Days Since Incident: 0
The man woke up on the beach to the glaring midday sun. He scrunched his eyes shut. Every bone in his body ached, and he was weary enough that he could fall back to sleep again, perhaps forever. He wondered what had woken him.
A squawk and a peck enlightened him and he hissed as he rolled away. A wave of anger flooded through him, gave him the energy to move, to flail violently. He pushed it down as it threaten to overwhelm him. The bird took off in flight, startled that its meal was in fact alive and kicking. As he struggled upright, squinting through blurry eyes, he realised two things.
He was completely naked.
And he had no idea who he was.
Interesting.
He chose to find it interesting, rather than to panic, and the pragmatic nature of his approach intrigued him. Surely the usual reaction to this situation wasn't so calm. He decided not to dwell on that, rather mustered a sense of peacefulness to quell the itching worry beneath his skin.
Don't panic.
He couldn't allow himself to panic; therefore he did not.
Most peculiar. He looked around, eyes fully adjusted to the sunlight and found himself in a picturesque setting. Blue ocean stretched out before him, meeting the sky at a distant, shimmering horizon. The sun was high in the sigh and felt scorching on his skin.
He kept his breathing steady and wondered why he was doing it. His hand fluttered to his wrist and he realised he could count his heart beats by measuring his pulse briefly. Who was he? A doctor maybe?
"Not that kind of doctor," he growled, before twitching in surprise. A sore point. What kind of doctor then? Scientific terminology fluttered round his thoughts and overwhelmed him with their self-importance. He calmed his mind.
Stay calm.
There was a consuming need to be calm. It flooded his brain, his senses, more important than food, than water, than anything else.
Food. Now he thought about it he was hungry. He wanted food. No, needed food. He had a feeling it was an urge he couldn't resist for long. He felt like he'd just run a marathon, or two. He debated just lying back, falling to sleep and never waking up. He trembled as his primal instincts screamed at him to find food. It felt like another creature in his mind, fighting to be let out.
Breathe.
His skin felt tight and unnatural and he thought he could feel the start of a migraine behind his eyes. Clothes. Then food. Then he would examine his deteriorating mental state.
He staggered to his feet and walked with his back to the sea. He focused on putting one foot in front of the other. He picked at berries and plants and bugs that he knew were edible. He didn't question how he knew this. One question would open up a whole host of others and he wasn't ready for a break down in the middle of what seemed like nowhere. He literally stumbled onto civilisation before he noticed it. As he stared down at the sprinkler system that had tripped him up he searched for the holiday home that was sure to be the source of it.
There it was. Shelter from the blistering heat. He stayed warily back, hiding in shrubbery, and eyed the house for signs of occupancy. He held himself back for as long as he could bear and then dragged himself the remaining steps to the door. He knocked. No-one was home, he was quite sure. He circled the house, checking the windows and doors. No car at the drive, but that didn't mean much. He smashed a window and opened the door from the inside, pausing just long enough to check that the sound hadn't sent anybody running. He avoided the glass as best he could, but cut his foot on a piece he'd missed. The anger roared up as he hissed at the pain, and he shoved it away, pulling the sliver from his skin and tossing it in the bin. He raided the kitchen and found stale biscuits and tinned fruit. It would do. He found a pair of shorts and an oversized sweater that covered him well enough, and collapsed onto the sofa. He devoured the food he found, and then went searching for more, consuming more packaged food than should have been possible. Judging by the layer of dust coating the furniture in this place it hadn't been used for a while. He could afford a day here before getting further away.
Away from where? He was avoiding the authorities. He knew that much. He was a fugitive. That didn't bode well for his history. Was he a criminal? He dozed lightly, recuperating strength with one eye open ready to flee at the slightest sign of trouble.
When he roused himself it was dark outside. He found some rice, cooked and consumed questionable amounts then explored the house. There was a map of Nadi in the front room and he took it, assuming that it pertained to his location. Fiji. Could have been worse. He found a discarded pair of sandals that fitted well enough. He sat on the floor, his back aching, and inspected the cut on his foot. It was gone, with only dried blood as proof there had ever been one in the first place. He stared at it.
Right.
His hands trembled as he considered them and forced himself to remain calm. He considered what he knew. He had washed up on a beach. A survivor of a ship wreck perhaps? He had amnesia. He had psychogenic amnesia with dissociative fugue. He was a scientist, he could tell that much, but knowledge came to him in random bursts, nothing concrete.
Random flashes of memory creeped back: as a kid, hiding, curled up in a cupboard with footsteps drawing closer, as an adult, still hiding in a country with red sand that whipped around in the air and stung his eyes. He ran his hands through his hair and considered his options. The police seemed out the question. Although common sense told him he should trust them, he had an innate wariness that made him reluctant. Would he be able to find someone that knew who he was? He debated going to hospital, but dismissed the idea almost immediately. He hated hospitals. Or at least, whoever he used to be did. He decided to focus on the basics. He needed food, and therefore money, and he couldn't stay in the holiday home indefinitely. But right now, he needed a name.
Robert sprung to mind. He took it, and made it his own. He wondered if it had been his name before.
It didn't matter.