Tell Me My Name by Mary Fan Page B

myself
die?
    Does he know that, just by returning
this to me, he saved my life?
    After what I’ve witnessed, and from
those last words he spoke, I know he risked his own life to give me
this one possession. A twinge of guilt stings me as I realize I
didn’t thank him. If I ever get out of here, I’ll be sure to repay
his kindness in whatever way I can.
    I tighten my grip on the brown cloth
package, almost afraid that it will vanish like an illusion. I
don’t even know what it is, and yet, it already seems to represent
all that I thought I’d lost. Perhaps glimpsing it will bring back
my memories, and I can learn who I am and how I got here. And
perhaps this knowledge could give me something I need to
escape.
    My heart pounds with anticipation, and
I move to unwrap the package and see what lies within the cloth.
Suddenly, I hesitate. What if it’s not everything I hope it will
be? What if it’s another false promise that tells me nothing? What
if the ensuing disappointment sends me into an even deeper sense of
despair than the one that nearly consumed me?
    Even if that’s the case, I have
nothing to lose. I can’t possibly sink lower than where I was just
now. So I tentatively remove the brown cloth, and a flash of silver
catches my eye. Then a soft noise, barely audible even in the
silence, floats up from the object. I recognize it instantly: It’s
the sound of a clock ticking.
    I push the rest of the wrapping away
and find myself staring down at a timepiece small enough to fit in
the palm of my hand. A tiny ring holds a chain as fine as thread,
and silver metal, engraved with intricate drawings of flowers, rims
an iridescent white face. Black numbers that look like they were
lovingly drawn by an expert calligrapher encircle the edge: I, II,
III, IV … The hour and minute hands, which appear to be slivers of
lustrous onyx, point to seven o’clock.
    But there’s something off
about this timepiece – the second hand moves counterclockwise.
What’s more, when it passes the number twelve, the hand that should
have indicated minutes barely moves the width of a hair. That’s so strange. What does it mean?
    Searching for a hint, I turn the clock
over in my hand, and my eyes widen at what I see. The clock’s
silver back, like the rim around the front, is meticulously
decorated with beautiful outlines of blossoms and vines that
intertwine like ribbons. But lovely as they are, I barely notice
them, for they form a ring pattern around an engraving that causes
my breath to catch in my throat.
    Two words: Kiriall Amdyth.
    It’s my name. I know it – as certainly
as I know that the ground I stand on exists. Just seeing those
words is enough to make the memory blaze like the midday sun,
pushing back any darkness or doubt that might surround
it.
    I have a name. And it’s Kiriall
Amdyth.
    Suddenly, an image pops into my mind:
A girl in a flowing, apple green dress. I see her as clearly as if
she’s standing before me. She’s about my height and probably my
age, but otherwise looks nothing like me. Whereas the lines of my
body are as straight as a wooden board, this girl’s curve into full
hips and a well-matured bust. Her brilliant emerald eyes, framed by
long, dark lashes, dance with joy against a glowing bronze
complexion, and her plump, poppy red lips spread into a wide grin.
She’s beautiful in a way I could never be, and her melodious
laughter rings in my head.
    “ Kiri!” she cries, reaching
a hand toward me. Her hair, which fades from deep auburn near her
scalp to strawberry blond at the tips, whips around her shoulders,
and –
    Blazing heat explodes through my head,
hitting me with such ferocity that I scream in shock. The image of
the girl starts to vanish, blotted out by swaths of
darkness.
    No, I have to
remember. I shut my eyes, clinging to the
image with everything I have and refusing to let the searing pain
defeat me. The girl called me “Kiri” – that must be what I went by.
So she must know me …