Lustful Amnesia

This is the entire first chapter. I considered breaking it down into smaller groups for a more dramatic effect at the right moment, but honestly, that would be a ton of incredibly short chapters for such a story.

I didn't want to detract from what's going on.

I hope you enjoy meeting Amnesia, the REAL Amnesia (not the fantasy dream Amnesia from Cordelia's unfortunate nightmare/demise).

As always, I hope you enjoy reading these.

- Cassus Finley.

*

I have to tell you something.

Shh.

It's a secret...

come closer

. I won't bite you (too hard).

Closer

.

My name is Amnesia Marie Stone. I am twenty-two years old, and I love

women

.

...here...

Here's a pen and paper. Write this down for me, so that you will remember — so the world will remember.

I was born January 1, 1980 in the East End of London, England to Allison and Patrick Stone.

I have no brothers, or sisters. I am an only child. My mother was a simple woman, who fell in love with a sailor. It's not too uncommon a story, really. My father —

my real father

— was a Commander in Her Royal Majesty's Navy. I spent the first year of my life living in London, on the West End. That same year Dad lost a ten year battle with cancer.

When I was old enough, Mom told me that dad was a hero in many regards, and an honorable man. His accolades earned him a funeral of high Military Honors.

Honor doesn't raise the dead, though.

When dad died, Mom couldn't handle it. When I was two, we moved in with my Aunt Lizzie, in America.

Mom said America was everything she had ever imagined it would be; dull, closed minded, and plain.

Mom never lost her accent, and mine is very light. Most people believe I fake it.

I don't.

Aunt Lizzie died around the time I was five. It didn't help mom, at all. Aunt's house became our house, and we were pretty much alone.

I may have mentioned that mom made herself sick when I was five. It was her lifelong friend Patricia Martin - someone I didn't know existed - that saved her life (and mine, by virtue). Patricia left London before I was born. I would learn later, that her absence led to a great deal of mom's despair.

Mom went to rehab. Patricia became my legal guardian, and would be until mom was better.

I'm not going to bore you with the day, by day in the life of a five year old, but I will summarize my early life to this:

I met Cordelia Martin the day Patricia brought me home. We were the same age, well, she the older by one month. We became fast friends, easily, as children do. It could be we remember things as they were, or how we

wish

they were, but there

are

details you never, ever forget.

I remember that she was funny. She made me laugh, and often. She had a streak of rebellion that ran through her, like electricity runs through a death row inmate (or at least used to, when the death penalty was still interesting).

Cordelia Martin, with her gold tinted pallor, and hair like ravens. Her haunting, honey eyes.

I need a moment, please... just a short break.

O O O

(sorry) Rehabilitation took mom two years. Her climb out of despair was a combination of church, and state - that is, a combination of therapy, and religion. It worked for her... and it works for a lot of people. It's not my thing, but if it makes you better, who am I to argue?

Mom renovated Aunt Lizzie's old home, and when she was finished, it was time for me to return home. Cordelia, and I had become besties, practically sisters. We slept in the same bed, played with the same toys, read the same stories, and liked the same things. We both got good grades, and had people who loved us.

I want to make that clear, now. This isn't about me being some dysfunctional twit who slags around because nobody ever loved her. I was loved, by mom, and my foster parents.

Let me go on record, though, in saying that love isn't always enough.

We spent our entire childhood together, year in, and year out. I spent as much time spending nights at her house, as she did at mine. We talked about teachers, and how much we hated the playground at recess. We talked about boys, and how much we didn't understand them.

Life continued this way until the summer after our last year in middle school. Cordelia's parents had become very busy, very wealthy people. It required, usually, that either Patricia, or Daniel (her dad) had to travel. In this particular instance, it was both.

It was devastating.

I

was devastated.

They took a contract for two years back in London. Mom agreed to look after their house from time to time. Just like that, my entire life changed.

