Full Summary: Despite the situation being beyond farfetched, she knew, deep inside where the tiny vulnerable piece of her heart lolled, that it was as if this was a chance to know who he truly was. Before the Total Drama craze, before they all changed in the most horrible ways, she found out who Duncan was. And it hurt her — even if she denied it — to know that it had to take such warped measures for her to find out.

Samantha held her daughter's motionless hand gently with her slightly wrinkled ones. She stroked her daughter's hand with her fingers gingerly, softly. She hummed a lullaby, the delicate sound dancing in the air with grace of a ballerina. The lullaby was soothing to the ears, but it was a shame to know only Samantha's ears would hear it. But, although her daughter was "asleep," she might hear it, as well. It would be faint or like a soft murmur. She would hear it. And Samantha hoped, with all her being, she hoped that she would hear it.

The doctor was careful with his words as he spoke to the woman. Sympathy washed over him, sinking into his being, and prodding at his heart repeatedly. He didn't want to feel such emotions, because he was afraid he would get quite close with this particular patient. This was the second comatose patient he had in the last ten years. He had hoped he wouldn't get another, because he had gotten close with the previous patient he had.

The previous patient had died. She had been "asleep" for almost three years.

He continued writing down his analysis towards the patients. He jotted down information such as this patient being in coma for already six days. He didn't want to assume she was going to actually be in a long-term coma, but an irking notion in him confirmed that subtle assumption.

"I will be doing a blood test, Mrs. Simmons," he informed Samantha softly. "Usage of the Glasgow Coma Scale is in order, as well as a CT scan and electrocardiogram. In case you're wondering about the Glasgow Coma Scale, it is — "

Samantha scoffed bitterly. "I know what it is," she said curtly. "And why are you doing so many tests and scans on her? She's just asleep for a while. Nothing vital." She knew she was being discourteous to someone adroit in this specific field. She just wanted to be alone with her daughter. She didn't want to hear anything concerning her state. "Please leave."

The doctor, Dr. Ramirez, wasn't one to be ordered around by a relative of his patient — in actuality, it was the other way around — but he knew how distraught she was most likely feeling inside. He knew better than to trouble that feeling. He finished up his notes, nodded at Samantha — who didn't bother to return the gesture — and left.

As he stepped outside of the asphyxiating, tense-filled room, he let out a deep breath he didn't realize he had been holding in.

Samantha let out a breath, as well, after the doctor departed. She controlled herself from breaking down. She wouldn't permit salty tears to taint her face; it was a sign of weakness. In spite of the fact that her daughter was "asleep," she still wouldn't show feebleness, even if it was a small smidgeon of it. She had to keep up a strong front, and she had to make sure the inside matched that front.

"Wake up, my darling," she whispered. She scolded herself inwardly when her voice broke. "Wake up … "

a blind heart she holds, a blind heart she has

Dark orbs opened.

Courtney sat up from the bed. Her eyes drooped a little, a flood of exhaustion and vertigo hitting her like a rain of hail. Suddenly, a hammering headache wrapped around her brain, portraying the feel of barbwire strongly. She clutched her head and bent down. It was an agonizing combination.

Shortly after she recuperated, she took a look of her environment.

She was in a bedroom. Assuredly it wasn't hers. Her bedroom was clean and organized, speaking her personality (a bedroom always showed personality) while this in particular was the personification of a pigsty. It was like a nuclear explosion of clothing occurred in the room. The walls were pitch-black — covered with posters of punk/rock/metal bands, tags, and spray-painted skulls — but it looked like it was painted messily by a toddler. The door was white; carvings of vulgarity and inappropriate images were everywhere on it. It ruined the only "pure" part of the room. A closet was near the bed; a nightstand with an alarm clock was in between them. Stacks of magazines were dumped carelessly on the side of a small desk, where a laptop was at. A round computer chair was in the middle of the room with — cue the ultimate grimace — a pair of boxers lying casually on the seat. On the far right corner was a table with a small TV placed on top with an Xbox 360 and its controllers next to it. The table had a cabinet below with a transparent glass that you can slide open; inside were cases of videogames and DVDs.

