David Whittier wasn't stupid. For a month he had convinced everyone around him that he was practically braindead.

But he remembered that evening with such shocking clarity that he couldn't stand it. He remembered his mother in the driver's seat, laughing wildly at one of his father's jokes. He remembered snippets of the songs that had been playing on the radio. He remembered wanting to be at home already, it had been a long party, a business party that hadn't particularly interested him. His mother had made him go, she said he never got out enough. Always sitting with that silly little computer of yours, you need to talk with some real people, she had said.

Yeah, well look what getting me out to talk with some real people got you, Mom, he thought.

They had been coming around the turn just a little to quickly, his mother had been preoccupied with something his father had been saying. The car had fishtailed out of control, sliding, sliding, and then...

Black. Nothing but black. Black nothingness was all he could hear, smell, taste, touch or see.

He remembered very little for a period of time afterwards, just a lot of bright lights, the smell of antiseptic, the doctor's hurried words of I'm sorry son, but your parents didn't quite make it, before moving on to do something else.

When he woke up, everything was different. Slower. Softer. A lady with a kind face had came in to talk to him, but a lot of what she had said hadn't made sense. What he could catch was something to the effect of Honey, you got some problems... your mind got slowed down a lil bit, so you're just gonna go and get some help for that for a while, ok?

Help. That had been what she had said. He hated it there, that place where they gave him In his core memory, the one where he stored his most basic self image, he was still a normal person. He could run, walk, talk and act normally. But when he actually tried it, things were much different. He fumbled words, got things backwards, and walked like a 2 year old. It wasn't so much the people there that he hated, it was more his own inefficiency. At everything.

They had set up some basic computers for the patients to work on, figuring that maybe things like coloring pictures and simple games would improve patients' motor skills and help them improve faster.

It was on one of those computers that David could be found most days. He didn't remember much from before the accident at that point, but his passion for technology was one thing that had stuck. He remembered staying up at night, the feelings of joy when he finally accomplished something... but what? As hard as he tried, he could not bring his injured mind to remember what it had been that had fascinated him so much about those machines.

***
It was with halfhearted enthusiasm that he opened up the painting program one day, turning the question that always nagged him over and over in his mind. What was I? Who was I? Come on, come on, think! You have the answer, David, just find it within your mind! he thought to himself.

The technician that was supposed to be watching all the patients had just left the room for a bathroom break when something odd happened- David's screen terminal went blank. The hell? he swore, gently shaking the monitor of the computer in a vain attempt to get it back to normal. He was about to grab his leg braces and find someone who could help when words began to appear on the screen in uneven intervals, as if typed by an unsteady hand.

Do you remember, Cyrix? Do you remember who you were?