I hurl the controller at the couch cushion with enough force to make Mark flinch. "This stupid game is trying to kill me!"
"Dude, calm down," Mark says, reaching for the discarded Switch controller. "It's just Hollow Knight. You're supposed to die a lot."
The colorful screen mocks me with yet another death as my little bug-knight character lies defeated by the hulking False Knight for the eleventh time this morning. Emily bought me the Switch this weekend, claiming it would help with my recovery, something about muscle memory and hand-eye coordination. So far, all it's done is make me question my sanity.
"Is this really one of my favorite games?" I ask Mark, rubbing my temples where a headache is starting to form. The bandage Emily replaced this morning feels suddenly tight against my skin.
Mark settles back into the armchair, a peculiar expression crossing his face. "You were obsessed with it. Used to stay up all night trying to beat the harder bosses."
"Well, amnesia-me thinks past-me had terrible taste," I grumble, watching the game reload at the bench checkpoint. "I can't even get past this armored asshole."
"You'll get it," Mark says, reaching for his soda on the coffee table. "You just need to remember the pattern. Dodge, hit, dodge, hit."
"Do I just like really hard games?" I ask, eyeing the controller like it might bite me. "Because this is ridiculous."
Mark shakes his head, a half-smile playing on his lips. "Not usually. I just figured you'd want to play it since Silksong finally came out."
"Silksong?" I raise an eyebrow. "Is that the sequel? Is it harder than this one?"
He sighs dramatically, slumping back in his chair. "Dude, it's so much harder. People have been losing their minds over it."
That settles it. I hit the power button on the Switch, watching as the screen goes dark. My frustration ebbs away with the game's cheerful music.
"Let's just hang out instead," I say, tossing the controller aside.
"Yeah, fair," Mark agrees, looking relieved. He stretches his arms above his head. "To be honest, watching you die repeatedly was getting depressing."
I grab one of the throw pillows and launch it at his head. He catches it easily, laughing.
"So what do you want to do instead?" Mark asks, setting the pillow aside.
"Wait, actually, I just realized something," I say, frowning as I glance at the clock on the wall. "Why are you even here today? It's Monday. Didn't you only take last week off work?"
Mark's eyes widen slightly, like I've caught him in something. He rubs the back of his neck, a nervous habit I've noticed he has.
"Today's my last day off," he explains with a shrug. "I had a ton of vacation time saved up. Use it or lose it, you know?"
"Where do you work anyway?" I ask, realizing I have no idea what my supposed best friend does for a living.
"Raytheon," he says, taking a sip of his soda.
"What's that?" The name doesn't ring any bells.
Mark sets his drink down, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "I help design missiles and shit."
I blink at him, genuinely surprised. "Oh, so you're like a genius?"
He snorts, shaking his head. "No, they hire literally like any halfway competent engineer in the area. The bar's not as high as you'd think for people who make things that go boom."
"That's cool," I say, impressed despite his downplaying.
"No, it's sad," Mark says, his expression darkening slightly. "Really sad, actually."
I study his face, noticing the tension around his eyes. "Oh. You feel bad about it? The whole... making weapons thing?"
He stares into his soda can like it holds the answers to some profound question. "Sometimes. It's complicated. The pay is good, and the work is interesting, but..." He trails off, then forces a smile. "Anyway, enough about my moral crisis. Want to watch a movie or something?"
I can tell he wants to change the subject, but now I'm curious. "Have you always worked there? Like, did you get the job right after college?"
"Pretty much," Mark nods, seeming relieved to move away from the ethical implications. "They recruited me at a job fair senior year. Been there ever since."
"And did I have any opinions about your job? Before, I mean." I'm fishing for any clues about who I used to be.
Mark chuckles, leaning back in his chair. "You just always said it was cool. Your exact words were usually something like 'Get that bag, bro,' and you never really cared about the moral implications. You were all about the paycheck."
"Hell yeah. But that’s weird, isn’t it? Wasn't I a graphic designer or something?"