This room … , she thought, it's so familiar to me. Have I been here before? It's impossible, though. Obviously this person's room must belong to one of those vile Goth people or those … punk idiots.

The word "punk" brought her to one name and one name only. She pushed the name away to the back of her mind — where it should stay.

To her left, there was another door where black dressers were at (some of the dressers' shelves stuck out because a shirt and other clothing were blocking it). It had black and green paint splattered all over it. There was a MEN'S ONLY sign nailed on it diagonally, but the word "MEN'S" was scratched out, replaced with the name —

The door opened.

— Duncan.

He shook his hair, his wet green Mohawk flailing side to side. His piercings were shining brightly and proudly. His dog collar was still on as always. He was towel-clad, showing his built physique.

Courtney glared, ignoring the warmness bubbling under her cheeks.

His teal eyes spotted her, widening. He made a quick motion, almost too fast for Courtney to see, and tried to cover his family jewels with his hands. Once he realized that his towel already covered that special body part, he gave her a wide stare.

He asked a question Courtney didn't expect.

"Who the hell are you?"

The livid stream of insults and heated sentences halted. They were about to explode from her mouth when he asked that question. It almost left her baffled and speechless. She resumed her glare.

"Ugh, I don't have time for your little games, Duncan," she barked. "Why am I in your room for God's sake? Did you go so far as to kidnapping me? What's going on here?"

He held up a hand, eyes still wide with confusion. He looked at her as if he didn't know her, and she didn't like it one bit. "Hey, hey!" he yelled. "I don't know how the hell you know me, and I don't know why the hell you're here. I'm the one doing all the interrogating, sweetheart. Now, I'll ask again: who the hell are you?"

Now she was speechless. Is Duncan suffering from memory loss? He sounds as if he's speaking the truth. But then again, Duncan's a wonderful liar, so I shouldn't assume that.

She knew he was lying. Although they hadn't seen each other for many months after Total Drama World Tour, it would be implausible for him to not remember her. He didn't have that terrible of a memory, and, considering the huge amount of history together, he should immediately recognize her even from a small peripheral glance.

She glared at him, staying tenacious.

His unibrow furrowed. "I don't know you, so get the hell outta my room." He pointed out the window.

Impossible. "You've played around with me enough already, all right? I don't need any more of this, of you! So stop pretending as if you don't know me, and tell me what's going on!"

He glowered at her. "Look. I'm not pretending; I'm not playing around. I don't know who you are. If I did, then we wouldn't be having this conversation, right? Now, you tell me what you're doing in my room or else I'll force you out of here. I did it to my brothers, I can do it to you," he threatened.

He was serious. She could see it in his eyes; she could hear it in his tone. She knew he was a good liar, but she knew when he was telling the truth. As he spoke, she could practically feel the honesty in his words floating to her, floating inside her mind. It felt good to hear him speak such words filled with pure honesty. It did.

"H-How — ?" She stopped after she realized that she was stuttering. She cleared her throat and tried to calm down her panicky being. "How could you not know me? After — " what you had done to me " — that dreadful reality show, after all the torture Chris inflicted upon us, after — after everything!"

He scratched his head roughly, groaning in frustration. "All right, woman, what the freaking hell are you talking about? What reality show? Who's Chris? After what? I told you, I don't know you!"

How could you not remember me, Duncan? Oh, she almost said those words. She almost showed her defenselessness. But she stopped herself after she almost crossed that line, almost opened her mouth again. She was known to say what was on her mind most of the time, and if she opened her mouth just a bit, it would come straight out without consent. When it came to her irregularly displayed vulnerable side, she knew when to shut up. She knew her limits.

She looked down and saw that she was under his blanket snugly. She noted that his bed was reasonably comfortable than being all lumpy and back-aching. But what was strange was that she was wearing her usual wardrobe. It would've made slight sense if she wore her pajamas. If that were so, however, the situation would still be in the "highly preposterous category."

"What's going on?" she murmured.

