The Amnesia She Prayed For

By the third year of Camille’s affair, I had lost my mind. I leaked every private photo of her young assistant across the internet, soaked my clothes in gasoline, and stood in the middle of our living room holding a lighter, ready to drag them all down into the ash with me. Chase was so terrified he fled the city overnight. In that manic, suffocating blur, I thought I had won. I didn’t know the cost until it broke us completely. To settle the crippling defamation lawsuits and nondisclosure claims on my behalf, my older sister, Samantha, sold her condo and took out loans from ruthless private lenders. Crushed beneath debts she could never outrun, she walked to the roof of her apartment building and stepped into the open air. The voice memo she left me played in a dry, hollow rattle: "Thomas, please, stop this. We have nothing left. Mom and Dad’s hair turned gray overnight. I can’t carry this anymore…" My mother fainted over Samantha's belongings, her screams tearing through the funeral home. My father shoved me against the wall, his emaciated hands wrapping around my throat, his voice ragged with pure hatred: "How many more lives are you going to ruin before you’re satisfied?" Tears tracked down my cheeks in the silence that followed. And just like that, the fever broke. I woke up. I stopped checking the call logs on Camille’s phone. I stopped inspecting her collars for foreign cologne. I stopped demanding to know where she had been when she stumbled in past midnight smelling of salt and bourbon. When I caught her staring at old photographs of Chase with that quiet, hollow ache in her eyes, I didn’t scream. I bought his plane ticket and brought him back myself. It all culminated on Chase’s twenty-fifth birthday. Standing over the candles, he closed his eyes and whispered his wish: he wanted to be her real husband, just once. I didn't blink. I walked into the study, printed out the divorce papers I had already drawn up, signed every line, and laid them neatly before Camille. Camille stared at the papers, and something violent flashed across her face. She seized the documents, tore them into confetti, and grabbed my jaw so hard her nails bit into my skin. "Thomas!" she hissed, her voice cracking with fury. "Where the hell is that stubborn bastard who swore he’d die before letting me go? Where did you go?" … I looked into her bloodshot eyes, my voice coming out eerily level. "Are the terms not good enough? I can sign away every dime. I'll walk away with nothing so he can have you." She shoved me back against the counter, her breath hitching. "Where was all this generosity when you plastered his private life across the internet?" she choked out. "Where was it when you poured gasoline over your head and threatened to incinerate us all? Why are you playing the martyr now?" A dull, familiar ache throbbed in the center of my chest. "You’re right," I murmured. "I was insane back then. But I’m clearheaded now. I’m letting you go. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?" The words hit her like a physical blow. Her chest rose and fell in jagged, violent spasms, like a trapped animal thrashing behind glass. Beside her, Chase’s eyes went soft and wet. "I’m sorry, Camille," he choked out, his lower lip trembling. "I shouldn’t have wished for that. Please don’t fight because of me." Before she could answer, he raised his hand and slapped his own cheek—hard, twice. Camille instantly caught his wrists, her fury melting into panicked tenderness. "Stop it. It’s not your fault, Chase. I just lost my temper." She pulled him close, her voice a soothing murmur against his hair. "I planned a surprise for you down by the water. Let’s go celebrate your birthday." She took his hand and led him toward the door. As she brushed past me, she paused, her profile rigid. "Thomas, I don’t want to fight with you. When I get back tonight, we’ll talk. Seriously." The heavy mahogany door clicked shut behind them. I stood there for a long time. Then I bent down, scooped the ruined birthday cake from the counter, and dropped it into the trash can. I pulled my monthly paycheck—cashed out that very morning—from my coat pocket and took a cab across town to my parents’ old brownstone. The heavy steel door was locked, just as it had been every week for the past three years. I swallowed the dryness in my throat, leaned my forehead against the cold metal, and knocked softly. Silence from within. "Mom? Dad?" I whispered, my voice breaking. "You haven’t spoken a single word to me in three years. Please. Just let me hear your voices." No footsteps. No lock turning. A tear slipped from my eyelashes, hitting the dusty welcome mat and leaving a dark, tiny circle. Three years ago, over Samantha’s fresh grave, my parents had stood before the entire family and formally disowned me. Since that afternoon, no matter how many hours I spent kneeling on their welcome mat, that door had