It was the bloodiest rumble Tulsa had ever seen. And it had some major consequences.
Prologue: How Did I Get Here?
How did I get here? I ask myself that every damn morning. It's cold and boring where I am. I don't have many people to talk to except that really grumpy man who comes by three times a day to shove a tray of lumpy, gray food towards me. He doesn't say much though. He usually just gives me an angry stare, tells me to eat my food, and then walks away.
Yep, it's a lonely life and I've come to realize, quickly I might add, that I can't remember anything about my past except for one incident sometime, somewhere, somehow. All I can remember is showing up at a park and pummeling some guy to lumps. Sometimes I see his face in my nightmares. After all, he's the only thing I got left to think about. He may or may not have been a good guy. He may or may not even exist. I could have dreamed the whole incident up and actually not remember anything. What the hell do I know?
Anyway, I wait my life away in this tiny cell, wondering how long I've been here and if there is anyone out there who cares about me, or anyone I care about. Sometimes I like to lie down on my thin hammock at night and wrap myself in the thin rag-like blanket, trying to imagine someone I would care about, or someone who's thinking about me. Was there a great girl in my life? Did I have a loving family? Maybe I was a happy little boy living on the nicer side of town and I got a bunch of presents every Christmas. Maybe I did great in school, got all A's, and was all set to go to college. Maybe I had scholarships. Maybe I played football or music or liked to write novels. Of course I don't know any of the actual answers, because for some reason no one out there knows or is willing to tell me.
The wondering about my life keeps me busy for hours on end. I like to give myself a new life every night, pretend like it's always changing. One night I'm a rich casino owner, another I'm a poor farm boy. One night I'm a lonely hood in the big city, another I'm dancing through the corn fields of the countryside. It all depends on my mood.
Lately I've been thinking a lot about where I am. For all I know, I could be half way around the world for my original location. For twenty three hours of the day I am stuck in the grim prison building. There are hardly any windows and everything is a gloomy shade of gray. I never knew there could be so many different kinds of such a color until I arrived here... Whenever that was. Time is difficult to keep track of in prison. The other hour of the day is a brief period outside in the courtyard where we inmates are forced to exercise. It feels a lot like I imagine a boot camp to be. I haven't made very many friends. I choose to keep to myself, especially since I've got no long term memory left and it makes me feel out of place.
I see a counselor-type person every week for two hours at 5 PM on the dot. Not much happens, he's just there to get my to try to remember some things about my past, but we haven't made any progress in weeks. I keep telling him the only thing I remember is the fight I got in, but he's not giving up. I don't know why. I probably would
I'm sick of not knowing. I don't have a problem remembering the recent past but not a thing comes to me from before that only damn memory I have.
I have to keep reminding myself of my name. Had the police not told me they knew me before I landed here, I wouldn't know even that basic fact about myself. "Dallas Winston," I whisper to myself every night to keep it fresh in my mind, "That's my name. Dallas Winston."
How did you get here, Dallas? Why are you here? Why is no one telling you anything? If the police know you from before, shouldn't they know at least some stuff from your life? What the hell happened?
How did you get here?