The Triangle

They’re sworn enemies and I’m in the middle. Both of them claimed me. Had me. Used me. Forgot me. Except… I don’t remember any of it. I don’t even know who I am or why I’m in this cramped basement apartment with tinfoil covering the tiny windows when my bank account says I have over two million dollars. I don’t know how I got the stitches on the back of my head, or the scar under my chin, or the ache in my shoulder—but I do know I probably deserved it. I don’t know why there’s a shotgun in the closet, a sniper rifle under the floorboards, and a pistol under my pillow. I don’t know why I stay. I don’t know why I care. I don’t know why I’m trying to put something back together when it was never whole to begin with. Until I look at them. Until they look at me. Until I touch them. Until they touch me. And even though the memories don’t come back. I know. I know why I stay.