to be determined [A FORMER WATTPAD FEATURED STORY]

FOUR

"Young onset dementia," she said. "I believe autoimmune dementia to be specific."

"What?"

Words are curling around my head, and I'm confused about the situation. To be perfectly honest, I don't understand a word of what the doctor just told me.

"You tested positive for alcohol in your bloodstream. Your MRI scans indicated that your liver has significant damage, which leads me to believe that some form of heavy drinking is what caused your hemorrhage. The heavy drinking mixed with the nutritional deficiencies over the course of several years could be contributing to your memory loss," she said. "Your spinal tap showed your CSF has an elevated protein and white blood cell count; that along with your twitch and emotional state leads me to believe the dementia may be autoimmune."

Pause.

"Okay."

"Okay." Dr. Letterman takes in a deep breath.

"Do you remember anything?" she asks. "Patients usually maintain some memories."

I look into the deepest part of my brain and search for anything that could resemble what my doctor calls a memory.

"Caramel."

"What?" she asks.

Her eyes are clean. There is absolutely no makeup residue; they are completely pure.

"I saw caramel." I look up to the ceiling.

"I need you to explain."

"There was a bottle," I say, "and blood streaming down someone's caramel skin from the knee." Her eyes keep widening at me, and her pupils dilate and dilute over and over again, "And, and then there was this man . . ."

"I need you to slow down," she says, looking down to the table for my chart, scurrying to find a pencil.

When she finds it she begins scribbling down words at a pace my thoughts can't keep along with. I take in deep breaths and grip the clean white sheets that cover my bed. "I'm the caramel skin, I think," I say. "He threw a bottle."

"Who did?"

"I don't know," I say. My eyes are filled with worry because I can't understand. I don't understand. "I don't know."

"That's okay, you don't have to know quite yet. Give it time."

Her rich fiery red hair lays flat and is pulled tightly into a ponytail. The man with the endlessly dark eyes walks into my room, watching me intently.

"Time?" I ask, looking at her. I take in her features; they all compliment each other in the strangest of ways.

"Time," she says.

Time.

I stare at the clock at the right side of the room. I hear the clicks inside my head. I close my eyes and focus on the one noise because it distracts me from everything else.

Tick tock.

I think this is helping.

Tick tock.

No it's not.

Tick tock.

Who's the man anyways?

Tick tock.

I don't think I have time. I mean, either way, time is kinda meaningless, don't you think?

Tick tock.

Meaningless, yeah.

Tick tock.

Tick tock.

Tick tock.