She heard him sigh. She faced him again and saw that he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the doorway of his bathroom. His unibrow was still furrowed. His right cheek stuck out which made her know he was pressing his tongue on that side. His eyes evaluated her appearance. She felt self-conscious and lucky to know that her bottom half was shielded by his blanket.

"Are you one of my ex-girlfriends?" Duncan inquired; he sounded doubtful concerning his inquiry.

A twinkle of hope poked in her stomach, but she overlooked it. She wondered if he remembered. "Yes, I am," she replied coldly. "I'm sure you remember me. You should." After what you did to me!

He clicked his tongue and shook his head. "You're not, though. I don't remember you. I don't know you. I mean, if you were my ex-girlfriend, I should remember you, 'cause I kinda have to. But so far, I only had, like, one girlfriend this past year. The rest are flings … Were you one of my little flings?"

"Excuse me?" she scoffed, raising an eyebrow. Clearly, she was offended. A fling? Really?

"Well … if you know me and we might've had a little somethin'-somethin', then you're probably one of my flings. I don't remember any of my flings." He paused. "Maybe if you helped me remember, then sure, I'll remember. I think."

A fling? A FLING? "I most certainly am not your fling! What a moronic statement! I would never allow myself to be a two-hour make-out toy with you!" She glared at him once again.

He grimaced. "Ugh, you're right. I wouldn't swap spit with a screeching woman like you." He got off the doorway and stretched his arms. "You know, it's a pain in the ass to find out who you are and why the freaking hell you're here. And since we're going nowhere, you can just leave and do whatever. Become a hobo, I don't care. I've got business to take care of." He walked over to his drawers and took out some clothing.

Courtney, enraged, flung the blanket off of her and jumped off the bed.

Big mistake.

Abruptly, she fell to the floor, landing on her side, because a sudden pain in her head blasted her. She forgot about her headache. Fortunately the floor was carpet. But it still caused her pain on her body.

"What the — ?" she heard Duncan say. She heard loud footsteps coming her way. Through her half-lidded eyes, she saw him standing over her, wearing his shorts and his yellow sleeve-shirt. He stared at her, shocked. Then, after a while, he smirked.

"Well, don't just stand there, you idiot!" she admonished. "Help me up! Jeez, it doesn't have to take you that long! Ugh, I swear you have the mind of a — "

Out of nowhere, he grabbed her arm and pulled her up. She swayed a little, but Duncan's firm hold on her arm kept her standing upright, balanced. She breathed in deeply and relaxed her mind, trying to suppress the aching pain. She needed some painkillers, but her headache wasn't the problem right now.

She was about to lecture Duncan again when she perceived how close they were. Actually, they weren't that close enough to feel each other's breaths, but, after their messy breakup, this was the closest they had gone — despite the bridal challenge during the horrifying Total Drama days; that time was obligatory.

She pried her arm out of his grip quickly and took a couple of steps back. She stared at him icily. "Invasion of personal space much?" she snapped angrily.

He narrowed his teal eyes at her and snorted. "Tch, you're welcome, Your Highness," he retorted. He started walking back to his dresser.

The former C.I.T. growled lowly and gripped his arm, making him turn around quickly. He spun around, taken aback by the sudden action, and faced the angry girl. She gripped his arm tighter and gritted her teeth. She leaned closer to him. If her entire body was perforated, liquids of rage would be pouring out like a volcano.

She opened her mouth.

But he beat her.

"Woman! What the fucking hell is your problem? Huh?" he shouted, exasperated. "I don't even know you, and you're acting like I murdered your family or something! So quit getting up all in my goddamn space, you crazy hypocrite, and just leave 'cause I don't know what the fuck's goin' on, too! Do ya get the picture?" He finished by snatching his arm back from her hand.

Duncan yelled at Courtney before. He was usually the slightly calmer person in their relationship, and so she did all the yelling. But as their relationship was on the edge of the cliff precariously, he too started yelling back, saying hurtful words at her that she didn't dare show stabbed her heart. To try to hide the vulnerability, she made herself angrier and angrier, doing extreme actions and saying hurtful words back. She threw away her self-control and her common sense.

