Chapter 1

I can tell by the way everyone looks at me that something is wrong. Very wrong. By remembering common London customs, it is impolite to make staring obvious, yet every single person that has passed me turned their heads to keep watching, even after they have walked ten feet down the pavement.

I un-focus my eyes to check my reflection in the window of the restaurant but I do not find anything wrong with my appearance, maybe except for the bandage on my face. My brunette hair is short and neat on my shoulders and there is not a wrinkle on my clothes. I don't seem to be holding or sitting on anything out of the ordinary, and there is no one else on my side of the shop, the back corner, that looks the least bit suspicious.

The chair in front of me pulls out noisily as Jackie sets a cup of tea on the square table. My hand automatically reaches for the warmth, but she gently knocks my hand away with a tut. "You can't drink that," she chides. "They said not to drink anything that might destabilize your body. Whatever that means." She slowly sips from the cup, her tense shoulders relaxing.

I curl my hand back into my body, tucking it away in the crook of my elbow. Mother looks like she's plenty warm, even without a thick jacket on, but my bones are so chilled, they feel brittle. The gloves don't help any. Mother doesn't speak to me for the rest of the time we sit there; her line of sight is limited to her mug, still halfway filled with sweet, brown liquid.

It's all my fault, I predict she's thinking. I've heard her cry that to herself when she thinks I'm asleep. No, maybe it isn't, Mother. I open my mouth to reassure her, but I immediately close it. She won't know what I'm talking about, and I have a feeling that she'll cry only more if I say anything about it.

What the fault is, what she thinks she's done…I don't remember.

A particularly tall, gorgeous girl with dark skin and red streaks in her hair comes to refill the mug but turns away when she sees me. I heard an older man call her Shareen earlier. In the center sits a young dark haired man with a short child in front of him. He appears so serene, but I notice the small tension line on his forehead as he hears the child talk. Shareen starts to flail her arms behind the counter as she talks to the older man, her father or grandfather, probably.

I look back at my own Mother and wonder if I should be doing the same. And they're all talking to paternal figure. It seems like such a bad idea since everyone else is upset about it, but I want to say something. It builds up inside me with a vigorousness that frightens me. "Mother, what happened to Father?" I ask her with a light voice so that I do not sound like I'm angry with her.

Her head snaps up fast with surprise at my question. "What?"

"Where's my father? I want to speak to him as well."

Confusion blooms in her eyes for a second, before she suddenly remembers the answer. "He's been gone for a long time, sweetheart," she replies, gravely. "Since you were six months."

Gone where?

Suddenly, the bell to the diner rings and a tall, lanky man in a blue pinstripe suit steps in with a lazy grin on his face. He makes a beeline to the counter and set both arms on the flat surface, leaning his whole weight on it. "I heard this place had the best banana bread in the whole universe, and I intend to be the judge of that! Your finest banana bread, please!" His voice is fast paced and fluctuates frequently to show his excitement. Like a child. How odd.

Shareen looks up at him surprised but doesn't object to him. "Don't know where you heard that, mate, but sure, whatever." She opens the sliding glass below the counter and pulls out a slice bread and meticulously puts it on a plate along with a fork. "Here ya go."

He ignores the fork and rips a chunk off. He sniffs it first, then pokes out his tongue and prods it. He finally puts it into his mouth and chews very slowly. "Wow," he muffles, "I really got to give it to you: the perfect weight, the right amount of salt, a pinch of cinnamon, mhm! You really ought to raise the prices."

In front of me, I can feel Mother tense up suddenly, face burning red. "Damned man is everywhere." She slaps her cup to the side and the tea sloshes out on the table. It seeps up towards my red coat with frenzy but I keep my arm still. Mother grabs a bunch of tissues and sugar packets, stuffs it into her pocket, and gets up without a word. I know that I have to follow her so I do.

Shareen leaves the man to finish his bread. She comes by again and wipes the table clean setting an eye at Mother. "You alright, Jackie?" Mother ignores her. She noisily leaves the diner clutching tightly to my wrist. I can hear her muttering, "hurry, hurry, hurry." I don't mind since I don't understand why she's suddenly so angry. I just hope she loosens up a bit, because she's twisting my skin around.

The childish man looks up from his plate at me, curious at the noise. I think he's gonna give me a cheery "hello!" but he stops short when he sees me. I'm not much. I'm not that pretty, I don't think. I look like every other girl I've seen since I woke up, if not makeup-less (I apparently forgot how to apply makeup).

The man steps forward, the bread in his hand slipping to the floor. His eyes are a chocolate brown, almost reflecting green specks in the light. I see his mouth move, forming a single word. I don't hear it, at least I could've if Mother hadn't yanked open the door, ringing the bell loudly.