never opened. I took the thick envelope of cash, slid it through the bottom crack until it vanished inside, and walked away. I walked without direction, letting the salt wind pull me toward the boardwalk. My feet carried me instinctively toward the public beach where Samantha and I used to build sandcastles when we were kids. I had only wanted to look at the water, maybe take a photo to carry in my pocket. But as I passed the plate-glass window of the upscale seafood restaurant on the corner, several familiar silhouettes caught my eye. Inside, bathed in golden chandelier light, Chase was wearing a paper crown, blowing out candles with an easy, radiant grin. My parents sat on either side of him, their faces softer and warmer than I had seen them in years. My feet moved forward on their own. I pressed my palm against the cool exterior glass, watching as Camille carried over a steaming plate of fresh handmade lobster ravioli, setting it lovingly before Chase. "Happy birthday, sweetheart," she smiled. "Made just the way you love it." Chase leaned into my mother’s shoulder like an affectionate cat. "Thank you, Mom." My father reached into his blazer, pulled out a sleek black debit card, and slid it into Chase’s hand. "I’m an old man, kiddo. I don’t know what kind of designer clothes you boys wear these days. There’s fifteen thousand dollars in here. Buy yourself whatever catches your eye." Chase’s eyes sparkled. "Dad, you’re the best. In my next life, I swear I’m going to be your real son." Camille chuckled and lightly tapped the tip of his nose. "Don't get too spoiled. We still have the main surprise." She clapped her hands twice. A string quartet near the back began playing a gentle melody, and through the swinging kitchen doors, a figure emerged pushing a three-tiered cake. As the figure stepped into the light, the blurred features snapped into sharp, agonizing clarity. My breath stopped. Every drop of blood in my veins turned to liquid nitrogen. Samantha’s voice drifted through the patio vents, crisp, ringing, and entirely alive. "Happy twenty-fifth birthday, Chase." "Sam! You actually made it!" Chase beamed. Samantha reached out and playfully flicked his forehead. "I promised I’d be here for your big milestone, didn’t I? I’d never miss it." Camille reached across the table, squeezing Samantha’s hand with genuine affection. "Thank you for everything, Sam. These past three years must have been exhausting for you." "If I hadn't faked that jump," Samantha said with a quiet sigh, "Thomas would never have let Chase go. You know how obsessive my brother gets." She paused, tracing the rim of her champagne flute. "Seeing him kneel at that empty gravestone every anniversary... it breaks my heart a little. But give it two more years. Once he’s completely numb to Chase’s presence, I’ll tell him the truth. He won't have to live in the past anymore." A high, deafening ringing overtook my skull. A chill crawled up my spine and sank into the marrow of my bones. "A fake jump." For three years, that raspy voice memo had been the soundtrack to my nightmares. Every anniversary, I knelt in the rain until my knees bled, begging Samantha’s ghost to visit me in my dreams. Just once. Just to tell me she didn’t hate me. She had never appeared. I thought it was because my sin was too unforgivable for heaven to bridge. She hadn't died. Then what were the three years of blinding guilt? What were the sleepless nights staring at the ceiling, wondering if I should hang myself to balance the scales? What was my father’s hand around my neck, or my mother’s poisoned screams? "Thomas has been so quiet lately," my mother remarked softly, spooning dessert onto her plate. "Maybe... maybe we shouldn't send the collectors after him this month?" My father’s brow furrowed in immediate disapproval. "Thomas is calculating and vicious. If Camille didn't hire those guys to pose as aggressive loan sharks every single month, keeping his neck to the grindstone just to pay the interest, would Chase ever have had a day of peace?" Samantha nodded in solemn agreement. "Dad's right, Mom. Don't go soft now. If Thomas gets any money saved up, he’ll start looking for trouble again." My fingernails dug into the brick windowsill outside until the skin tore away from the nail beds. After Samantha ‘died,’ the massive debts she allegedly owed fell squarely on my shoulders. I sold my car, liquidated my retirement accounts, and emptied my savings. To keep the collectors from breaking my parents' legs, I took on the most abusive clients at work, worked twenty-hour days, and drank myself into emergency room visits for bleeding stomach ulcers. And all of it was an orchestrated play. A leash, carefully designed to keep me exhausted and bleeding so Chase could live in safety. I caught my reflection in the dark glass. Pale, hollowed-out cheeks. Dead, shadowed eyes. A few feet away sat Chase, glowing under the warm restaurant lights, his