After the blinding white-hot flash of rage had taken over and exited my body, I fell backwards onto the bed. Staring at the ceiling, my eyes roved over the little chips and divots in the paint, trying to find anything of interest to ease my mind. I was unsuccessful in my endeavor. I had to learn to control my temper better, or I could do much worse in the future than throwing a few things around. I knew I was entirely capable of more terrifying bouts of anger, and I didn't want to find out more on the subject.

It was at that moment the silence was decimated by the obnoxious ringtone of my phone. I bolted upright, startled by the sudden noise. The chorus of Stayin' Alive droned into my eardrums. The Beegees? Really? Why the hell did I choose Stayin' Alive as my ring tone? I must have horrendous taste in music. Or maybe it was just something I did because I found it amusing. Either way, I had no way to mute it because of the god damn lock screen that was still in my way, so I shoved it under a pillow and sat on it, attempting to suffocate the noise. It still garbled through the pillow, but at least it was muffled and much less annoying. When silence fell after the phone had ceased ringing, I yanked it out from under me. The screen read "Missed call from: Sebastian Moran. New Voicemail from: Sebastian Moran."

Tell me about it, you useless device. None of it matters when I DON'T KNOW THE FLIPPING PASSCODE!

Since my phone would be of no help until I figured out how to crack the lock, I had to develop a plan.

1. Go down to the front desk of this hideous establishment and ask the receptionist at the customer check-in a few basic questions:

a )What name I had been signed into the room as

b) If I was in the company of another person (or more than one)

c) When I had been signed in

d) what emotional/mental state I appeared to be in

e) If I had any luggage and/or bags on me

2. Depending on the information, continue to form plan.

With that, I strolled out of the room and took note of the room number: 221. How odd. That number sounded vaguely familiar. Ah, it was probably something trivial. I needn't worry about such small things at a time like this. More time for that later.

My footsteps reverberated against the marble floor tiles and the ceiling, which was dotted every few feet or so with a cheap-looking chandelier. Paintings of random landscapes or famous monuments were randomly hung on the walls, trying to draw attention away from the general feeling of being quite abandoned. I was coming to think I was the only living person there when I reached the elevator. It opened with a ding reminiscent of a toaster having finished toasting some bread, revealing a couple and their two small children. The aura quickly changed from lonely to awkward.

I smiled nervously as if to say hello, then pressed myself up to the other side of the elevator, as far away from the family as possible. By this point, I had figured out I was extremely anti-social, and had an urge to avoid as much human contact as possible. One of the children, who I thought to be the youngest, seemed to find my face particularly interesting, his big eyes taking me in, prying away, staring into my soul. I narrowed my eyes at him. I was thoroughly creeped out by the time we reached the ground floor, grateful to be able to escape that metal death trap and that staring child. He and his family had departed the motel, leaving me all alone.

I briskly approached the front desk. It was vacant. This could serve a problem. I rang the little bell that sat there, and waited a few minutes. No one showed. I rang it again. Still no one. Hm. This was beginning to get on my nerves. I decided to serve myself, so I snuck around the desk to find the check-in logs. I dug through some piles of paper until I found the clip board buried near the bottom. I traced my finger down the side, looking for yesterday's date. Wait. What day was it? I checked the calendar that was hanging lop-sided on the wall adjacent to the desk, the day circled in red marker. The third. Right. That makes yesterday the second. I re-traced my finger down the side, looking for any check-ins on the second. Bingo. I followed the row to the farthest left box, where names were scrawled out in various shades of pen ink. There, written in what I assumed was my handwriting, was the name "James M." Only the initial for my last name was printed there.

Damn.

Well, at least I had figured out my first name. That made me feel a little better. But what still struck me as odd is how I woke up with no knowledge of myself, but I could still remember things like who was currently Prime Minister or where places were. It was also strange how I had no luggage whatsoever on me, and I hadn't bothered to write my last name down on the log. Slowly, a thought dawned on me. Maybe I didn't write down my last name for a bigger reason than being too lazy. Maybe I was somebody important that couldn't risk being tracked. There was a fascinating concept that actually made sense. I obviously had to have enemies, and maybe I was playing possum trying to avoid them. Whoever called my phone must be one of the only people in on it, if not THE only. He wouldn't have called if he thought I was dead. But he also wouldn't call if he knew I had no recollection of my past, as well as my password so I could answer.

All of this was really too much to take in at once. I paced the lobby, muttering my name under my breath. "James. Jamessssss." I drew out the S like a snake hiss, and proceeded to list off possible last names starting with the letter M. "Morris. Mormon. Mallard. Mackey. Middleton. McCarthy." None of them sounded right. There was nothing left for me in this downcast place, not that there was anything to begin with. I had to find out my identity. What better place to do that than at a police station? I clapped my hands together like a child receiving a wonderful birthday gift, and practically skipped out the door.