"Come on, then, time to go home!" I turn away from the man, losing interest quickly. I jog after Mother into her little car. While she's concerned with turning on the engine and peeling out of the street, muttering worriedly under her breath, I suck on the sleeve of my jacket, tasting the warm, sweet tea.

Behind us, I see the man push open the restaurant door just in time to see us turn the corner.

I have no idea what I'm doing here. I have no idea why these memories push through the walls of my thinking abilities, trying to tell me something. But why? Why are they there? They're a jumble of nonsense with my face attached to the images. They're nothing, yet they're there.

Mother says that she helped discharge me from the hospital three days after I woke up from my six month coma. The doctors found it extremely unlikely that I'd fell into one without any sustainable head injuries. That'd there be a chance that I would be a vegetable for the rest of my life. And then, they couldn't explain the memory loss. They suggested that my memories must have been suppressed after some traumatic experience. They were even more surprised when I was able to walk around by the second day without even stumbling once.

She expects me to remember every detail about my life, or at least the major events such as her, Mickey, or at least my own birthday, but such information is lost to me. My mind is a blank canvass with the structure of a new art sketched lazily. The bits and pieces are gone, only to leave the hope of remembering anything to disappear. I stare at objects for literally hours but nothing more than the name of the item and variations of it come to mind. Lamp: lava lamp, night lamp, desk lamp, etc. No bouts of inspiration or images of studying, drawing a picture, or even setting my feet upon a table comes to mind.

Yet there is always the one little thought in the back of my head that I know I've believed for a long time. I know that I've had the one thought since before my amnesia.

The death of a great man made you the Big Bad Wolf.

I lie in bed, tucked under two comforters, with my eyes closed. On television earlier, they did an entire documentary on dreams, how spectacular they are. I never worried about them since I got out of the hospital, but if they truly are that amazing, then why do I not remember them?

As the night wears on and hours crawl by without a sound, my eyes see only darkness. I no longer know whether I'm asleep or still awake. Several times I wake up to check whether my bed is real, hoping it isn't so I know that I've accomplished something in my new life.

It must be unnatural, I think, to not dream. Maybe it's because I have nothing to dream of yet. No memories or experiences to fuel my imaginations. I almost convince myself, but I know something has gone terribly wrong.

How could I not remember even a single moment of my life? What happened to me?

Mickey Smith is the nicest boy I've ever met. Actually, other than the doctor who released me, Mickey's the only boy I've met. He's awkward and a little bit sad. He doesn't know what to say to me because our relationship had been based on our childhood growing up together. His inside jokes meant next to nothing to me, so instead, he had to deal with acting polite instead of sarcastic and joking like I'm sure his personality is.

I've only been out of the hospital for less than a week and he's visited our trailer every day since but the time he spends each day is getting shorter and shorter. Mickey doesn't know me; his Rose Tyler is gone. I don't blame him. I may encourage it if he asks me anything about it. He deserves to move on.

I pity Mother because she can't.

I see the man again when Mother leaves for her job at a new boutique. Mother told me that she worked at almost twenty-four different clothing stores in her entire life, so she'd damned well be the best employee they'd ever have resulting a sure pay raise. While she goes to work, I'm ordered to stay home and relax.

A few minutes after the car leaves the "driveway" of the trailer, I put on a pair of Mother's house slippers and a thin wristwatch and step outside the house, clutching my oversized jacket tight around my body. It's not that chilly outside, but apparently my body isn't used to changes in the climate since I've been exposed to only one temperature my entire stay at the Hospital. I shuffle down the broken sidewalk towards the end of it, where a large road meets it.

I hear clanging from a woman, who looked about in her forties, scare off a large dog by clapping two pans together. The dog scurries away with its tail between its legs. The woman shifts her robe on her shoulders and raises her eyes at me. "What the fuck you lookin' at, Princess? Take a picture, it'll last you longer."

I look away and turn on the road. I want to apologize to her, but I think better of it. She'll probably take that as another insult and yell at me again. Down the road starts the beginning of small shops with older men and women that try to sell me newspapers and oranges, but I politely decline. I didn't bring money with me anyway. The shops eventually lead me to a series of connected roads that I recognize Mother and I were on the way home from the Hospital and the diner. I follow on the side of the roads till I reach the center of South London. I see the diner we were in previously and go towards it.

Everyone stares at me as I sit down in the corner, where I sat yesterday. At least today they have a reasonable excuse –I'm wearing pajama pants, slippers, and a jacket that'd fit two of me. My hair must be a witchy mess (I realize that people like looking nice when they leave their homes). I unconsciously tuck my hair behind my ears, feeling my cheeks grow warm.

Embarrassment? The emotion feels a little odd in my chest; it's the vicious one that makes me want to run home and hide under my covers and never get out again. I don't like it.

