 page)

It had gotten to a point where she had wondered if she minded never remembering. Except for the nights that the dreams haunted her. It had been almost sixteen years since that night
, bringing her to about the age of 22. They couldn’t be sure, because she didn’t know how old she was when she was found. But those years were more than enough time to create a new, comfortable life without her past. Aside from the nights with dreams, she was beginning to care less and less about whatever she was missing. She would, however, like to know how she gained the ability to fly. She remembered perfecting it, but not obtaining it.

“Ah, Saphora! Come in, come in
,” Dr. Lupin greeted, putting down his cup of coffee. The scent filled the room, and Saphora’s nostrils as she entered the room. The bridge of her nose scrunched up at the smell of it. But she knew that her nose would eventually become immune to it, once a few minutes had passed. She closed the door behind her softly, keeping the handle turned until the door was shut before letting it quietly click back into place.

She sat down in
the chair in front of his mahogany desk, and gave a faint smile. He returned it tenfold, making his glasses bounce up as they were lifted by the roundness of his cheeks. As she situated herself in the chair, she watched as the doctor took out one of the many files about herself. She found it strange. She and the doctor had only ever talked about so much and yet there were as many as four binders filled with information. And unless he was rewriting everything they had been talking about, she doubted that there could be so much from just the small conversations that took place. She had never seen what was in the files, and had never asked. But each time she met with Lupin, her curiosity of what could be inside grew.

He placed the fat binder
on the surface of his desk with a somewhat loud plop, before smiling up at her. She couldn’t help but narrow her eyes. It was things like that. The subtle references of mocking that made her hatred for him fester. It was like he was saying, “I have all this information – on you. And you’ll never get to see it.” But again, she set aside her feelings of distaste, and powered through for Fran.

“How’re you doing?”
he asked, looking up at her. She cleared her throat.

“I’m alright, thank you. Yourself, doctor?”

He laughed and proceeded to open the binder, flipping through the many sheets of paper, trying to find a specific area to stop at. She didn’t know what or where that was, but considering that they always started with the repeating of her dream and/or memory, she could only assume that it had something to do with that. He grumbled softly as he flipped through, before chuckling again.

“You’ve
been coming here for nearly three years, and you’re still so formal with me. Why’s that?” he asked, taking a sip of his coffee and pushing his glasses back up onto his nose. She shrugged and answered simply.

“Because you’re still in a forma
l position,” he glanced up at her, setting his mug back down with raised eyebrows.

“True
… Why don’t we get started?” he said, having found the page he was looking for. She nodded, somewhat indifferently.

“Have you been waking up out of breath still?”
he asked. She nodded.

“Yes. I woke up like that today.”

“I see. And yesterday?”

“No.”

“The day before?”

“No.”

“The day before that?”

“Yes.”

“And before that?”

“No.”

“I see,” he said, scribbling away onto the page. Perhaps it was some sort of chart, taking note of her sleeping patterns. That was in fact what it was. But she couldn’t be certain. The binder was at an angle that prevented her from seeing it properly. She watched as he wrote, before he started talking again. “And have you been having any headaches when you wake up like that?”

“No. Not usually.”

“Mhm,” he hummed, writing again. “Well, they don’t seem to be worsening, just happening more often. You might start experiencing headaches with them if they keep happening so often,” he noted. She didn’t think that was the case, but she nodded anyway.

“Have you been taking your medication?”

“Yes.” Lie. She’d yet to take one pill in the three years.

“Do you need a refill?”

“No.”

“Alright. Be sur
e to let me know when you do,” she nodded. “Now then … Have you remembered anything, since the last time we’ve spoken?” he asked. She frowned, and shook her head. If she had, she would have been anxious to let him know, and hear his response, despite her opinion of him.

“I see. Can you tell me the night you do remember? About the night you met Miss Mousescawits?” he asked, leaning back in his chair. She sighed. She had b
een asked to repeat what she remembered in every visit, regardless of the doctor. She figured it was to see if the story would change at all. To see if she was lying. Or maybe to see if anything had been added, that she didn’t realize she remembered. Either way, it was a process that drained her. Because it didn’t matter what else she could remember about the night. It was before that night that she wanted to remember, if she was to remember anything. That night was unpleasant, aside from meeting Fran. And being made to constantly repeat it only worked on her nerves. If anything, she wanted desperately to forget that night.

“I woke up in a kitchen
… Everything had been destroyed, but a counter top. A marble counter top. This man walked in when I woke up.”

“Do you know what he looked like?”

“No, but he had red hair.”

“Okay, continue.”

“He asked me if I knew who he was. I didn’t. And then he asked me if I knew who I was. And I said Saphora.”

“Why did you say that?”

“Because he said it.”

“Did it feel right to assume your name was Saphora?” She nodded.

“Yes. I knew it was Saphora when he said it. Then he asked me, if I knew what I was.”

“What you were? What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. That’s what he said. I told him I didn’t know, and he told me to go with him. But a woman told me not to.”

“A woman?” he repeated, leaning forward. She’d never mentioned the woman before.
A voice, yes, but it being a woman, no. Dr. Lupin was intrigued. She slowly nodded. “You believe the voice that spoke to you was a woman?”

She
nodded again, and he began writing in the binder again. “I see, I see. Go on. Did the woman sound young? Old?”

