Disclaimer: "Falling Skies" never has been nor ever will be my property.
Occasionally, when you wake up, the world is entirely confusing. For instance, you don't fully remember your name, what day it is, or sometimes where you are. Maybe it's because you were hit in the head, and you're waking up from a mini-coma. Perhaps you just had a really terrific- or terrible- dream and you just have to land in reality again. Unfortunately for me, I can't even say it was a fainting spell that made me forget everything.
The truth is, I would tell you what messed me up so badly that I can't remember my shoe size if I could remember what messed me up in the first place. But, as I'm sure you've already figured out, I don't know what messed me up. I don't know much of anything.
The people surrounding me were unfamiliar, but according to them they had never met me before anyways. No, of course they don't know me, that would make it all too easy.
"I found this in your jacket when Tom brought you in." A woman with dark hair and olive skin gestured to a man with darker hair and a bearded face. She was holding what looked like a notebook. It was frayed and probably a stitch away from falling to pieces. My heart leapt for reasons I'm not fully aware of.
The man watched me with a wary eye as I reached for the book. I stopped suddenly, seeing my hand. It was completely wrapped in gauze.
He spoke, "We found you like that. When Ann tried to remove it, you screamed like a siren."
The teenage girl who'd been lurking somewhat in the background stepped forward, "The good news is that your arm looks like it's moving and functioning really well."
The older woman I came to assume was Anne silenced the girl with a look and placed the beaten notebook in my lap, "You should take a look. It's…interesting."
I could feel my eyebrows furrow in confusion, not because of her words, my wrapped hand, or Tom's wariness, no, it was because of my hearts sudden drop. My body knew that her reading it was a sort of injustice to me, but I didn't know why.
After a deep breath I flipped the book open. The first page had a boy's face. He was young. Or was he? I couldn't really judge who was younger than me and who was older than me, I couldn't even remember what I looked like, let alone my age. Am I tall? Do I have freckles? Do I look like my mom? His lips were somewhat poufy- Oh good, I'm the type of person who uses 'poufy for descriptions. His hair was short and his eyes were dark. I looked up at the faces staring at me, "Who is he?"
Tom frowned and the girl rushed forward and pointed to a title written at the bottom, "It says 'the boy'-"'
"I can read." I cut her off, not meaning to sound sharp. She backed away sheepishly. I groaned, "Sorry, I'm just a little frustrated…"
Anne nodded sympathetically, "You're okay. You've obviously suffered some sort of amnesia. Just take few breaths, let your body relax a little, and try to answer the next question, because it's very important that you be as honest as possible." Her hands were moving up and down in front of me, mimicking a breathing pattern. I breathed in and out of my nose, not trusting my mouth to stay silent and keep my own questions and snappy remarks at bay.
Tom held up the book and pointed to The Boy, "Why do you have a drawing of my son?"