[ Ray sounded frightened too, and Geoffrey remembered that look in his eyes, that sad loneliness that he'd noticed before, and felt pity for him all over again. If he'd really lost his mind, lost all his memories, it wouldn't be him that suffered the most; it'd be Ray. He knew what it was like, after all: to be left alone, unloved, uncared for. It was hard. The distance hurt, feeling detached from the rest of humanity, with no idea of how to begin to fix it. It wasn't fair - it certainly wasn't something he wanted to intentionally do to another human being - and he ought to be trying harder to remember.
But how could he try any harder than he already was? He wanted so much to remember it that he could almost convince himself that he pictured it, and yet most of the details were still too fuzzy. He couldn't picture the Yukon, for instance--he'd never been there. Weren't there walruses in the Yukon? He'd never even seen a walrus. So he tried, and the harder he tried, the more it seemed he came up short. All he could remember was the theatre, his ragged sofa in the Theatre Sans Argent, the asylum, and before that the theatre again. Ellen's house, Oliver's office, the park. What did the Yukon even look like? Open spaces, mountains - he'd at least seen mountains, he knew what those looked like - glaciers and lakes and trees?
He'd made Ray feel like it was his fault, and that wasn't fair either. Ray had been nothing but kind to him, had apologised again and again. It wasn't like he'd made Geoffrey go out and get utterly toasted, and he couldn't be expected to know how to deal with it when his best friend (and possible lover) spontaneously lost his memory out of nowhere. There wasn't a precedent for this, or a guidebook. Geoffrey didn't blame him, and Ray oughtn't to blame himself either.
Geoffrey didn't answer for a moment, and then with a huff of breath he pulled himself forward, scuttling across the floor to put his back against the bed instead. He couldn't have a conversation with a person through a closed door. He just couldn't. It was too crazy even for him. ]
I don't think I want to tell you what I remember. I can't be sure how much of it is real, and Ray I...I don't want to go back. I know it probably sounds crazy. Crazier. But please--I promise I'm not insane.
[ He stared up at the blank door, then called out again, his voice almost trembling. ]
You don't have to stand out there. You can come in. It's okay, I don't bite--at least, I don't think I do. Actually I might. [ He sighed, dropped his head against the bed behind him. ] Please. Anything to shut me up.
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But how could he try any harder than he already was? He wanted so much to remember it that he could almost convince himself that he pictured it, and yet most of the details were still too fuzzy. He couldn't picture the Yukon, for instance--he'd never been there. Weren't there walruses in the Yukon? He'd never even seen a walrus. So he tried, and the harder he tried, the more it seemed he came up short. All he could remember was the theatre, his ragged sofa in the Theatre Sans Argent, the asylum, and before that the theatre again. Ellen's house, Oliver's office, the park. What did the Yukon even look like? Open spaces, mountains - he'd at least seen mountains, he knew what those looked like - glaciers and lakes and trees?
He'd made Ray feel like it was his fault, and that wasn't fair either. Ray had been nothing but kind to him, had apologised again and again. It wasn't like he'd made Geoffrey go out and get utterly toasted, and he couldn't be expected to know how to deal with it when his best friend (and possible lover) spontaneously lost his memory out of nowhere. There wasn't a precedent for this, or a guidebook. Geoffrey didn't blame him, and Ray oughtn't to blame himself either.
Geoffrey didn't answer for a moment, and then with a huff of breath he pulled himself forward, scuttling across the floor to put his back against the bed instead. He couldn't have a conversation with a person through a closed door. He just couldn't. It was too crazy even for him. ]
I don't think I want to tell you what I remember. I can't be sure how much of it is real, and Ray I...I don't want to go back. I know it probably sounds crazy. Crazier. But please--I promise I'm not insane.
[ He stared up at the blank door, then called out again, his voice almost trembling. ]
You don't have to stand out there. You can come in. It's okay, I don't bite--at least, I don't think I do. Actually I might. [ He sighed, dropped his head against the bed behind him. ] Please. Anything to shut me up.