“She sounded like a woman
.” He nodded, and continued to write, signaling her to go on.

“She told me to say what she said.”

“What did she say?”

“I don’t remember. But when I said it, the man fell back into a wall. Then she told me to run. And I left the house, and ran
down the hill to hide from him.”

He had stopped writing, and was now leaning on
his desk, listening intently. She stared at him, having finished her story, and waited for a response. He looked on for a few more moments before pushing his glasses back up.

“You… You said when you said what the woman said, the man fell back?”

“Yes.”

“Into a wall.”

“Through three walls, and into the fourth.” His eyes widened a bit and his head slipped from his hand.

“Through three walls?” She
nodded. “How?”

“I don’t know.”

“Were you hurt as well?” She shook her head.

“I fell back on the floor, but I wasn’t hurt.”

“How is that possible? Did you push him?”

She shook her head, but then hesitated. She didn’t know. She couldn’t remember.

“I … don’t know.  I don’t remember how it happened. Only that he flew back.”

“I see… Why don’t we
take a look at your back now?” he said as he wrote a bit more. She nodded and stood, making her way over to the bench in another part of the room. Once he was done writing, he closed the binder, put it back in the drawer, and took out another one not as thick, before locking the drawer. He made his way over to his leather chair, carrying the binder and his mug. Both of which he placed on an end table beside the chair, before rolling up the sleeves of his button up collar shirt to his elbows.

“Alright, let’s see that back
,” he huffed, walking over behind her. He was always doing that. Trying to fill in the looming silence with something. He often repeated himself in order to do so. Remembering that her hair was down, she quickly twisted it around and pulled it over one of her shoulders, holding it in place with one hand. She took in a deep breath as he pulled her shirt back so that he could see beneath it. He studied the intricate, oddly designed interlocking patterns that almost read as hieroglyphics – because they were. When she had first started coming to this man, the birthmark, as they called it, was only located on the back of her neck. Since then, it has spread to her right shoulder, and slightly down that side of her back. It was off white in colour, a few shades lighter than her skin tone, making it noticeable if it was being looked for, or at. It almost looked like a white-ink tattoo, which it was often mistaken as. They were on the verge of giving it another title. He stayed quiet as he studied the area, his bare hands gently grazing over certain areas that interested him.

She
looked around the room as he took his mental notes. She looked at his desk, the photos, the plants, the chairs, the carpeting. Anything and everything that would keep her from feeling like a case study. It was the part of the session that she hated the most. Being made to feel like an object of observation was one of the few things that could anger her. Perhaps it was because that she secretly feared it. That by some chance, the constant observation would give way to discovering her ability to fly. And then just like that, she’d be hidden from the world. The rumored infamous Area 51 would burst into the room and take her to some quarantine to be analyzed and poked at. She feared that at any moment the doctor would find something alarming. Something odd that would draw attention to her. But as always, after a few more moments of minimal observation, Dr. Lupin released her shirt, allowing it to flatten against her back, and moved to sit on the chair in front of the sofa.

“Well, it doesn’t look like it has spread anymore since last month
,” he concluded. She nodded, letting go of her hair, letting it stay on her shoulder until her movements caused it to fall back.

“Does it hurt at all?”
he asked, making his way to his seat and sitting down, crossing one ankle over the other, his hands folding over his stomach. She shook her head no.

“Good
,” he mumbled, taking the binder into his lap and opening it up to take notes.

“Alright. Let’s talk about your dreams now. Have you had any other ones? Anything strange?” he asked. She gave him a look. As if her only memory of her existence wasn’t strange. He cleared his throat, nodding as he caught his mistake. “Right, I
mean. Well, any other ones that you haven’t mentioned?” She hesitated before answering, which made him curious and eager to press her on.

“Well?”

She shook her head no.

“Are you sure?”
She nodded.

“They just haven’t been happening as often I guess.”

“Oh. Well is that a bad thing?” he asked, jotting the note down. She shrugged.

“I guess not?”

“Well I should hope not. Less nightmares are always a good thing, right?” he asked with a smile, his glasses inching up over his eyes. She stared at him - at the faux compassion, and nodded, generating a smile of her own.

“Yeah, I guess so.
”

             
Walking out of the building, Saphora reached into her back pocket for her phone, wanting to call Fran and tell her about the session. She always called after each session. Not only because it was Fran’s request, but because she wanted someone other than herself to keep track of what happened in the sessions, in case she forgot. She did a lot of things like that – to keep track of memory. She was somewhat paranoid of losing it, knowing that she had before. She was conscious of the fact that it could be taken from her again at any moment.

“Hi,
honey.” Fran greeted, picking up on the second ring.

“Hey, Fran.”

She didn’t call her mom. She never had, and she doubt she ever would. It wasn’t that she was trying to disrespect Fran, or anything. But she knew that she was not her mother. And therefore just didn’t feel that she should be called that. She was grateful for everything that she had done for her. But calling her mom just seemed foolish. And Fran didn’t seem to mind it. The relationship did just fine without the title.

“How was the session today?” she asked, as she always did. Saphora shrugged, turning right and heading down the street towards home.

“Same as always. But I think I remembered something else, though it doesn’t seem-“

“Something else? What, what?! Tell me!” she urged excitedly. Saphora had to move the phone away from her ear
, the volume her voice had reached was so high.