The waitress Shareen approaches me with an odd look but a smile nonetheless. "Hi, Rose, how're you doin'?" she asks, blowing a large pink bubble from her mouth. What was that? I stare at her mouth longer, and she starts to tap her pen against her leg. "Um, well, it's great to have you out and about again-"

"What just came out of your mouth?" I ask, horrified. Was that her tongue? I regret asking her already. I know enough about human anatomy –basic knowledge didn't escape me, and nobody has a tongue like that.

Her dark eyebrows came together. "You…you mean my gum?"

"Gum," I echo.

She opens her mouth to reveal her the top of her tongue touching her upper teeth. She reaches into her apron pocket and rummages around until she pulls out something silver and rectangular. "Try it, it's good. It's a new flavor; I got it from the Mart just this morning."

I warily open the wrapper and look at the pink…thing. I sniff it and then take a nibble.

Shareen clucks her tongue. "You gotta eat the whole thing, 'hon," she says amused. "Can't believe you forgot what bubble gum is. I kinda envy you."

I follow her instructions and put the whole gum in my mouth. An explosion of flavor bursts on my tongue as I bite into the piece. "Oh," I gasp, closing my eyes, "this is amazing." I turn to her excited. "I'll take two more!"

Shareen chuckles. "We don't serve just gum here, sweet-cheeks. Here's the menu; we have some real food." She hands me a red booklet that had the word Menu meticulously written on the front with gold. "Today, it's on the house, alright?" She glances at me once more, at my face, I think, before marching back off to the kitchen.

I'm not sure what "on the house" means, but I nod anyway. I run my hands over the leathery texture of the menu book, then the laminated pages on the inside. Unfamiliar words are typed in the menu: hamburger, sundae, and soda. I want to order all of them, but I feel it'll upset Shareen if I do. Then I realize that Shareen acts as if she knows me. She knows that I was in the Hospital. Did Mother tell her?

I examine the rest of the diner and different people are here today than before with the exception of a slightly short, stocky man sitting at the counter, a thin, lean man with red hair and wiry glasses. I check in the booths behind me and I notice that Shareen is still staring at me along with a slender blonde woman.

"Excuse me," Shareen murmurs to her friend and sidles towards my booth. "Rose, do you really not remember me?" There are lines in her forehead –worry.

"I…uh…no," I choke out; she does know me. And I once knew her.

"I'm Shareen Costello," she offers, inviting herself to the other seat in my booth. "I used to be one of your…best friends. I just can't believe this has happened to you. What did happen to you? You disappeared for a year and suddenly you reappear and then you're off again. Now you're back with your memories wiped. What did you get yourself into?"

I shake my head. Too many questions. No answers to any of them. "I'm sorry, but I don't remember anything. I didn't even know I was missing? When? I really don't know."

Shareen nods and drums her fingers. "Sorry, I just…I missed you, you know? We fought before you left and I felt so guilty for everything." She takes my hand into hers and offers me a smile. "I didn't get to see you after you went comatose and your mum moved out of Powell Estate, too, so I never even got an idea of what was happening." She bit her lip. "So I guess you don't remember me."

I lower my gaze to the table. "I don't remember you," I affirm.

"But yesterday, there was a man in here, and he knew you, right? Did you recognize him?"

"Banana-bread man? No, I've never –" met him in my life. But who knows? We could've been best friends and I wouldn't know. "I didn't recognize him."

"Well your mum sure did. Ran outta here faster than a roadrunner."

I have to ask Mother about that later.

"And that bloke, I thought he was ready to keel over and throw a tantrum or somethin'," Shareen laughs. "Who knows, you might see him again, right?"

"Right," I sigh with a chuckle. Okay, things were going good, right?

Shareen points to my left cheek, twirling her fingers in the general direction. "What's the bandage for? Did you fall the minute you left hospital?"

I hover my fingers over the white gauze on my face. Mother never let me change it by myself, always telling me not to open it in case it gets infectious. "I don't know," I repeat again. I see pity in Shareen's eyes and I want to tell her to get rid of it. I change the subject. "You said something about a Powell Estate? What's that?"

Shareen relaxes to get out of that serious subject. "We were neighbors at Powell Estate before you left…disappeared, whatever. By the time you got back officially and got admitted to hospital, Jackie packed up and left as soon as possible. She didn't tell anybody where she was off to. We all thought maybe it was the bills and all. You know how it is, hospitals try to give you as many tests and scans as possible and pinch you outta every penny you got. Nasty business if you ask me."

Powell Estate. Once again, the name doesn't ring any bells. Shareen offers me directions to the place.

The cook, who actually was her father yelled across the diner for her to get back to work. She rolled her eyes at him but reluctantly got up and left with a "Ta." Before she reaches the kitchen, she yells across the diner, "Come back tomorrow, alright? I wanna talk more."