Mark's face breaks into a wide grin. "Yeah, and you fucking sucked at it. Like, legendarily bad. You hated every minute of it, too."
I can't help but laugh at his bluntness. "Were my drawings really that bad?"
"Drawings?" Mark snorts, already pulling out his phone. "Yeah, they were absolute garbage. But you also completely sucked at all the technical stuff, too, Illustrator, Photoshop, all of it. It was painful to watch."
He scrolls through his phone for a moment before handing it to me. "Here, I still have some of your college projects saved. For posterity. And occasional blackmail."
I take the phone, and my jaw drops at what I'm seeing. The screen displays what I assume is supposed to be a logo design, but it looks like something a kindergartener would make with their non-dominant hand. The proportions are wildly off, the colors clash horribly, and the text is barely legible.
"Wow," I breathe, swiping to see more examples, each worse than the last. "These are awful. Like, genuinely terrible."
"Told you," Mark says, not bothering to hide his amusement. "Your professor actually pulled me aside once and asked if you had some kind of visual processing disorder."
I stare at the phone, scrolling through more of my embarrassing artwork, each piece worse than the last. "But somehow I passed?"
Mark takes his phone back, chuckling. "They weren't grading on quality so much as effort. Your professors could see you were trying your absolute hardest, even if the results were... questionable."
"To think I only pursued that field because Emily said Graphic designers are hot.” I chuckle.
Mark sighs deeply, his shoulders slumping. "Yeah." He shakes his head. "God, you were so love-sick back then. It was almost painful to watch."
I lean forward, suddenly eager for more information. "So did it work? Did my degree win Emily over in the end?"
Mark stares at me for a long moment, something conflicted playing behind his eyes. He opens his mouth, closes it, then finally speaks.
"Look, man," he says quietly, "it's not my story to tell you. Your relationship with Emily is... complicated at best."
The sudden seriousness in his tone makes my stomach twist. "What does that mean?"
Mark avoids my gaze, suddenly very interested in a loose thread on his jeans. "It means exactly what I said. It's complicated, and it's between you two."
Something about Mark's words makes my thoughts drift as I stare at the Switch console sitting on the coffee table. Everything I've heard about my past seems to paint the same picture. I was head over heels for Emily until we actually got together. I pursued a whole career I apparently sucked at just because she mentioned it was hot. It's like my entire life was built around trying to win her over.
"Was I always that pathetic?"
Mark's eyes widen, then soften with something like sympathy. "No, man. You just loved her so much."
His answer doesn't quite satisfy me. If I loved her that much, and finally got what I wanted when we got married, something doesn't add up.
"Then why didn't I get along with Emily after we got married?" I ask, watching his face carefully.
Mark sighs heavily, his expression growing more troubled. He rubs his hand over his face, clearly wrestling with something.
"When you dated in high school, Emily didn't really..." he starts, then pauses, seeming to reconsider his words. His eyes meet mine, searching. "Are you happy with Emily? Right now, I mean?"
The question catches me off guard. I think about the past two weeks, the passion, the intensity, the way she looks at me like I'm the center of her universe.
"I'm having the time of my life with her," I answer honestly.
Mark nods slowly, his shoulders relaxing slightly. "Then the past doesn't matter, right?"
I consider this, turning the idea over in my mind. Maybe he's right. Maybe whatever happened before my accident isn't important now. But there's still this nagging feeling, this persistent itch I can't quite scratch.
"I guess not," I say with a sigh. "But the mystery, man... It's calling to me. I can't just pretend my entire life started two weeks ago."
Mark drops his head back and stares at the ceiling for a long moment, then suddenly sits up straight. The way his shoulders tense reminds me of someone preparing to rip off a Band-Aid.
"Honestly, man, the truth isn't even that interesting," he says, running his fingers through his sandy hair. "It's just dramatic as fuck."
"What do you mean?"
Mark takes a deep breath. “Just let it go man. You’ll be happier if you do.”