Disclaimer: Not Mine
Note: I'm still in the process of writing this, don't know when on Earth my next point will be. I know she'll wind up remembering things kinda fast, and this will probably turn out really awfull, so, fair warning...
She walked down the streets, towards a destiny she did not know. She'd been sleeping where she could, having no money, and her clothes were now tattered.
She couldn't remember who she was. Where she came from. Who she belonged to. How old was she. What did she do for a living.
What troubled her most was whether or not when she found out who she was, whether she would like the person that was her.
Or atleast her past.
Her name. She'd caught her reflection several times, trying to decide on a name that suited her.
She couldn't decide.
The cold December wind bit her, like ice sinking into her bone. She stopped infront of a building, much like the others: worn brick, list of people who lived there.
Somehow, though, something told her to go in. Yet, she stood there, hesitating, unsure. She didn't know what she'd find. What if she knocked on a door, asked for help, and when her situation was discovered, the person would pretend he or she knew her, while he or she really had a darker purpose.
She continued to stand there, looking up at the bright windows, wondering.
She wondered how she'd gotten into this mess. The first thing about her "life" she remembered was waking up in a park....somewhere....She'd wandered about, and recognized certain places as being in Washington, D.C.
Did she live here? Was she on vacation?
Something forced her into the building. Whether it was cold, or hunger, or curiosity, or just hoping to find someone to help her, she did not know, but the compulsion was stronger than anything she'd ever felt. WEll. What she remembered ever feeling.
She ran up several flights of stairs, as though knowing her destination without ever being there.
Or had she?
The questions taunted her, made her anxious. She felt as though she could trust no one.
She looked up at the doors and the apartment numbers.
37..38...39....40....41.....42....
42....She'd knock on door number 42. That was a nice, round, bright, even number, right? Still, she hesitated.
But when she did knock, a woman immiediatly opened it. It was an older woman, maybe 40s or 50s, brown-red hair, darker than her own. She had a kindly face. Though, of course, she did not know it.
"Dana?" asked the woman.
Presently, a man came to the door once he'd heard the woman pronounce the name.
"Scully!" he cried.
"I'm sorry...." the Jane Doe responded. "Do I, uh, know you?"
"Dana....Dana...."the woman was confused.
"I'm afraid I find myself in a unique situation," Jane continued, "I...uh, can't remember who I am."
"Oh, Dana." The woman hugged her. "My gosh....Dana." She cried.
Note: I'm still in the process of writing this, don't know when on Earth my next point will be. I know she'll wind up remembering things kinda fast, and this will probably turn out really awfull, so, fair warning...
She walked down the streets, towards a destiny she did not know. She'd been sleeping where she could, having no money, and her clothes were now tattered.
She couldn't remember who she was. Where she came from. Who she belonged to. How old was she. What did she do for a living.
What troubled her most was whether or not when she found out who she was, whether she would like the person that was her.
Or atleast her past.
Her name. She'd caught her reflection several times, trying to decide on a name that suited her.
She couldn't decide.
The cold December wind bit her, like ice sinking into her bone. She stopped infront of a building, much like the others: worn brick, list of people who lived there.
Somehow, though, something told her to go in. Yet, she stood there, hesitating, unsure. She didn't know what she'd find. What if she knocked on a door, asked for help, and when her situation was discovered, the person would pretend he or she knew her, while he or she really had a darker purpose.
She continued to stand there, looking up at the bright windows, wondering.
She wondered how she'd gotten into this mess. The first thing about her "life" she remembered was waking up in a park....somewhere....She'd wandered about, and recognized certain places as being in Washington, D.C.
Did she live here? Was she on vacation?
Something forced her into the building. Whether it was cold, or hunger, or curiosity, or just hoping to find someone to help her, she did not know, but the compulsion was stronger than anything she'd ever felt. WEll. What she remembered ever feeling.
She ran up several flights of stairs, as though knowing her destination without ever being there.
Or had she?
The questions taunted her, made her anxious. She felt as though she could trust no one.
She looked up at the doors and the apartment numbers.
37..38...39....40....41.....42....
42....She'd knock on door number 42. That was a nice, round, bright, even number, right? Still, she hesitated.
But when she did knock, a woman immiediatly opened it. It was an older woman, maybe 40s or 50s, brown-red hair, darker than her own. She had a kindly face. Though, of course, she did not know it.
"Dana?" asked the woman.
Presently, a man came to the door once he'd heard the woman pronounce the name.
"Scully!" he cried.
"I'm sorry...." the Jane Doe responded. "Do I, uh, know you?"
"Dana....Dana...."the woman was confused.
"I'm afraid I find myself in a unique situation," Jane continued, "I...uh, can't remember who I am."
"Oh, Dana." The woman hugged her. "My gosh....Dana." She cried.