(you may want to turn the page, you're running out of writing space)

O O O

I never recovered from it,

not once

those two years she was gone. I felt like my heart had been ripped out of my chest.

It

never

even occurred to me that I had fallen in love with her.

She wrote me once a week, every week, and I responded on opposite weeks, so that neither of us had too much time in between. Our freshman year in high school was rife with awkward situations, and failed attempts at romance.

Cordelia even lost her virginity, though the details she kept out of the letters, and honestly, I preferred not to know more than she'd already said.

Sophomore high school was less awkward, and I started dating. The first guy I ever dated was Rick Swanson, Captain of the High school Football team. Ex Girlfriend, and cheer captain, Sandra Sevilla was livid. In fact, there may have been a cat fight, or two, over that ridiculous prick.

Oh, yeah. Rick,

not

the most standup guy you'll ever meet in high school - but there

is

one in every school, none the less. It turns out his nickname was "Rick the Dick"... and he

really

had one. His father should be proud.

Yeah, I blew him a couple times in the off season, if anything, to get him to shut the fuck up about sex... but I was starting to get the big picture, and the big picture was not Rick's big dick. In fact, it had nothing to do with dick at all.

Cordelia, and I still wrote as regularly as ever. I told her I hated the taste of semen. She told me she did too. We talked on the phone, but never about the things we wrote about. She went on about how much she hated it in London, and I went on about how much I hated it without her home. Time went by as slow, as it did fast, in a paradox of hurry-up-and-wait. The school week shot by, and weekends dragged.

I cannot accurately number how many times I lied to my mom about spending the night at a friends, so that I could sneak into the Martins' house, and sleep in Cordelia's bed, smell her pillow, or cuddle one of her plush animals, and dream of her.

Sure, that's insane. Love is insane. Teens are absolutely insane. The combination is lethal, and when you're a young, driven, and somewhat confused girl, your whim becomes your master, and satisfaction, your god. What teen doesn't thrive on gratification, never mind whether it's instant, or not?

Prom. Ugh. I didn't go to prom, but Cordelia did. She went with some guy named Bradford, or Greggard, or some random English name that I don't care about.

Nothing

happened with Grigmund, or Edelbastor (whatever!), but something entirely unexpected

did

.

Now, before I continue on, both Cordelia, and I had our own phones. It was a sweet sixteen thing, and our parents knew we kept in touch - and that it was important to us. They didn't

owe

us any particular favor, but it was nice all the same. So, it's Prom night, I'm in my room bored, lonely, and a little jealous of Clarington, or whoever, and fighting images out of my sick imagination of some crooked toothed English kid fucking my best friend.

It's around four in the afternoon. I just finished homework. It's Friday, and a long, boring weekend belongs to me. The phone rings, and I'm scrambling to answer it.

Cordelia's drunk, it's midnight in London, and she wants to tell me

all

about "the formal", and I'm agreeing to listen, even though I don't really want to hear how some (lucky) motherfucker got between her legs.

That part never comes up.

She's laughing, maybe a little too much, but she's cute when she giggles.

"The decorations were positively silly.

", she says, and I noticed for the first time in two years, she has a Queens Proper accent.

She goes on about bad music, and good music, and how much she really hates it in London, and how much she misses me, and loves me, and I hear the faintest sigh. It's the kind of sigh I make, when I take it to the shower head, if you know what I mean.

It's not like I'd never been finger diddled by Rick the Dick, but the dexterity of his hands, and fingers, belonged in the special Olympics, not my playground. So after experimenting with different stimulants, fingers, and

toys

(never mind how I got a hold of them), I finally discovered the joys of a jet stream shower.

I love my shower head.

So, I listen a moment longer, and she's not even talking anymore, so much as sighing. At first, despite the fluttering in my stomach, I think she's passed out. I'm like, "Cordelia, are you there?"

...and she's like drawing in the deepest breath, and sighing out something that sounds very close to, "Uh, huh."