What was far diverse from that situation to the current one was his tone. Since he didn't know her, his tone was different. It was as if he was talking to some stranger, or, in his case, a psycho he just saw in his bed after he showered. She wasn't used to not being known by this boy she had been together with for a long time, this boy that she had poured her entire heart to, gave him her entire body to. She wasn't.

Courtney stared at him long and hard, trying to find the solution. But it was useless. She was an intelligent person, far intelligent than a regular seventeen-year-old, but even with her intelligence, she couldn't find the answer to this mind-boggling problem.

She let out a breath. "So … so you really don't know me?" she questioned quietly. She had to try to be calm.

He rolled his eyes at her. He looked like he was about to rip off his piercings right about now. "No shit," he answered scornfully.

She wasn't acclimated to his extreme vulgarity, but she guessed he might be cussing a lot because he was confused and distressed by all this.

"What day is it?"

He rubbed the nape of his neck. "It's a Wednesday, the 5th of April."

Courtney gasped, horrified. It's a school day! Why? Why, out of all weekends and holidays, does it have to be on a weekday? "I — I have to get to school! Oh, my gosh, I have an exam for AP Lit.! Crap, crap, crap, crap!" She bit her thumb's nail and started muttering to herself.

The delinquent rolled his eyes again, not seeming to care about her "problem." He walked to her. "Hey, calm down, calm down. Where do you live?"

She was about to answer when she remembered something. Duncan lives in Montreal, and I live in Beauport … Damn it, that's more than a hundred miles away! But how the hell did I get here? In Duncan's room? HOW?

Duncan waited, yawned, and then looked at his alarm clock. "Well, I have to get goin', or else my parents will freak their thongs off." He went over to his dresser and got out his signature skull T-shirt. He pulled his over his head and tugged it down over his torso. He grabbed some long socks out.

"What do I do, then?" Courtney asked as he put his wristband on.

He grabbed his wallet from his desk and shrugged. "I dunno," he muttered. "I'd rather you leave my room, but since there's quite a few questions unanswered and I know you're the type to be bent on stuff, you can just hang in here for a while." He gave her a stern glare. "Don't touch any of my stuff — I've got important things that I don't need your uptight hands touchin'."

She returned the glare, scoffing. "Like I'd touch anything here. Ugh, this place reeks of bacteria and stupidity. Goodness gracious, do you even own a washing machine? Hangers? A tiny piece of knowledge regarding cleanliness?" Her eyes darted around the room, nose scrunching up with distaste.

He stared. Then he smirked. "You're pretty harsh, you know that?"

She merely scowled at him.

When he left, the mocha-haired girl sighed to herself. She sat down on his bed, wincing as she heard it squeak and groan. It was a good thing it was comfortable. She looked around the room again, just grimacing. This place really was Duncan's.

She frowned. The number question popped into her mind: What in the world is going on?

The alarm clock started beeping loudly in a distorted fashion. She assumed Duncan must've abused this clock multiples of times. She groaned to herself and smacked the snooze button hard, abusing it some more. She looked at the time.

8:46 A.M. – April 5, 2008

Courtney grinned to herself smugly. Ha! He's late for school.

The grin slipped off of her face, traces of smugness now replaced with horror. She looked at the date again.

April 5, 2008.

2008.

2008.

2008.

She frantically searched her pockets for her PDA and thanked the heavens when she found it. She took it out, bewildered on why it was all ginormous and outdated-looking as opposed to her new sleek one she bought just recently, and checked the date. Duncan might have the date set wrong; he was that irresponsible.

A big bucket of calamity splashed her in the face.

Date today: April 5, 2008.

TBC –

Blah:

Yup, another new story. It seems confusing, but as the chapters go on, as the story goes on, you'll understand.

You will. You have to. Or else I'm doing all of this wrong.

But anyways, I hope that my inspiration for this story will go smoothly. Reasons for late updates, however, are due to school and yeah. School is my top priority. Gotta stay focus.

Questions? PM me.

Save an ant, people.