As of yet, I do not have a title for this story. I'm not far enough along in my writing process to have even started to think one up yet. As soon as I come up with one, I'll replace the "No Title" both here and in the Editor's Desk thread.

So I close my eyes. Focus. Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth. Relax my body and look deep inside myself. And I see... I see... nothing. My mind is as blank as the clean white sheet of paper sitting in front of me. I knew it wouldn't work. For the hundredth time tonight I pick up my pencil and immediately set it back down again. Everyone says that this will help me to "work through my emotions". What emotions? The only emotion that I seem to register anymore is frustration. It's getting to the point where I feel like letting go of it all and moving on like nothing ever happend. Then I come to my senses and realize that I could not in a million years do that. I could never resign myself to not knowing. The truth is, I have been missing for two years, and I am unable remember a minute of it.

To have a whole chunk of your life gone is heartwrenching, to say the least. In fact, I would have to say that it is the worst experience that I have ever been through. At least, it's the worst experience that I can remember... I've spoken with countless doctors, therapists, friends, and even a phsycic or two. But, when it comes right down to it, they all give the same basic message: You have to try. Every time I am given this trivial advice in any of its many forms, I reply the same way that I have from the beginning. I do try, but I still don't remember what has happend to me. ANYTHING about what has happend to me. No oddly familiar but unplaceable voice. No smell that reminds me of a certain location. No sudden flashes of events that occured during that time. And no matter how many times I provide this answer, their conclusion is always the same. I simply have to try harder. It is as if they believe that with enough effort, my memories will miraculously come flooding back to me.

The sad part is, no one fully believes my denials of recollection. No matter how supportive and helpful they try to be, I can feel their patience wearing thin. It has been six months since I was found. The doctors and therapists tell me it will take time, but I see them glance at their charts and their notes, wishing that they had more information to put there. My friends react in much the same way, wanting to help but not knowing how. Underneath it all, they believe that I no longer want to remember. Like I've given up, but I haven't. It is just so infuriating to not be able to show them all how much I want to get back those two years. And that's why I was trying to write. If I can bring something in to my therapist that says, "Look! I am progressing. I am putting forth an effort. I want to know!" then maybe they would have more faith in me. But the more I try, the less likely that seems. For the past few hours I have sat here, and the only things that come to my mind are those that I already know. I guess that I should start there.

My first memory in two years was a filthy looking man coming in my direction. He introduced himself as Tony, the owner of the gas station. Even if he had not told me that he worked in that dump, I certainly could have guessed. He was grungy, with a smudge covered shirt and an unpleasant odor about him that was a combination of gasoline, cigarette smoke, and day old gym socks. As I was appraising him, wondering how he had gotten into my dream, he reached the spot where I was standing on the curb and wheezed, "Hey, lady, you okay?". I didn't reply, didn't move, didn't even bat an eyelash. I was too shocked. Something was terribly wrong, yet I felt so disoriented and suddenly overwhelmed by a myriad of sights, sounds, and smells that I couldn't figure out what. Then it dawned on my. I have no senses in dreams. As I stood there, petrified, Tony began to shake me with his fur covered hands. He looked into my eyes, for what I wasn't sure, but apparently he had found what he was searching for. Tony bellowed to the skinny clerk currently manning the counter. He instructed the boy, who couldn't have been a day over 16, "Tommy ya 'lil runt! This here lady ain't right, ya know? Call the cops to come pick her up. We got a druggie on our hands." Offended by the notion that this ogre thought that I had done drugs of any sort, I turned to face him, but he had already turned and slunk back to his post.

How long I stood out there in the cold New York night, I can't recall. Time seemed irrelevant as my memories of what I thought were the past two days came flooding back. I had been at my parent's house for Thanksgiving. Mom served a turkey, no doubt one she had asked the maid, Rosario, to cook. My father was absent, business emergency, as usual. Mother had complained that I never called her and never visited anymore. Coldly I had replied "I'm here now, aren't I?" If she was taken aback by my tone, I could not tell. Her ever present smile flickered for a moment, but it was replaced on her face so quickly I was willing to believe that it was a trick of the light. And then just this night (I assumed that it must have been only a couple hours earlier, for a glimpse at the gas station clock told me that it was 11:09.) I had gone up to the perfectly furnished guest room. I had lay down on the plush bedspread, and I was asleep before my head hit the pillow. So how and why had I ended up here?