skin flawless, his designer sweater draped over his shoulders without a single wrinkle. Every dollar I had bled for three years felt like a rusty blade twisting in my guts. Dizziness slammed into me. The ground tilted. My elbow caught a heavy stone planter near the patio entrance. It shattered against the concrete with an explosive crack. Every face inside whipped toward the window. The laughter vanished instantly, replaced by sheer horror. Camille was the first to react. She threw open the glass door, lunged forward, and seized my wrist, panic leaking through her polished composure. "Thomas? What... what are you doing here?" I ripped my arm out of her grip and walked straight past her into the dining room. My mother shot out of her seat, throwing her entire body in front of Chase like a mother hen facing a hawk. "What do you want? Don’t you touch him!" I didn't look at her. I walked past my parents, past Chase, and stopped inches away from the ghost who had haunted my waking life for thirty-six months. I stared into Samantha's living, breathing eyes. A tear fell onto the back of my hand, cold and heavy. "Why did you lie to me, Sam?" Samantha flinched, her throat bobbing as her eyes shifted away from mine. "Thomas... Chase saved my life once. I couldn’t stand by and let you ruin him. I had to..." "And what about me?" The question came out small, almost curious. "Was I supposed to be ruined?" My mother grabbed my arm, her voice tight and defensive. "Thomas, your sister did it for your own good! Besides, look at the last two years—haven't you and Chase been getting along just fine?" My father let out a heavy, impatient sigh. "We’re old, Thomas. We don't have the strength for your tantrums anymore. Close your eyes, look the other way, and everyone gets to live a good life." I looked at them. Camille was half-shielding Chase behind her back. My parents formed a human barricade between me and my sister. To them, I was the monster. The plague that had to be contained. The very last ember of warmth inside me went completely black. I let my shoulders drop. The tremble in my jaw smoothed into an absolute, glass-like stillness. "Okay," I said. The tone was so flat it sounded like it belonged to an answering machine. "I won’t make a scene." Terrified that I would snap and cause a public scandal, they hurried to end the dinner. As we walked out to the parking lot, Chase looped his arm casually through my mother’s. "Mom, I’ve been craving that warm apple cobbler you always bake. Can we go back to your place for a little while?" My mother glanced nervously in my direction, hesitated for a second, and then patted his hand. "Of course, sweetheart. Let's all go home." I stood on the pavement, a bitter ache swelling in the back of my throat. For three years, I had banged my head against their floorboards, sobbing until my ribs ached, begging for that door to crack open an inch. Chase asked for a warm dessert, and the gates swung wide. The drive to the apartment was silent. When the front door opened, the first thing I saw was a pair of plush, baby-blue slippers sitting neatly on the entryway rug. They were small—Chase’s size. He kicked off his leather jacket and tossed it onto the bench with the easy familiarity of someone who owned the place. I, the biological son, stood in the doorway, frozen, not knowing where to put my hands. I looked around the living room. The family portrait on the mantel had been swapped. Where I used to stand beside Samantha, Chase now smiled broadly between my parents. The eight-year-old potted orchid I had nursed on the windowsill was gone, replaced by an empty ceramic pot shoved into a corner; the rest of the balcony was overtaken by Chase’s oil paints and easels. On the bookshelf, my academic awards and marathon medals had vanished, replaced by Chase’s graphic design portfolio. The truth settled in my stomach like lead. They hadn't locked me out for three years because they were grieving Samantha. They locked me out because they were hiding their replacement son. Before I could move toward the door to leave, my mother emerged from the kitchen carrying a warm porcelain bowl with a spoon. "Here, Thomas," she said, her voice unusually soft. "I remembered you hate pecans in the crumble crust, so I baked this little ramekin without any nuts." A sudden, sharp pang pierced the numb shell around my heart. I blinked against the stinging in my eyes, reaching out with both hands. "Thank you... Mom." The sweetness of the cinnamon and baked apples hadn't even touched my tongue when she spoke again, her tone casual, almost transactional: "Camille is pregnant with Chase’s baby. That engraved silver christening locket you had made... you should give it to Chase." "Clink." The ceramic spoon slipped from my numb fingers, splashing warm syrup across the rim. Beside me, Chase gently laid his palm over Camille’s flat stomach, his eyes brimming with soft pride. "We just