The Angel's Knight #3 - Stranger in the Mirror

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Los Angeles, October 14, 2017

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I haven't got the slightest idea who I am.

Funny, right? Here I am, standing in front of a mirror, looking at a face that should be as familiar to me as no other thing in this world. We look into our own face every morning when we get up and brush our teeth, so one would think we should be familiar with it. But here I am, seventeen years old, and I'm looking at my own face in the mirror and have no idea who it is that I'm looking at.

It's not a funny story, let me tell you that. Not funny in the slightest. It's not funny to wake up one day and realize that you remember nothing. No, that is not quite correct. I remember a lot of things. The first thing the doctor asked me when I woke was if I knew what year it is. I knew, of course. 2017, no problem. He asked me who is president at the moment and yes, that I knew, too.

Then he asked me what my name was and there was nothing but emptiness in my head.

How does that work? I mean, how can I remember how to tie shoelaces, but not remember where I bought these shoes? How is it possible that I remember to look left and right before crossing the street, but I don't even know whether or not I can drive a car?

The doctor could not tell me that, either. Amnesia usually isn't that selective, or so he said. One usually forgets everything, either right down to things like talking, walking, even thinking, or just from a specific period of time. He told me of a guy, seventy years old, who thought he was twenty again after a bump to the head. Everything after his twentieth birthday was simply gone, including everything he had learned, seen, heard, or done in that time.

Not with me, though. I remember all the stuff you need to get around the world. I remember what money is and how to use it, I remember how to put on my own clothes and where I can get new ones, I even remember that people usually carry their IDs in their wallet.

That's what I'm looking at right now, my ID. Not for the first time, no. I spent about two weeks in the hospital after I woke up, the first two weeks of my life or so it seemed to me. I didn't have a whole lot to do there, so I went through my things, hoping for some kind of clue as to who I am.

I don't know who I am, but at least I know who I am supposed to be. Right there on my ID it says "Knight, Diana". There is a picture right next to that name that strongly resembles that strange face I see in the mirror, so I guess Diana Knight must be me. Hello, Diana! Nice to meet you. I don't think I've had the pleasure.

The ID says I was born January 1, 2000. A real millennium baby, that's me. I wonder if my parents actually planned it that way. Had sex on April 1 so I would be born on New Year's Day. I can't exactly go and ask them. They are dead, both of them. I probably should feel bad about that, but it's kind of hard to get all worked up over the long-ago death of two total strangers.

They died when I was ten years old, or so the social services lady who visited me in the hospital said. Turns out I'm something of a bad girl, what do you know. By all rights I should be in an orphanage in San Francisco for at least another two months and seventeen days. Apparently I've lived there since my parents died, seeing as I have no living relatives anyone could find and no foster family wanted to adopt a ten-year- old. One year ago I stole away from there, so I guess it can't have been that great a place.

I have no idea what I did the last year, seeing as neither the social services lady nor the police officer who also visited me had any idea, either. I disappeared from the radar screens when I left the tender embrace of the American social system and did not turn up again until September 27, when fire fighters rescued me from a burning building.

They were a little late, though, seeing as I died on the way to the hospital. Smoke inhalation, they said. They tried to revive me and thirty- three minutes after my heart stopped they got me back. Alive and well, that's me. Maybe it was those thirty-three minutes without oxygen that left my brain with more holes in it than Swiss cheese (and how the hell do I know about Swiss cheese anyway?)

As I said, I spent nearly two weeks in the hospital. Not of my own free will, mind you. I might not remember who I am, but I know one thing about myself that no one needed to tell me: I hate hospitals. I don't know whether it's that antiseptic smell, the moaning of the other patients, or the feeling of being reduced to a naked piece of meat in the hands of a few would-be gods in white. I hate hospitals. I knew right then and there, even before the doctor first came and made me realize that I don't know my own name, that I would get out of here as soon as possible.

It took me a while. The first few days I did little else but try and scrounge up some memories while ignoring the pain that came with breathing. My lungs felt like sandpaper and the doctors said I might retain some residual pain for the rest of my life. Man, did I surprise them. My lungs were back in perfect working order three days after I woke up, no sign they were ever pumped full of acrid smoke.

I also had a few broken bones and other assorted injuries. For some reason none of the doctors imagined that these might heal every bit as fast as my lungs. I don't remember much about hospitals (except that I hate them) and medicine in general, but I got the definite feeling that I was healing much faster than I should. Not that I complained, heaven forbid, or told anyone about it.

Even with my head as leaky as it is I knew enough to guess what would come next if I stayed. The social services lady would take me back to San Francisco. Maybe the cop who came to question me about that fire in the building I bunked in would come along for another round of questions I simply could not answer. I would be stuck in that orphanage for another two months and seventeen days. Granted, that's not the longest time in the world, but seeing as I apparently already spent six years there and then decided to skip convinced me that I definitely did not want to go back there.

Besides, I had to stay in Los Angeles. It was, and is, one of the few things I am certain of. No idea, why, but I am. I have to stay in Los Angeles until ... something. Don't ask me, I don't know.

