/icon warning -- ALSO: EDIT
I know. I know that. But I'm afraid of some of the things I don't know.
[ He sits upright, though he's still staring down at his right hand, the palm face up on the table. ] What if I can only live because I forgot what happened to me? This isn't a "oh, he hit his head falling down the stairs" type of amnesia. I don't think it was a car wreck. My life's not some TV drama where that kind of convenient answer can just be fixed with a little hypnotherapy or a bonk to the skull. [ Trust him. He tried that already. ]
The doc said my brain was fried. What the hell can DO that? [ Giving a Sasha a clearly frustrated look. ] And then, the next time I remember waking up in the hospital, it was because of the blood loss from having my damn arm cut off.
Why do I think I'm better off not knowing what kind of life I had?