Kellan Archer.
Black and white. Right before his eyes.
"Sign here, please," the nurse said crisply, tapping her pen on the release form.
He accepted the pen, but as tip touched paper he hesitated. The name printed in the nurse's neat handwriting remained unrecognizable. Of its own accord, his hand signed the name with a practiced ease that his mind did not understand. His lips twisted bitterly. The nurse handed him folder.
"What's this?" he asked, raising a brow.
"Personal effects," she replied and shuffled his paperwork into a folder, her tone clearly dismissive.
"Thanks," he mumbled.
She didn't reply, having already shifted her attention to the next patient.
Kellan - God, it sounds so foreign - dug through the folder and headed for the stairs. He shouldered through the door, cringing as his hands again recalled something his mind could not and deposited all the items from the folder in their respective pockets.
Wallet? Back right-hand pocket.
Key ring? Front left.
Lozenge tin? Inner coat pocket.
The last he shook absentmindedly before pocketing. Something other than lozenges rattled inside, but before he could wonder at what it might be, he collided with a man climbing the steps.
"Apologies, mate," Kellan said hurriedly. The man just stared. Ducking his head, Kellan slipped by and continued down to the ground floor. It was all too much. He was overwhelmed and needed to sleep somewhere other than a hospital bed. He also needed a drink. Desperately. The doctor insisted that his memories would return with time. Kellan wanted to believe him, but his head felt as barren as a wasteland.
That was eighty years ago.