I
BEFORE HE opens his eyes, he thinks, My head hurts and What happened? and Who am I?
That last thought stutters and trips all over itself.
Because he shouldn’t be thinking Who am I? He should be thinking I am—
He pauses.
Tries again. I am—
He can’t finish the thought. It’s there. It’s right there, but he can’t hold on to it. It slips through his fingers like it’s water, and he wants to try again. He does. He does.
I am—
Pause.
I am—
He hears the sound of glass shattering. Metal crunching.
He opens his eyes.
He winces at the bright sun overhead against a perfectly blue sky.
He’s outside… somewhere. On his back. And he thinks, I am I am I am, and it’s a mantra in his head, it’s getting worse because he can’t finish it, he can’t fucking finish—
His head hurts. It’s a heavy ache, buried deep inside. He wonders how much he drank last night. He’s hungover. He has to be. It’s the only thing that makes sense.
Except his stomach isn’t rolling. His tongue doesn’t feel thick in his mouth.
He wonders how he can know what a hangover feels like but he can’t remember his name.
He doesn’t think he’s ever seen a sky this blue before.
He rolls to his side before pushing himself up with his hands. His head throbs.
He’s on a two-lane road. Trees line either side, their leaves swaying in a faint breeze.
The road itself looks freshly paved, the asphalt shiny and black, the painted white and yellow lines vibrant. There are no cars coming from either direction, and if he stops and listens, really listens, he can hear birds in the trees, hear the sounds of the branches moving in the wind, like bones knocking together, hear bees buzzing in the violets that line the road.
He stands.
He’s not in any pain, aside from the throbbing in his head. His limbs are intact. His feet work just fine. He’s wearing a pair of dark jeans. A white shirt. Gray sneakers with white shell tops. He’s clean, his clothes are clean. His forearms are thick, covered in a thin layer of reddish gold hair on top of pale skin.
And isn’t it funny, then? Isn’t it?
Because he can’t remember his name.
And he also can’t remember what he looks like.
He laughs, and it’s slightly hysterical, a tinge of panic filtering through, and he knows he should stop. He knows he should stop before he can’t, and now’s not the time for this. Something is wrong, and he just needs to find someone, anyone, and get this sorted. It’s not as if he can’t—
He stops himself from going further.
“Okay,” he says, and he’s so surprised at his own voice that he takes a step back. The word comes out in a deep croak, rusty and broken. He clears his throat. He tries again. “Okay.” It’s better. “Okay.” His voice is deep. Foreign. There’s that panic again, whispering, You don’t even recognize the sound of your own voice, but he pushes it away. He can’t right now. He just can’t.
He says, “Okay,” and that throb in his head lessens slightly.
He doesn’t see a single cloud in the sky. It’s odd, he thinks, because he doesn’t know if he’s ever seen a cloudless sky. But then he remembers that he can’t remember, and he doesn’t want to think about it anymore.
What’s the first thing a person should do if they don’t remember who they are?