If I owned Pokemon, Dawn would drop into a bucket and never get up again.
I wish they would leave me alone.
I think they mean well, because their eyes are softer than they want to let on, narrowed with more concern than they want to show. They move around me like visitors move around a priceless, fragile statue at a museum, their voice octaves too high in their forced cheerfulness.
There is a man a few years older than me, I believe. He has dark hair and dark skin, and a gentle, tired smile. His name is Brock, and he is a gym leader, stationed in Pewter City. There is a girl too. Her name is Misty, and apparently, she is my ex-wife.
I wonder why I wanted to divorce her in the first place. Her long hair is the colour of an orange's skin and her skin is the almost translucent colour of the fruit inside. She smells of oranges too. Sensually sweet, with a tinge of sourness. Maybe that was why I left her. Maybe it was the sourness.
Then there is the boy. He's my age, that's what he tells me. We're both twenty years old, he a month and a half older. He says that his name is Gary Oak, and that we hate each other. His face was completely serious when he said that, but I burst out laughing anyway.
People don't tell other people that they hate them, not like that.
He insisted that it was true, and then as though he wanted to prove it, he retreated to the other side of the room, a scowl stretching his lips. He didn't leave.
The doctor made me do a series of tests, asking me dumb questions like the sum of one plus one. He asked me to tell him my name.
I opened my mouth automatically. Then, I stopped. "I..." I faltered. "I don't remember."
The Pikachu who had dropped itself into my lap as soon as Misty put it down, squeaked in dismay. Everyone else was silent.
"Ash," the girl whispered hoarsely. "Ash Ketchum."
Reviews are a great way to make me crawl out from under my rock. (hint, hint)