Forget Me Not

Anything at all

A thousand worries have gone through Crowley's mind between leaving work and getting home. He fumbles with his key and the front door. He shuts it tight and locks it behind him.

Once in the privacy of his own home he can have a full-blown freak out. Crowley rips off his suit jacket and rummages through the folds for his little black notebook. Okay, something in here is going to have to mean something. I just have to figure it out.

Crowley riffles through a drawer to find  a pad of paper and a pencil. He sets himself up at the kitchen island. Before getting to work he needs something to calm his nerves. From the counter he retrieves a bottle of amber liquor and a glass.

He starts all the way in the beginning where there's an unlined title reading, "who am I?" Underneath are the things Crowley knew without digging. There isn't much to go off of. His name is Anthony J Crowley. He isn't sure what the J stands for. The rest he gathered from intuition, he supposes. A long time ago his family casted him aside. He's always had this strong sense of abandonment. He fell in with a bad crowd when he was young and he thinks it landed him in trouble but he's not sure what type. He jot down that his family was extremely religious. Of course, he doesn't know how he knew that but he does.

The next section was meant to be for leads. There isn't anything helpful there. Everything he had thought of, like finding his boy's home or going back to the hotel he first remembers being at, we're all dead ends. He couldn't find the home because he wasn't even sure if he was in one. The hotel worker was extremely anxious around him but none of the information he gave was helpful.

The final section was packed with random information that didn't really mean anything without context. It was everything he had made up to fill the gaps when asked. Things like being orphaned and his birthday being October 30th. A lot of the things he wrote here had an essence of truth so it became hard to keep track of what's real or not.

After several months Anthony had given up on keeping the ledger neat so whatever is written wherever. That made the discovery process near impossible.

There is one major clue written on the last page. "Birth Certificate? Mothers name?" If I find that maybe I can figure everything else out. There's a ray of hope.

Crowley starts with his laptop but of course it's no use because he bought it after starting at St. James Bentley. Then he checks under the bed. Sometimes people keep things under the bed. Not Crowley but some people do. In the top of his closest there's a cardboard box that looks promising.

Inside the box is only a few Henley shirts, a book and a snake-themed belt. He's really starting to get feed up with this impossible task. Trying to remember things is painful. It's like trying to lift a weight that's just too heavy for the muscle. Every time Crowley tries to unearth the past he ends up with a splitting headache.

To combat the migraine he drinks more whiskey and the search grows more and more sloppy with each drink. Crowley is determined to find anything at all that could help him. He's much more successful with drinking than finding. A mix of drunkenness and desperation causes him to tear apart the most unlikely places.

By the time Crowley gives up, his appointment is upside down. He might've started to freak out and rage. Everything from the closet is in the floor and his sheets are torn from the bed. His records are scattered across the floor. Plants are knocked over and soil is smeared into the living room rug. The couch cushion are everywhere but where they should be. In the kitchen, all the cabinets are open with most of their contents removed. Several empty whiskey bottles set on the island.

Crowley slides down his hallway wall. "Fugck," he slurs as he lazily tosses a Mother Mother vinyl like a frisbee. "Fuckn' usseless." He bangs his head into the dry wall. He knocks his head back several more times with increasing aggressive. He only stops when a framed poster is shaken from the wall and clatters on the floor next to him.

He looks out onto the mess he's made and feels like his surroundings finally reflect how he feels within. Crowley wraps his arms around his knees, holding tight. With ragged breath he thinks aloud. "There's something' ver- very wrong wisth me," he says into his chest, "why? W- how don't I knows-" He swallows hard. "I've no, not any idea, 'ho I am."

Crowley sits like that, with his face buried in his knees for a while. I'm not crazy, I'm not crazy, he thinks over and over. What if I am. I'm not normal. My mind! It- normal people, they know their birthdays! He's on the verge of crying, what if I am? What if I'm insane?

Crowley's teeth chatter. He's no stranger to this fear that creeps in while he's alone. When around other people it's easy to sweep it under the rug, but with no distractions from himself- it's a scary place.

The last few days, especially today, it's impossible to not think about his psyche. "Who are they?" Crowley asks himself, "how'd de know me? How they my name? I don't! Nuh-uh, I don't know 'em." Crowley rests his chin on his knee."who was he?"

Crowley decides he'd like to just go to sleep and try again tomorrow. It takes him multiple attempts to get off the floor but once he does he rides along the wall to his room. He snatches his comforter from the blanket wad on the ground, wraps up and passes out.

***
I hate writing drunk dialogue but I feel like Crowley definitely self medicates so it's a necessary evil. Anyways thank you for reading!