This does not take place in the same universe as my other series. Which by the way I have not abandoned, I'm just taking a break.

Chapter 1- Rehabilitation


The first thing I see is a man. I don't know him, but one look in his eyes and I can tell he knows me.

"Who are you?" I ask. Somethings wrong my voice isn't... mine , and what's worse I can't pin point whats different.

"I'm Mr. Kosan" he's reaching for a strange coin resting in my hand. I don't remember picking that up. "You had a terrible accident and you lost your memory. But I'm going to help you get it back."

He's acting sincere but I don't believe him. The smile he offers is fake, which makes me believe his words are too. Then again he's also right I can't remember anything, and he says he can help. So I mumble a thank you, cross my arms over my chest.

The first thing I learn about myself is I'm not the trusting type.

Mr. Kosan nods and stands up, gesturing for me to do the same. Without a word he leads me out the door.

The hallway has an eerie feel to it. You'd think a recovery center would seem... inviting but this place feels more like a prison. Nothing hangs on the white walls, and there's no movement or noise coming from the closed doors we pass. All it needs is flickering lights and creaking floorboards and ill be in a horror movie.

The second thing I learn about myself is, when faced with danger, I have fight reflex.

He stops at a door,that looks like all the others, and opens it. "This is your room for now" he says. I step in and mumble another thank you. "Your first session will be at 9:00 tomorrow morning." and with that he leaves making a point to close the door behind him, something tells me I'm not supposed to open it again.

Letting out a huff I turn to take in the room. There are no windows so the only source of light is a small fixture similar to the ones in the hall, but with one difference... this one is ficklering. Great. In the left corner of the room is a bed the same color as the walls. I take a few steps towards it and run my hand over the comforter, it's surprisingly soft. Across from the bed, on the right wall, is a desk. A grin breaks out on my face and I find myself moving to sit in the chair. As I reach to open a drawer a question comes to mind, what wonderful memories had been made sitting at desk, that the mere sight of one gives me joy? Was I an artist, or a writer. Nether sounds familiar. Back to the drawers, there's nothing in them, no paper, no pencils or pens, nothing. Now I'm frustrated, standing up I head for the only other thing in the room, the closet. Surprise Surprise, its empty too, I'll be honest I was at least expecting a guy with chainsaw to pop out.

I know They planned this. I have no memories, I don't know who I am, and this void of nothingness is the first place I get to call home.

Soon I'm laying between the blank sheets, searching my mind for anything. It gets me nowhere, I can't even think of my own name.

The third thing I learn about myself is I can't stand being vulnerable.


The psychologist never gives her name, but I've learned to accept that over the couple months I've been here.

She's given me the basics, I grew up in Omaha, I have no living relatives, I'm a teacher, I have a cat named Dickens and so on and so forth. She's says I lived a simple life, but that only makes me trust Them less. The scars I've found tell me my life was anything but simple.

She likes to say that over time I'll began to remember, that right now she's just urging my brain along. But she's not helping me remember who I am, she's just trying to teach me how to be someone else. Unfortunately, I'm in no place to argue with becauseI have no correct memories to compare their false ones to.

That was until they gave me books. I know literature was a part of my life before. The more I read, the more desperate I become to find a life that feels as right as the written word.


It was silly of me to think that once I was rehabilitated I'd have some freedom.

They got me a job, took me to my apartment, and said they'd be checking in on me every once and awhile. Which really meant, "Here's the life we made up for you, we don't really care wether or not you love it, as long as do as your told and run everything you do by us first... Oh and by the way were watching you."

They also said walking through my apartment should triggered something, that the pictures on the walls would unlock some distant memory. That just the feel of the place would bring a sting of remembrance...They should have tried harder - the cat didn't recognize me.

The third thing I learn about myself, after spending a little time with Dickens, is I'm not a cat person.

For now all I can do is try and live the lie. Emily Lake, Emily Lake, Emily Lake... Im going to say it till it sticks.


Don't worry I gets better at least I think it does. Also sorry about all the grammar mistakes.

Please tell me what you think!