found out two days ago. The doctor said the pregnancy is high-risk in the first trimester, so Mom thought the silver blessing charm would keep the baby safe." My face lost every trace of color. The words crawled out of my throat, raspy and strangled: "That locket... was made for Jamie." My mother scoffed. "Jamie has been dead for three years." The wall in my mind shattered, and the memory I had kept buried roared back with terrifying violence. Three years ago, when Camille was five months pregnant with our son, I smelled a strange, musky cologne on her cashmere scarf. I didn't say a word. I simply showed up at her corporate office on a rainy Tuesday afternoon. I opened her private office door to find Chase pressing her against the mahogany desk, their clothes half-undone. I lost my mind. I smashed everything in sight. I pulled out my phone, recording them, screaming that I would expose them to the board, to her investors, to the whole damn world. In the violent struggle that followed, Chase lashed out—his heavy boot slamming directly into Camille’s pregnant stomach. The scream she let out haunts me to this day. She curled on the Persian rug as dark, warm blood soaked through her cream-colored dress. I froze, terrified, dropping my phone and sobbing as I dialed 911, begging them to save our child. We were too late. The boy was already fully formed. He didn't survive the night. I remember sitting in that hospital chapel, weeping until my lungs seized, swallowed whole by an ocean of grief. Camille had wept in her hospital bed, clutching my hands, swearing through her tears: "Thomas, I’m so sorry. I swear on my life I will cut him off. I will never see him again." I believed her. Less than ninety days later, they were back in bed together. How could I not have gone mad? How could I not have reached for the gasoline? "Jamie is gone!" my mother’s sharp reprimand snapped me back to the present. "What use do you have for an empty silver piece? Don't be so selfish!" My fingers clamped over the silver chain beneath my shirt collar, holding the locket tight against my skin. "I had this engraved with his initials on the day he was pronounced dead," I said, my voice shaking with a quiet, lethal fury. "I knelt at the silversmith's bench for five hours. No one else touches it." My defiance enraged my mother. She stepped forward, her nails clawing at my collar to rip it away. During the frantic tussle, Chase let out a sharp gasp, his knees buckling as he collapsed heavily onto the hardwood floor. The kitchen door flew open. Camille rushed in. Chase lay there, curling into a ball, his eyes welling with tears. "Thomas... I only asked to borrow the charm for the baby’s luck. If you didn’t want to give it to me, you could have just said so... why did you have to shove me?" Before I could part my lips, a vicious slap cracked across my cheek. My mother’s hand was stinging. "Are you out of your mind? Chase’s health is fragile! How can your heart be so black?" Camille helped Chase to his feet, guiding him toward the front door. As she passed me, her gaze lingered for a fraction of a second on the swelling red imprint on my face. "Thomas," she said, her voice dripping with cold disappointment. "I really thought you had changed." A bitter, silent tremor went through my chest. The defense that had risen to my throat dissolved into nothing. I stood like a mannequin in that suffocating kitchen until the sound of their footsteps faded down the stairwell. Then I walked out, pulled out my phone, and called an Uber to the suburban cemetery on the outskirts of the city. There was no room for me in that family anymore. I was going to dig up Jamie’s ashes and leave this town forever. When I reached the memorial garden, I walked the familiar stone path to the tiny plot beneath the weeping willow. Jamie’s small granite headstone was gone. In its place stood a brand-new, polished slab of marble. Engraved upon it were the words: "In Loving Memory of Buster, Chase’s Faithful Golden Retriever." The world spun violently. I pulled out my phone and dialed Chase’s number. "Where are my son’s ashes?" I rasped, my throat raw. Chase’s voice came through the receiver, devoid of any warmth, dripping with venomous amusement. "If you want your little bastard’s box, get to St. Jude’s Hospital right now. If you're late, he’s going down the sewer drain." I didn't think. I ran. When I threw open the door to the VIP recovery suite at the hospital, five pairs of eyes turned toward me. Cold. Hostile. Disgusted. Chase was sitting up in bed, looking pale and fragile, surrounded by pillows. Camille stepped forward immediately. Before I could speak, she hurled her phone at my feet. The screen shattered against the linoleum. Glares of Chase’s old intimate photographs lit up the broken glass. "Thomas," Camille said, her voice shaking with rage. "You haven’t changed at all. Still the same malicious, pathetic creature who relies on