Author's Notes:I hope to post once a week but I can't make any promises. This fic is fully plotted out with most chapters at a first-draft stage. In theory they require some editing and then can be posted, but I hope you'll stick with me until the end, even if I don't quite manage my self-imposed deadlines!
He knew it was day by the warmth on his skin as he lay there, unmoving on the hard, dry ground, though his eyes remained firmly shut. He could tell he was outside by the breeze lightly brushing his hair against his cheek and the smell of dirt invading his nostrils. He suspected he was alone, though he could not quite determine why. Perhaps the relative silence, other than the light breeze or the occasional bird cawing, far away. Or perhaps it was simply a sense he had. Nevertheless, he knew he would have to open his eyes eventually. He'd been asleep, he was sure of that. And the reluctance to open his eyes and face the world, the temptation to return once more to that slumber, was almost overpowering.
Instead he lifted one lid, slowly, barely, just a crack. And immediately closed it again. From the little he'd seen the sun shone down directly over him, bright, in a cloudless sky. He groaned and rolled himself on to his side. The motion caused a sharp stab of pain to pierce through his sinuses and he creased his eyes even more tightly closed. He tucked his knees up to his chin and brought a hand to his forehead, pinching his nose just between his eyes. He rubbed the pain away for a moment and tried again. One eye, open a little, with his hand shading the sun from assaulting his senses again. That was better. Still too bright, but better.
He wondered if perhaps he had a hangover. That would explain his inability to remember where he was. Or what had resulted in him waking up here. He opened the other eye. The ground below him was dry and dusty. He moved his hand from his face, and pushed himself up a little, turning to rest on his hands and knees. Everything seemed to spin and blur, and he let out a deep breath, trying not to be sick. Lifting his head a little, he looked directly ahead. The dusty dry ground, which was punctuated with small dots of green, stretched ahead to a tree line in the distance. He turned to either side, carefully, so as not to provoke another bout of nausea. More dusty grey with dots of green. With a sigh he forced himself to sit back on his heels and look over his shoulder. More of the same, and a shape breaking up the flat horizon. He squinted. It was a house, or a barn; a building of some kind. Perhaps that was where he'd come from?
He thought back, trying to remember the events that had led to him sleeping in the middle of a field. As he tried sorting through his memories a dull ache began to pulsate through his skull, radiating from his eyes and steadily getting more painful, until he was forced to cry out and clutch once more at his head. No memories had come to him. But, he thought as the pain slowly receded, not just no memories of the night before. He remembered nothing. Not his name. Not his life. Not even where in the world he might be.
It would be easy, he thought to himself, to panic right now. But oddly, he felt no fear, no anxiety. He was calm. Curious, certainly. Even confused. But not worried. He took a moment, allowing the pain to dissipate completely, before pushing himself to his feet and turning towards the building in the distance. His pace was slow, his legs trembling a little as he trudged forwards, dodging the cabbages (for he saw now that that was what the green dots in the field were) as he went.
As he drew closer to the building he saw that it was, in fact, a house. Chipped and faded, pale-blue paint flaked away from the wooden panels, and the mesh front over the door had rips in it. A window on the second storey was smashed, and the third step up to the veranda was broken. The place had an abandoned feeling about it, but for the beat-up old Chevy pick-up, parked at an angle in front of it. He approached and placed a hand on the hood; it was warm.
He heard a click to his left and looked up. An elderly man in overalls was standing on the veranda, holding a shogun on him. Like the house and the truck, the man was in disrepair. He was balding, with the few wisps of grey hair he did have flying at odd angles over the top of his head. His skin was blotchy and pock-marked, his eyes red-rimmed; no doubt a consequence of one too many whiskies. His hands were shaking slightly so that the gun was occasionally pointed just too far to the right to make his shot. And when he spoke, it was clear that he was missing at least one tooth.
"What you doin' out 'ere?" He demanded.
"I was lost. I don't know where 'here' is.' His hands were raised now, his face schooled into a calm and peaceful expression, trying to prove to the old farmer that he wasn't a threat.
"'Here' is my land, kid. What do you want?"
"I'm sorry, I didn't know."
"Save your 'sorries'. What do you want?" He repeated.
