The Story of Jane Doe: Killer or Victim...She doesn't remember

I look into the mirror and wonder who is looking back at me. The flashbacks have given me no clue as to what type of woman I am. Am I a killer? Am I a victim? Am I both? I just don't know. I am at a loss of what to do. I take a deep breath and turn away from the haunting image in the mirror and look down at the street below. People walking with a purpose in life—I wonder where they are going. Home to a loved one? Home to their children? I have no loved one; I have no family. I just have myself, someone I don't even know. I turn around and look at the little apartment I now call home. I have a sofa, a TV, and a coffee table. No pictures hang on my wall, no trinkets or memorabilia scatter the apartment, no memories of good times. Not much of a home. I put my head in my hands to try to will myself to remember something, to remember anything, to remember laughter, to remember love, to remember family. I come up blank. There is nothing. There are no memories of laughter, no memories of love, and no memories of a family. No good memories at all. I have no identity; I have no family. I only have a name. A name the hospital gave me. JANE DOE.