Hello lovelies. I am unashamedly in denial so I've started this fic. Enjoy!
November 11th, 1918
His head rung with pain and his eyes squinted against the bright lights. It was several minutes before he could finally see where he was.
He was in a hospital, or what appeared to be a hospital. The room had clearly seen better days. The paint was chipped and the electric lights sputtered out every few minutes. There were several metal beds in the room, but they seemed out of place.
As he blinked through his blurry vision, he could make out doctors and nurses scurrying around the room. Many were speaking French, much to his delight. He thought he might never hear his native tongue since his journey to London.
He turned his head to watch some nurses working at the bed beside his. The man laying there had bloodied bandages around his head and chest. The man winced in pain as they peeled away the soiled cloth and administered new ointment.
Having completed the job, the head nurse, or at least he assumed she was the head nurse, turned to him.
"Oh, he's awake, sir!" she called out to a doctor across the room.
The doctor hurried to him and began to check his pulse.
"Slowly returning to normal, that's good," he murmured as he went on to examine his eyes.
The nurse scribbled on the clipboard chained to the foot of his bed, "Should I let Renard know, sir? He's been asking all morning."
The doctor nodded and she started to leave the room, but the door swung open as a man, in full army uniform, entered.
"Oh thank god!" he exclaimed as he walked to his bedside, "I'd begun to lose hope!"
"Just a minute, Renard," the doctor warned him gently, "I've got to ask him a few questions."
The man nodded, "Of course, sir."
The doctor turned to his patient, "Can you tell me where you are from?"
He nodded, "Dinant, Belgium."
"And who is this beside me?" the doctor asked, pointing to the man in uniform.
"Antoine Renard, my old school friend," he replied
The doctor and Antoine exchanged a smile of relief.
"And what year is it?" the doctor went on lightly.
He laughed, "1914."
The doctor's smile faded, "What?"
"1914," he repeated calmly.
Antoine looked to the doctor, worry creeping on every line of his face.
The doctor turned from Antoine, "Where were you before you passed out? What do you remember seeing?"
He thought for a moment and slowly answered, "I was in London, after the attack...I was walking up to a big brick house."
"Oh god..." Antoine whispered to himself, "You don't remember?" he asked anxiously and sat on the edge of the small cot.
"Sir, please," the doctor insisted, "Give him space."
"The trenches? The war?" Antoine went on frantically, "You've fought beside me for months! You saved my life!"
He shook his head in confusion, "What are you talking about?"
"Renard, please!" the doctor shouted.
Antoine finally stepped away, but his eyes were panicked as he began to pace by the end of the bed.
The doctor looked back to his patient and sighed, "Do you remember anything else?"
His brow wrinkled as he looked about the room, "This doesn't make any sense," he muttered and sat up in the bed, "What happened? Why am I here?"
"Please," the doctor stated, putting a firm hand on his arm, "What else do you remember? Why were you at the house?"
"I..." he practically whispered, "I was going to stay there...She was giving me a home."
"Who was?"
"The woman..." he explained, his eyes beginning to water though he did not know why, "She opened the door to the house... she was smiling...She...er..." he watched as Antoine stopped pacing to stare at him, "She had blue eyes..."
"And?"
"I..." he swallowed hard as the shock set in, "I do not remember anything else after that."
The doctor sighed solemnly , "And what is your name?"
He shook his head nervously "I know who I am."
The doctor tried to calm him, "It is just a question."
"I know who I am!" he cried out, grabbing the doctor's arm, "I was born in Dinant, Belgium on the 24th of January in 1889! My father's name is Frederick and my mother's name is Rachelle! I have two sisters, Anne and Bridgette! I studied music under Monsieur Travail in Brussels for ten years before I joined his orchestra! I was in Paris when my home was attacked and my family killed! I escaped to London, where I was offered a home, a refuge! I am Florian Dupont, I know who I am, and don't you dare tell me otherwise!" he shouted, tears beginning to stream down his cheeks, "Now please...tell me where I am."
The doctor nodded calmly and gently pulled his arm away before speaking, "You are in an army hospital in Antwerp. You joined the Belgium army over a year ago, in August of 1917. You recently suffered a massive blow to the head on the 7th of November 1918 when you pushed a fellow soldier, Antoine Renard, out of the path of enemy fire. You've been recovering here for the past week."
"That's not possible..." Florian muttered, looking to Antoine for reassurance, "Tell me this is not true."
Antoine stepped to his side, "It is, my friend. But the war is over! Let us celebrate that."
He closed his eyes, not caring about the end of a war he did not remember fighting.
"What should I write on his record, doctor?" Florian heard the nurse ask quietly , "Amnesia?"
Florian let the word roll around his mind for a moment as the doctor confirmed her query and went on to suggest recovery options.
"When I release him, I think you should return to your village together. Go help your people rebuild their lives," he told Antoine, who listened intently, "Beginning a future is the surest way to overcome the past."
"But will I ever remember again?" Florian opened his eyes and interrupted the good doctor's advice.
"Perhaps," he laid a comforting hand on his shoulder, "Although with this war, I cannot imagine there is anything you would want to."
"No..." Florian sighed as a fleeting image of the smiling woman flashed in his memory, "I suppose not."
Please leave a review if you liked it!
I intend to write more, but seeing as exams are approaching, I may be a bit busy.