My musings were interrupted when out of the corner of my eye I saw an extremely tall, dark man getting out of his car. When the man began advancing towards me at a greatly increasing speed, I panicked. Instinctively, I screamed and started to run towards the gas station's convenience store. When the man grabbed me from behind and skillfully cuffed my hands, it dawned on me that this was the officer that the greasy owner had ordered the teen to send for. Calmly, I tried to explain to him that this was all some sort of mistake. I did not need to be restrained, I explained. This was all a misunderstanding. The officer flat out ignored me, but while we walked towards the cop car, him with a strong grip on my arm to make sure I wouldn't repeat my earlier stunt, I heard him mutter under his breath something about a "pot-head" who was going through a bad withdrawl and "buggin' him". With this new insult thrown my way, I twisted my head around to the point where I must have resembled an owl, and with all the indignance that I could muster, I said, "I am no addict!" To my surprise the man laughed and roughly shoved me into the backseat of his car. I did not resist him, I simply sat down and resigned myself to wait until we got to the station. Maybe somewhere there would be more reasonable. Meanwhile, I assured myself that I would be in my bed in no more than two hours.

When the heinous cop brought me in to the police station, I sat in a holding cell for what seemed like hours. It seemed as though this deadline would be an impossible one to make. Apparently, the jailer disbelieved my many pleas of my innocence. Finally, during what must have been the twentieth time that I asked to see his supervisor, the frusturated man blurted out, "Look, little missy. Once we get your results back, if you're clean, then you can go. Personally, I hope you are. You're gettin' on my last nerve." No sooner had the final word left the vile man's lips then the officer from earlier that night walked in. "You," he said, "are coming with me. We've been looking for you for a long time." This last statement startled me to no end, so I blindly let the officer lead me to a door at the very end of the hallway. In the room, there were two small chairs on opposite ends of a metal table. The table appeared to be bolted to the ground. The only other feature of the room was a large mirror, which, from my years of watching the police show Law and Order, I recognized as a one way mirror. The officer had brought me to an interrogation room.

Furious at this latest development (I was being treated like a common criminal!) I just sat there, arms crossed, determined that I would be of no use to my accuser. The officer, who had told me to call him Officer Brite, asked me what I remembered. I pointedly replied that I remembered being held hostage by a man named Brite. Though for a moment the man seemed taken aback by this response, he studied my face, and, upon deciding that I was being sarcastic, he scoffed. After a couple of seconds of silence, he rudely pointed out that he had meant what I remembered from the time that I had been missing. Missing. The word repeated in my head, an ominous echo of what my questioner had revealed to me. Shocked into silence by this latest news I stared blankly at him for what must have been three or so minutes. I was brought back by the sound of a chair scraping and, frantic that he would leave me alone before I could ask the question that was burning in my brain, I blurted out, "How long was I gone?".

Coldly, the officer replied, "Twenty-three months."

Now in an utter state of panic I screamed at this abuser to tell me the truth. "This isn't possible!" I screeched at him. "It was just this night that I was, well, I was staying with my mother. You can call her! Her number is 546-782-7737. Her name is Katerine Burns. I'm Serena Burns, her only daughter. She knows! You must have me confused with some other girl, some poor lost girl but I am not or, I have not been..." but before I could speak another word the officer, who had been furiously scribbling notes during my rant, shushed me. Apparently, now that I had provided him with what he wanted, he was willing to be much more sympathetic.

Speaking to me as if I were a child, he said, "Sweetie, could you tell me your name again?" I supplied him my name, hoping that we could finally straighten out this whole ordeal. Once I had done that, he asked me to repeat my mother's number, which I did. After a series of seemingly pointless and very boring questions, he asked me what the date was. I told him that it was Friday, November 25th, 2006. The day after Thanksgiving. After a long and rather uncomfortable silence, the officer finally opened his mouth and said, "I think that we're done here, and I'm gonna send in Dr. Tao to talk to you. Would that be alright with you?" Before I could reply the officer left the interrogation room, slamming the heavy door behind him. I was left sitting in an uncomfortable chair in a room so dim that I could barely see the opposite wall. Now all that was left to do was to wait for Dr. Tao.

