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The house was a small, but a nicely kept and decorated home. Many large trees around yard, but the open landscape left most of neighborhood open to view. Inside was a nice kitchen, livingroom and bathroom. The living room had a couch near the center of the room and a large window about 10 feet in front it. Reclining chairs set on each side of the window and a television was on at far end of the room under the staircase leading to upstairs bedrooms. Once inside she got her drink, offered me one and walked into the living room, opened the curtain, turned and calmly said, “Ok Dave, now we can really talk. Do you remember a few weeks ago as we walked down the aisle to the break room you quietly asked if I would ‘let you do me from behind’?” Of course I remembered, no answer was necessary, but I murmured “yes”. I thought she may be getting ready to scold me for being so forward or explain how she felt that was simply perverted and disgusting. We were friends, but it was hard to know how. But something separates them. What is this thing that separates them? Where does each woman’s morality – or lack thereof – originate? Where does it come from, this sense of right and wrong? The personality? Her upbringing? A soul? Is this the very essence which seeped out of David James Barrow’s shell when he died? His soul? Is it a soul that gives Catriona Hamsun her identity? Or is it, perhaps, memory? Memory and experience? With the loss of her memory, Catriona Hamsun seemed to lose whole chunks of identity – name, nationality, address, motive. What if she had lost even more – language, the ability to reason and plan ahead, memories of the food she’s tasted, sounds she’s heard, textures she’s felt, sights she’s seen, fragrances she’s smelled and all those other things she has presumably learned since childhood? If Catriona Hamsun lost enough of these memories would she then cease to exist as a person? Would she be little more than an empty carcass like poor David lying in the dust.
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