The Bad Boy And The Mermaid

Hunter

“Don’t look at me like that,” I told Fred who was staring at me as if I’d spoken in Chinese.

“I guarantee you will eat your words when you see her,” Fred said.

And for the first time in my life, I saw what a pissed off Fred looked like. And somehow his mood-swings were getting to me too. They wanted to give me half-truths and also get mad when I uttered a word. They remembered everything, I didn’t. Someone needed a reality check and fast.

“Even though we’re married, I don’t know this woman. What if I don’t get my memories at all? How do you expect I spend my life with her?” I asked.

He wasn’t going to answer me, frustrated; I put the car into drive and drove to my house. The miles stretched on with no words exchanged between us. He thought I was that shallow asshole who’d suddenly change my words when I saw just how pretty she was. And that’s the thing. I didn’t care what she looked like, okay…maybe I was curious, like A LOT but that didn’t change the fact that I wouldn’t want to spend my life with a woman I didn’t know.

When we entered my house, I decided to break the silence because it was getting unbearable. “Okay, I’m sorry for what I said. I guess I’m just tired of thinking of all the possibilities that this might go to shit.”

“If you’re going to keep up with your attitude, it sure will go to shit, maybe even the sewer.” He commented, following me upstairs.

Leslie was right behind us, wagging his tail begging Fred for belly-rubs.

“Alright.” Fred put his hands on his waist, “where did you want to start?”

“I searched through most rooms; the bedrooms, the living area, and the basement. Found nothing there.”

“Have you checked the attic?” Fred asked.

“Nope.”

“Then that’s where we start.” He suggested.

“You have to understand why it’s so hard for me to believe that I married someone. It’s like she was never here. If she lived with me, how did she not leave anything behind? Clothes, makeup, you know, women stuff.”

Fred shrugged, “I don’t know, man. It’s so shady.”

We climbed the stairs to the attic together. The door was locked and I didn’t remember where I left the key. Fred picked the lock easily with a sharp-pointed object, and the door gave away. I wanted to ask him how he’d acquired the skills of a thief but thought better of it since I didn’t want to piss him off more than I already had.

“You gonna help me look through these or are you just gonna stand there looking pretty?” He taunted me as he dived into a box.

crap was getting on my nerves. He wasn’t

found another

other useless things started to pop up. An hour passed and

I found this one box pushed far back into one of the old dusty shelves. Something about that box was odd. When I pulled the box down on the floor, I noticed how tightly it was shut with a cello-tape. The other boxes had been vaguely closed, why was this one

like opening a box of Pandora. Inside the box was an instant photo camera and a

picture was of me taken in a restaurant. I had a huge smile on my face, the kind

No one.

the camera; I was looking at the invisible being beside me. Feeling uncomfortable, I shifted to the next picture. This time it was

picture gave

surrounded the area, I was dressed as a groom and I obviously looked like I was over the moon,

look at these...”

reached out towards me

does this mean?” I asked him. “My wife. Are you sure I haven’t

was with you. I don’t know how someone can just disappear from a picture

ghost.” I

is some kind of

exact meaning of the word “ghosting” on someone until these

wasn’t even wrong to believe that. If I didn’t put these missing pieces of my life together and manage to find my “supposed” wife, I sure as hell was going to be taken to the

back to looking through the rest of the things in the box. I needed a clue, any clue that could revive my memories. I dug deeper

woman he’d painted. Her blue hair was glossy and shining, her eyes a mixture of azure and emerald, glimmering like rare expensive jewels in the sunlight, her pink lips puckered and she was sporting a lazy smile. The colors and the strokes were no doubt done by

This was my style.

This was my painting.

hard time believing it, much worse I still

I couldn’t remember her.

that I’d married such a

lost on me. Me marrying her would be similar to Marilyn Monroe

I called to him

shouldn’t. This was my wife we were talking about. She was lying naked on a messy bed which I had no doubt I’d slept in and done various things with her. Even though my memory wasn’t serving me properly, I had basic morals to understand that this was still far too intimate to show it to a male friend. Her tits were practically

in

turned it around. “Nothing. Sorry, I can’t show it to

“Why not?”

painting of my naked