I'm a realist. Maybe as a sophomore, I was a bit more of an idealist. I've been to keggars with Rick the Dick, and I've seen drunk girls doing stupid shit. Sometimes for attention, sometimes because they mean it. I caught Sandra Sevilla making out with her cousin Janette in the bathroom at one of those Keggars. I didn't tell, and she didn't speak another word to me for the rest of the school year.

People get drunk, and they do stupid shit. I know that. I may have even known that then, but it didn't stop me from having phone sex with Cordelia.

I'd go into some gritty detail, but you know what? I've got a sense of propriety. It would be irresponsible for me to detail the extremely erotic encounter's of a girl's first pseudo-lesbian experience with her best friend.

Hahah, sorry. I like to see you sweat. It's kind of sexy in its own way.

Besides, it wasn't entirely like something you'd see on late night cable. Oh, it certainly was soft porn, but it wasn't a professional production, if you know what I mean. First of all, I was too scared to tell her how fucking hot it was for me to hear her like that. She was too scared to admit that she was doing it, even if she was drunk.

So I broke the ice. I started doing it, too. Neither of us said much. A sigh here, a gasp there, panting, heavy breathing, and then pop.

I remember feeling heat in my face, like the sun had set fire to my skin. I imagine her reaction was somewhere along the same line, because we were both dead silent for about a minute or two. Finally, Cordelia continued on about how much she looked forward to coming home, and hearing bad music, and seeing bad decorations at an American formal (dance).

I guess, in a way, I'm the lucky motherfucker who got between her legs. Oh, and that long and boring weekend? I wish it could have been longer. It couldn't have been long enough. Those calls from Cordelia were the weekend trend, and I was living the dream.

I knew, even then, this sort of thing wasn't going to come up in conversation too often. It was one of those things I'd dread. It may as well have been an actual dream, because what good is reality if there's nothing to recount?

O O O

The summer of love was at hand. Hahah, I'm just kidding, but I'm not, you know? It's silly, really, but

really

this was the summer it all began. It was a little awkward, to start. I woke up to someone hitting me with a pillow, startled to find Cordelia in my room. Then, with growing dread, I realized I was sleeping in

her

room, and she'd just gotten home. She was all smiles, and hugs though, instead of startles, and screams. She even kissed me, despite morning breath (on my part), though it was brief. More like a peck on the lips... but it was a start.

I spent the day catching up with her. Two years, and five-thousand miles had not severed our bond. Surprisingly, we had never once exchanged pictures, so seeing each other the first time in two years, well, a lot had changed.

Cordelia still had her golden pallor, you know, that gold tint over pale flesh. Her hair was still as black as ravens, but cut into an A Frame bob, the lowest points framing her face, and looking as sharp as daggers. She wasn't wearing makeup, and surprisingly, she apologized. Then, we both felt a little silly, and laughed. I told her there was no need. She asked if I still drooled in my sleep, and I said no, covering up a soaked in puddle of drool on her pillow with an elbow. Her eyes were a lighter shade of honey than I remembered, almost yellow now, with a deep amber ring around them. Her eyes were also deeper set than I remembered, creating a natural shadow that made me want to melt into her embrace forever.

Had she been embracing me.

I enjoyed her accent, and she told me she could still hear a little of mine. I told her to thank my mom for that.

I asked after Patricia, and Daniel. Cordelia said they had gone to see my mom, and thank her for watching the house.

We spoke for hours. Her parents came home, hugs all around, and then left us on our own. Dinner came, and went, and we were still there, talking. The sun set, and we were still there, talking.

That was - and is - the happiest reunion of my entire life. It's actually the only reunion I've had, besides being reintroduced to my mother after she got out of rehab.

No comparison whatsoever. Cordelia stole the day, and with it, my heart. It wasn't until a short while later that things changed, so desperately. I learned what lay deep inside of Cordelia, and she shared that darkness, dormant, waiting, and eager.

Forever.