My food arrives by another waitress.

After eating what may be the most delicious provisions created on this planet, I go for a stroll through the center. I'm slightly giddy from disobeying Mother's strict "no-eating-certain-foods-doctor's-orders" rule. Most people look at me funny, but I still receive a polite smile from each.

I turn a corner only to be met by emptiness. It seems like the whole street is devoid of all life; everyone runs off like a monster chased them off. In the very corner stood a tall grey building with balconies on the side. Clothes hung on a rope along almost every wall. A tall brick wall blocked off the building from the large service road.

What kind of bloody estate is that? The whole place is run down and each apartment size looks about three-quarters the size of the diner I just left. No wonder Mother left such a place.

I examine the rest of the property. The brick walls are covered with graffiti proclaiming the words Street Love, Bad Wolf, and The Night is my Bomb. In one end, next to a bunch of garbage cans, is a tall, blue telephone booth. I squint to read the words better. Actually, it's a Police Box. What? You ring up the police from there? First one I saw.

I'm about to turn around and leave, lest one of my Mother's old neighbors recognize me and tell her about it, when I see a flash of dim gold light emit from the inside of the box.

I know I should probably go back the way I came where everybody else in the city is, but instincts don't occur to me properly. At least not anymore. Maybe it never has. I'm attracted to the light from the box like a moth to a flame. With every step that I get closed, I can read the words better on the door:

Police Public Call Box

I'm about to push open the blue door when someone emerges from the inside. I scream in surprise and push the person backwards into the door. I catch my breath with a nervous giggle before taking a good look at the person. "Sorry, sir, I didn't know anybody was inside."

It takes a moment to recognize the man from yesterday staring back at me. He stands surprised, hands splayed against the blue doors of the call box. His mouth is slightly open, closing, and opening again as if he forgot what he wants to say. Just like yesterday, his lips form the same word, except this time, I hear him, "Rose."

I stare back at him with the same intensity he shares with me, unable to conjure up any recollections of this man. "I-I guess we do know each other," I stutter, licking my lips. If he's anything like what Shareen told me he is….

His mouth is open again but this time he closes his eyes. "Rose, you don't remember me?" He's hurt by this, I can tell. "Why? What happened? You don't live here anymore, I checked and you weren't there -" he rambles without catching his breath.

I lower my eyes to the floor. "I just found out I lived here," I cut in. I hold out my hand towards him. "Hi, I'm Rose Tyler, but I guess you know that already. I'm sorry, I woke up only a week ago, and I've lost all my memories. I know this probably very awkward, and I understand if you don't want to restart a new friendship or anything -"

He tentatively reaches his hand for mine but when he gets a hold, his grip is tight and he shakes vigorously. "I'd be bloody mad to leave you, Rose Tyler." He tries to grin; a face-splitting grin, but I notice the blankness in his eyes, the fathomless depth of black.

"Uh…what's your name?" I ask a little uncomfortably. I wriggle my hand a little so that he'd let go, but he doesn't get the clue.

He hesitates for a few seconds. "John Smith. Okay, I'm John Smith."

"John Smith," I whisper to myself. I need to commit it to memory, like all other events. I should write it down, so I won't forget again. "John Smith." I check my wristwatch to see that it's already three-o'-clock. "Oh, I have to get going then, or else Mum's gonna have a hernia when she sees I'm not home," I chuckle, twisting away from him.

"No!" he protests, "I…I…just stay." John looks vulnerable, like the stray dog from this morning, running from its owner. He lifts one arm, one shaking arm, to my face; I don't flinch away. He fingers the edges of my bandage that's taped to my cheek. "What's happen to your face, Rose?"

Again with my face? I, too, bring my hand to my face, next to his fingers and feel the bandage. "I don't know," I repeat honestly. All I remember is that Mother picked me up from my room, and has me bandaged up. "It's been there."

His hand is shaking now, and there's a film of something in his eyes. He repeats my name, "Rose" once more but without any sound this time.

I don't feel as scared or awkward as I should. Just…confused. Who is this man? "Do I know you?"

The question snaps him out of his revere and he brings his hand down in a flash. "You used to. We were good friends, I think, but you left me. How long has it been?"

"Six months in a coma. It's all I know."

He looks at a spot on my shoulder. "I guess you wanted more in life, when you left." His hands are clenched tightly on each side of his body. "And now, you don't even remember."

"You don't seem too happy about that."

Our eyes finally meet. "Well, there are a lot of things about this I'm not too happy about, Rose."

That night, I stand in front of the bathroom mirror, scratching at the tape. I pull my hair up from my face into a low ponytail. I slowly peel away the bandage, resisting itching the red skin. In the pale, white light, I examine what the cotton had hid, brushing gently over it.

And I couldn't help but cry.