Hey~ I hope you understood what happened in the last chapter, when not, don't be afraid to ask. Also I would love to hear some constructive criticism, I'm here to improve my writing after all :)

Just to be sure, I'll add the exact definition of amnesia again (sorry, it might be difficult to understand)

Amnesia (from Greek Ἀμνησία) is a condition in which one's memory is either wholly or partially lost due to the extent of damage that was caused. Any condition that interferes with the function of this system can cause amnesia.

• Anterograde amnesia, is the loss of long-term memory, the loss or impairment of the ability to form new memories.

• Retrograde amnesia, the loss of pre-existing memories to conscious recollection, beyond an ordinary degree of forgetfulness. The amount of memories lost depends on the severity of the case. The person is unable to recall some or all of their life or identity prior to the onset.

Both categories of amnesia can occur together in the same patient.

(Wikipedia)

Things got somewhat better with time. In couple of months his memory prolonged to couple of hours. The doctors were finally sure what was wrong with him, but the knowing was no blessing, no curse. There just was no treatment.

He had both types of amnesia at one time: he couldn't remember some of his past and also he couldn't make new memories – they would just fade.

It hurt to watch him. All his life had been ahead of him. But because of some stupid person's blind hatred, he no longer had a life. He had no past, no future, his present was unknown and scary.

How many times I wished that I could make it all go away, fix him, turn back time. I thought about death a lot. Why wouldn't I? At moments it seemed, that it was the easiest way. For me. Because for him, there would be no difference at all.

When I died, he wouldn't even know I ever existed. What you can't remember, can't hurt you. But it hurt me. It hurt to think that he would forget me. It hurt to think that someone you loved with all your heart would never think of you again, just forget you. Even if he had already forgotten me anyway.

I was fool for hoping. I was weak for wishing for a recovery. But I couldn't help myself.

***

I knew that the best thing to do was to drop the college for some time. Studying was pretty much out of question with all the other things to worry about. Instead I got a part-time job at a restaurant and visited the hospital as much as I could.

He was getting better. And I made damn sure that he did.

First months after I found out what was wrong with him, I spent researching and looking for different people that may know how to help him. I did everything I possibly could for him to get better. He was all my life, after all.

I met dozens of doctors, therapists, healers and others. We tried everything they taught us. We ate all the special things, meditated, went to psychotherapy. Everything we could.

He was transferred to another place. It was some kind of a psychiatrist hospital, but without total lunatics. People there had different problems, some more severe than others, but non of them could handle their life on their own.

All that I wished for was the time he would feel good enough for the doctors to let him come home with me. I knew that learning to live with him again was hard, but it was the only thing that had me going.

Just maybe some day his memory would return.

***

I knew it was foolish of me to be as exited as I was. But we were finally free, finally leaving the hospital. I looked at Kibummie sitting on the passenger seat, he looked nervous and a little scared. As horrible as it sounds, I had pretty much grown accustomed to it then.

It's exactly eleven months and twenty four days since it happened. A hell of a lot time to be honest. And finally the doctors let him out, their only condition after visiting my apartment and giving me an hour of informative talk about everything remotely important, that they would come and check us twice a week.

Kibummie's memory was now almost as long as a day. It's definitely easier if you didn't have to tell him everything five times a day. But still I wished that someday I wouldn't even have to introduce myself to him anymore – he would remember me when waking up. I wished I wouldn't have to watch his eternally first reaction ever again when telling him who I actually was to him. Or to be accurate – had been to him.

I parked the car and opened his door, leading him inside the apartment complex and up the stairs. I would lie if I said that I wasn't a little nervous. I had waited that moment for so long, but what if something went wrong? What if something happened with Kibummie – that would leave no one else to blame but me. One thing was certain – I wouldn't be able to live with that fact.

Shaking the disturbing thoughts from my head, I unlocked the door and let Kibummie inside. We took our boots off and I hung our jackets to the closet. Kibummie made his way inside and I followed him, anticipating his reaction. But there was none.

He looked around, touched some things, moved on. He went like that through the whole apartment.

I should have known. He recognized nothing, he rembered nothing. His movements were nervous, but his gaze was blank.

I should have known, and deep down I did, too. But the tears still filled my eyes on their own accord.

***

I knew it won't be easy. I really wasn't as stupid as to think that when we live at home again, he would magically remember everything and accept being together, being gay without any troubles. I never even hoped for it.

I knew I had to accept many things, stay strong for him. He did it every day – he just had no other choice. The least I could do was not to pressure him in anything, keeping him as safe as possible. Even if it meant giving up a lot of things.

It took some time to find out what I could tell and what topics were better to avoid. I don't think I was a liar when not mentioning certain things to him – it was for his own good after all.

For example, I avoided talking about that night at all costs. I don't think hearing that you lost your memory, all your life, because your own father had somehow managed to find you, was nice feeling. I couldn't just tell him that his own father's beating was the cause of his memory loss.

And I felt so guilty. It was my fault, if I hadn't met him, he would've had a happy life. Without me, without all the troubles that came with being gay. I was sure he would've moved from home soon anyway. That meant the only one to blame for his horrible life was me.

I should have protected him better, I should have prevented it all. But I failed. And now there was no other choice but to face the consequences and take responsibility.

So when his questions couldn't be altered, I told him about a car crash. I know he believed me – there was no reason not to.

His blind trust, dependency – it ate me up from inside. I did feel bad. But never because of lying.

***

I couldn't count the times I felt like giving up. I knew it wasn't Kibummie's fault – every time when I found him missing again, I tried to convince myself that there was no reason to feel hurt. Yes, he had ran away from me. But he just didn't know. He didn't remember. He didn't mean to hurt me like this.

It was all I could do – try and assure myself that I will not break. That I will be strong for him, even when he doesn't understand.

***

I learned bit by bit. I said what needed to be said, avoided what he didn't like, took him where he liked to go the most. I learned to protect my wallet and never give him too much money.

I hid little portions of money in clothes pockets – enough to buy something to eat but not enough for him to run away again. I wrote up the usual times when his memory faded so I would be with him and keep him safe as long as he knew everything that was needed, again.

We went to doctors and therapists, tried different treatments. His condition was getting better gradually but it was nowhere near good. But I kept myself on track, I tried as hard as I could. All for my Kibummie.

***

When the autumn came, I finally returned to the college. Kibummie's memory was finally as long as one day, much to my relief.

Things were fine, I think. His run-aways had practically stopped by now – I don't know if thanks to him getting more sensible (which was, taking his condition into consideration, highly unlikely) or just me getting smarter in dealing with him.

I had to quit the part-time job but I had had luck with my parents. They were really supportive from the start – offering to pay for everything. Now that I really saw no other chance, I took their help. I knew I could count on them – they loved Kibummie as much as me.

Our life was perfect in its own way. I knew I must be happy for it. I must be thankful to have Kibummie still with me. So I tried.

Did you love it, hate it? Let me know :)