I woke up to my head feeling like it was bound to implode, full of a relentless fire I couldn't quench. The world was spinning and I couldn't see straight, the light burned my eyes until they felt like they were bleeding. I curled up in a moment of pain, holding my hands to my eyes to block out the light. When I decided I was feeling slightly better and should experiment with the notion of standing up, I stumbled and was forced to use one arm to brace myself against the wall. Its surface felt cool and clammy against me as I tried to regulate my breathing pattern. My heartbeat was beating in a furious frenzy of no apparent rhythm, echoing inside my head.
Slowly, my surroundings faded into focus. I was in a small room that was very sparse and lacking much in the category of decoration. The walls were a boring and drab shade of beige; and the floor was made of the usual dull hardwood. There was a small single bed, and I found it odd that I had been passed out on the floor and not in the bed that was two feet away from where I lay. The sheets were made and tucked in, with no obvious signs of use, which matched the pillow with no head-dent in it to signify someone had rested there. A Grandfather clock stood tall to the left of the bed, its unique braided pattern looking more than amiss in the dreadfully non-stimulating room. I finally gained enough of my normal eyesight back to read the time. Half-past two. In the morning? Peering outside, I could confirm it was half-past two in the afternoon, not in the morning. I was in what appeared to be a motel of some sort. From the window, I could spot multitudes of cabs whizzing by, and the whole world seemed to be bustling and joyous and- aware of something I wasn't. Then it finally struck me like an anvil made of obvious fell on my face. Who am I?
I couldn't remember my name, what I did for a living, how I ended up here, when I was born—any of it. I let the feeling of unknown dread sink in. Then I began to come down with a very sudden and very real panic attack. I searched myself for any evidence that could spark a cascade of memories to reappear, throwing my shoes off and even my crisp, black suit jacket. The shoes made loud thuds but so did the jacket—which I thought to be very curious. Jackets don't normally make thud noises, unless something is heavy enough in one of the pockets. In an instant I had swiped my hand into the right pocket and pulled out a cell phone.
It was your basic smart phone of today, nothing amiable in particular stood out about it. No name was labeled or etched into either the phone or the phone case, and it was shiny and scratch-free. I clicked the button that turned the phone on, but I encountered a lock screen. It wanted a password.
Well isn't this just my day.
I can't remember anything and that includes the password for my phone—which could very well hold the answer to my problems—or at the least a contact who could answer my questions.
Shit.
My panic attack morphed into something that was more akin to a temper tantrum. I threw the phone vigorously onto the bed as if it would magically enter the password and unlock the damn thing. I screamed in frustration and pulled at my short black hair, trying to tug the memories out with it.
"GOD DAMN IT ALL!" I snarled rather animalistic-like and blew air out of my nose. There was probably steam leaking out of my ears. I caught view of a mirror on the wall opposite the bed, and saw my face was indeed very flushed. My eyes were like those on a shark, dark and bottomless, the kind found on a predator that played with his prey before he killed it. I honestly looked like a mad man—and for all I could remember, maybe I was.
NOTE: You have no idea how fun this is to write. No. Idea. I feel evil in torturing Moriarty, but hey- what can I say? I have a little Moriarty in me.