cheap tricks to ruin people." "It wasn't me," I breathed, staring at the screen. "I deleted those files three years ago. I don’t even have them anymore." No one cared to listen. "Thomas, it’s not just that you’re unstable," Samantha said, her face twisted in pure contempt. "You don’t even have basic human empathy anymore." My mother snapped, her finger pointed at my nose: "You are a curse on this family! You can’t stand to see anyone happy, can you? You will never change!" My father stood by the window, his voice ice: "From this moment on, you are dead to the Morrison family. Don’t ever use our name again." In the middle of the storm, Camille stepped closer, her posture commanding and absolute. "Chase has a heart condition. He can’t handle this kind of public humiliation," she stated coldly. "You’re going to open a livestream right now. You will read the statement I wrote. You will tell everyone that you fabricated those photos out of jealousy, that you slandered him, and that Chase was never a homewrecker." I looked at her, my spine stiffening. "No." Camille reached out, her fingers locking around my wrist like a steel vise. She leaned in, her whisper sharp as a scalpel. "If you don’t apologize, Thomas, you will never see your son’s ashes again as long as you live." The air left my lungs. Every ounce of stubbornness, every scrap of dignity I had clung to, shattered into dust. For Jamie, I had no choice. The camera turned on. I sat in front of the lens, my face numb, reciting Camille’s script word for word, confessing to sins I had never committed. The comment section exploded in a cascade of bile: [Chase is such an angel, how could this psycho do this to him?] [How did a gorgeous woman like Camille ever end up with this creep?] [Slap him! Beat him until he learns his lesson!] Chase peered at the rolling comments, adopting a look of innocent regret. "Thomas... everyone says an apology isn’t sincere unless you slap yourself and bow your head to the floor." I closed my eyes for a single second. Then I raised my hand and brought it down hard across my own cheek. "Crack." I dropped to my knees, bending forward until my forehead slammed against the hard hospital tile. "Thud." Up. Another slap. Another bow. "Crack. Thud." Warm blood began to seep from my nostril, trickling down the bridge of my nose and stinging my left eye. When the last bow was finished, I pulled myself up, my vision swimming in red, and looked at Camille. "I did it," I whispered. "Give me my son." Camille watched me, a faint flicker of unease passing through her eyes, but she quickly masked it. "Chase was deeply shaken by this," she said carefully. "I’m moving into his apartment to take care of him until the baby is born." "Okay." "And our child cannot be born a bastard," she continued, watching my reaction. "I’m going to hold a private ceremony with Chase. But legally, you remain my husband, and the child’s birth certificate will bear your name." "Okay." Whatever she demanded, my response was identical. Smooth, agreeable, compliant. Like a porcelain doll with its strings cut. Satisfied that I was finally broken, Camille nodded toward Chase. Chase reached under the bedside cabinet and pulled out a small, velvet-wrapped urn. He placed it into my trembling hands. I pulled it against my chest immediately. But as my fingertips brushed the bottom seam of the box, I felt something wet. Sticky. A foul, pungent stench hit my nostrils. My stomach plummeted. Chase leaned forward, bringing his lips inches from my ear, his voice a poisonous hiss: "Hey, Thomas... I mixed your little bastard’s ashes with dog piss from Buster’s cage." He smirked, his eyes gleaming with delight. "In the next life, maybe my dog will be reborn as a human. And your kid can be his pet. Sound fair?" A freezing, electric shock bolted through my spine. I looked down at the stained, desecrated box in my arms. Very gently, very carefully, I set it down on the clean linoleum near my feet. "Don't be scared, Jamie," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "Daddy’s going to take you home now." In the next breath, I lunged. I threw myself across the bed, my hands clamping around Chase’s throat with all the strength left in my body. Chase choked, thrashing wildly. Camille screamed, lunging forward to tear me off him. My vision was entirely red. I whipped around and shoved Camille with everything I had. She crashed backward against the medicine cart, her eyes wide with shock and disbelief. Before anyone could recover, I scooped up the urn, turned, and bolted toward the open window at the end of the room. Standing on the sill, seven stories above the pavement, I looked back at the horrified faces rushing toward me. A pure, quiet smile broke across my face. "Spending my life with you people," I whispered, "was the most disgusting thing I’ve ever done." I closed my eyes, hugged the box tight to my chest, and stepped backward into the wind.