Ok, so I have lengthened the chapter quite a bit. I also made some edits, and added a bit more detail and explanation. Right now the story is all very confusing, but that is the way I want it. There is a lot more explanation in part numero dos of the first chapter.

So I'm going through my second round of edits. Thank you all for being patient with me, because this is obviously a piece that still has a ways to go.

I'll have done another round of edits by Friday, and will probably have the next bit up by early Saturday. Fingers crossed...

Ok well here goes the second half or so of chapter one.

It is considerably shorter than the first half, and the pace slows down quite a bit.
I've only posted two paragraphs thus far, but I'll add more tomorrow.

Now utterly alone, I began to more closely examine the room that I was in. My eyes first fell on the cold gray walls, and I wondered to myself if they had ever considered putting up artwork. It would certainly have made the room less gloomy. After a few moments my gaze shifted to the door directly to my right. The stainless steel door knob glared back at me with its one eye, taunting me. It knew that I was trapped in this room, and it enjoyed the power it had over me. In an act of defiance, I stormed over to the door only to find it locked. Of course they would lock the door. I chided myself. Dejectedly, I turned away from the door and noticed for the first time the figure that was staring back at me from the large mirror on the opposite wall. Horrified, I ran over to the glassy surface and pressed both hands up against it. I turned my head first to the right and then the left. When mirror girl echoed my movements, I become more horrified still.

This unknown girl bore several resemblences to me, but she looked so different that I was slow to accept that it was indeed myself. Previously my hair had been long and blonde and soft to the touch, but it was now styled in a short black bob that was far from sleek. I had always been on the curvy side, proud that I wasn't a waif like those fashion models you saw on the covers of magazines. Mirror girl was gaunt and looked terribly underfed. Baggy clothing was hanging off of her in a most unbecoming manner. Upon further inspection I discovered bags under my eyes, nails painted blue, and eyebrows that had been far overtweezed. Each of these discoveries was met with mounting terror. This isn't me. I reassured myself half-heartedly. My mind is playing tricks on my eyes. If I close my eyes and open them again, I will look the same as I did earlier this evening. When I did this with no change in the strange girl who was supposedly myself, I resigned myself to the fact that it was, inescapably, my own reflection.

"Sereeena!" called my mother from the kitchen, in the singsong voice that she had taken to using with me. As if it weren't bad enough that everyone else treated me like damaged goods. "Time for breakfast!" Grudgingly, I left my place on the windowsill of my childhood bedroom to trudge downstairs for my morning interoggation. As soon as my foot had touched the first floor landing, my mother pounced upon me like a lion would an antelope in the safari of Africa. "Did you sleep alright honey?"

I didn't. "Fine mom." She hates it when I call her mother. Says it's to formal.

"Did you have any dreams?" she said casually, as if she weren't hoping that I dreamt something useful.

"No. None." Same as always.

"Oh. Well, I made pancakes for breakfast. Your favorite. And don't forget about your appointment with Dr. Lenoard. It's at three and I'm driving you there."

"I know mom." This morning was the perfect example of what everyone expected from me. They expected me to wake up with my memory miraculously intact. If that hadn't happend they expected me to forget other things from my past, like my favorite foods, just because I couldn't remember what happend in those two years. And they assumed that my short term memory was affected as well, like the missing two years had created a chasm in my mind through which other more recent thoughts could unexpectedly fall. On the contrary, my memory was better than ever. At that time I could have recanted every moment from the past two weeks in perfect detail, right down to the clothes everyone had worn. Not that this would have made a difference in the way that people perceived me.

After breakfast I retreated upstairs. I read in my room for an hour or so, and when I heard my mother leave for work, I crept out into the hallway, pulled down the string hanging in front of the guest room, and carefully lowered the stairs to the attic. Once I ascended the stairs, the noises of the dishwasher running and the phone ringing were muffled by the heavily insulated walls and many storage boxes. This is where I could be alone with my thoughts.