"Help. I just want help. I don't remember anything. I don't know how I got here." He changed tactic, shifting from peaceful and placating to frightened and pathetic in an instant. He briefly wondered how he'd managed to measure the most appropriate responses and body-language to manipulate the farmer, but other issues were more pressing.
"Stan, he's just a kid. He looks scared." A soft, quiet voice called from behind the farmer, who turned.
"He could be an axe-murderer, May." Stan called to his wife.
"I'm not." He replied.
"Hmmph. An axe-murderer would say that."
"Maybe." He said. "But I don't have an axe." He lowered his hands and held them out in front of him.
May laughed, melodically, and stepped forwards to place a hand on her husband's shoulder. "He's a kid, Stan." She repeated. "Are you hungry, son?"
He thought for a moment. Was he hungry? His stomach ached. His legs were still weak as he stood before them, and his hands were shaking a little. He decided he was, and nodded.
"C'mon." She gestured towards the house.
He looked once more at Stan, tilting his head to the side and trying to look concerned.
"He won't hurt you. Will you, Stan?" She peered pointedly at her husband, who lowered his gun.
"No. But just know I'm armed and if you try anythin' that'll be the end of yer." Stan growled.
"Yessir." He nodded emphatically.
Stan and May walked into the house, and he followed, carefully missing the damaged step.
The inside of the house was in slightly better condition than the outside. It was clean, and whilst the fittings and appliances were clearly old, they appeared much more well cared for than the outside of the house and the truck. Stan had taken a seat at the little square table in the corner. May was at the oven, pulling out a dish.
"I hope you like chicken pot pie." She smiled.
He smiled back and nodded. Then frowned, "Are you sure you have enough, ma'am?" He was pleased with himself for the "ma'am"; it played well into May's argument that he was just a kid. He was appearing respectful and concerned, and it seemed to go down well with both May and Stan.
"She always makes too much." Stan grunted.
"There's enough. You just wash up and take a seat across from Stan." May smiled.
He headed for the sink and ran the cooling water over his hands. He hadn't noticed how dirty they were, how dirty he must be, until he saw the water run brown into the sink. As it cleared, May handed him a soft pink cloth and he dried his hands. He looked down at his clothes and saw mud caked into his trousers and top. He looked up apologetically; this time genuinely, and with no intent to manipulate a response from his hosts.
"It's alright son. You can have a wash after you've eaten."
He smiled and took a seat at the table. Whilst the temptation was to make an immediate grab for the pie, now that he had realised his hunger, he forced himself to sit patiently and wait. May grabbed his hand and he flinched back, startled. She squeezed it and he looked curiously at her. She was holding Stan's hand too and her head was bowed. So was Stan's. As she began to speak she peered up at him and he immediately copied them.
"In a world where so many are hungry, may we eat this food with humble hearts. In a world where so many are lonely may we share this friendship with joyful hearts. Amen."
"Amen." Repeated Stan, and "Amen" he copied a moment later.
May dropped their hands and made a grab for his plate, heaping on servings of the steaming pie until it almost filled it. She did the same for Stan, and a smaller plate for herself. Stan immediately began eating, shovelling large forkfuls of chicken and carrots into his mouth, little droplets of gravy spattering his chin. May glared at him, and he grabbed a napkin and began taking smaller bites.
"Well!" She declared. "I'm Mavis…May. And this is Stanley. What's your name, son?" May was asking him as he raised a fork towards the plate, but he barely heard her. A voice was calling in his ear and he spun around to see who was behind him.
The kitchen was empty. He pushed himself away from the table, dropping the fork onto his plate with a clatter as the voice spoke once more, and stared intently out of the window. No one was outside.
"Son, are you ok?" May was at his side, her hand on his shoulder and concern etched into her face.
"I…I…" He stammered, and the voice continued calling. He shook his head. "Y…yes. I'm…I'm alright. Sorry." He allowed her to lead him back to the table and he took a seat.
She looked concerned, but persisted with her original question. "What's your name?"
The voice in his ear repeated one last time, "Philip, where are you?"
Unsure where it was coming from, if it was even directed at him, he latched onto the only name he could now think of. "I…I'm Philip."
Author's Note: Thank you so much for reading! Feedback (positive exclamations of enjoyment, or constructive criticism) are appreciated. I want to improve as a writer so I really do like to hear what has or hasn't worked for readers.
Thanks again, Sheyna