Getting out of the hospital was surprisingly easy. I guess they don't waste a lot of time watching someone whose bones are still supposed to be broken. I wonder whether they'll waste time looking for me. I'll be an adult soon, so why waste the taxpayer's money when they are no doubt hundreds of other kids out there who need to be put into those nice stately institutions?

Kids like the ones holed up in this place I'm currently staying at. No idea how I found it, really. My plan pretty much encompassed escaping from the hospital and that was it. Maybe my skills as strategist aren't the best, because said plan left me wandering the streets of Los Angeles in the middle of the night and even I know that's not necessarily the safest thing to do. I believe there is an old saying, though: What you lack in your head you better have in your feet.

My feet seem to have much better memory than the rest of me, because they brought me right to this place. It's a homeless shelter, or so I've gathered, quite a nice one, too. Not the Ritz, definitely not, but no run- down ruin, either. Most of the people staying here are even younger than I am. I've yet to see any sign of drugs and there has been no fighting, either.

Some people here know me. The guy at the door, a huge black man with muscles to spare, greeted me by name. It actually took me a moment to realize that he was talking to me. Hey, I've had that name for two weeks only. Give me a little time to get acquainted with it, okay? Anyway, he seemed relieved to see me and immediately led me inside, where they gave me something to eat and a place to sleep. My usual place, or so they said.

I guess I know where I spent at least some parts of the last year. Well, of all the places a runaway orphan could be staying at, I guess this one isn't half-bad. Some of the kids here told me that this place is part of some kind of charity or foundation, that's why it's in such a good shape. Well, as long as I got a warm place to sleep in while I try to get my mind back together I don't mind.

Which brings me back to the present, what there is of it. Me staring at my ID. It's become almost a daily exercise for me. I keep hoping that something on that official piece of paper will spark something in my head. I keep going over what little I know about my life, hoping that some it will sound familiar. Hasn't worked so far. It's all just a story to me, and not even a terribly interesting one at that. Girl loses her parents, grows up in orphanage, runs away, ends up in a burning building. Tragic, yeah, but that's about it.

It's someone else's life, not mine. My life began two weeks ago when I woke up in that hospital bed.

Frustrated I put the ID away, knowing I'll probably look at it again tomorrow. And as for sleep, well, I'm not doing too well with that. I keep having nightmares, or so I assume. I don't actually remember them, but I always wake up covered in sweat and shaking. My sleeping bunk is in a large room along with seven others and one of the girls told me that I keep murmuring in my sleep. Something about angels, watchers, and monsters. Man, is my head weird or what?

I've also come to realize that I don't sleep well at night, period. There is this itching under my skin that seems to start as soon as the sun goes down and doesn't go away until it's almost morning. I guess I'm a night person. Only problem is that there isn't a whole lot to do around here at night. The shelter has a policy about letting people wander in and out during the night. If you want to leave after 10pm you're welcome, but don't expect to be let back in before morning. Apparently there is a lot of bad stuff going on around these parts of town at night, so they decided to play it safe.

There are people for whom this rule does not seem to count, though. I've seen them around here quite a few times already. There is this big black bald guy, the kids here call him Gun, which I guess is some kind of tough street name or something. He often comes around here in the late afternoon, gathers a group of the older kids, and leaves with them when the sun goes down. When they leave they look ready for trouble and when they come back they look trashed. Some of them don't come back.

It's probably some kind of gang thing and I really shouldn't get involved in that. I got enough trouble on my plate already without poking my nose into some urban street brawls or other. Still, something about this just rubs me the wrong way. Or maybe the right way, seeing as I'm always fighting the urge to go along with them. It's as if part of me knows exactly where they're going and what they're doing. The same part that wants to go along and do the same stuff, whatever it is. Don't ask me, it's that weird head of mine.

According to the old wall clock in here it's four in the morning when I hear a noise from just outside the window. Every muscle in my body tenses and I can feel a major rush of adrenalin. Something is wrong here, very wrong. My hands clench into fists without conscious effort and I'm on my feet before I even realize I've moved.

This is getting scary.

I'm busy yelling "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" at myself (quietly) even as I'm sneaking out of the sleeping room and into the corridor. The front door of the shelter is locked, but there are plenty of windows. Most of them have bars in front of them, but I noticed one in the back that doesn't. That's my way out. God alone knows why I have to get out of there and investigate that noise, but I have to.

I pass through the kitchen and my fingers close around the nearest available object. A wooden spoon? Great thinking, Diana. Whatever is out there is going to shake in fear when you confront it with the deadly wooden spoon in hand.

Before I can convince my hands to seek a more fitting object to take along I'm standing outside, having climbed out the window as if I've done it a thousand times before. Well, I'm a runaway, ain't I? I probably have done this a thousand times before. Still, I'm not liking this at all.

I can now hear more noise from just around the corner. I don't remember ever hearing the sounds of a fight before, but I'd guess that it would sound something like that. Some grunts, sounds of impact, the likes. I really should be making tracks in the opposite direction, but for some reason my feet don't think so. I'm edging closer to the source of the noise. Stupid feet!

"One's getting away," I hear someone scream about half a second before a big guy runs around the corner and barrels right into me. We both go down and without thinking about it I flip back to my feet. Wow! Where did I learn to do that? Maybe I was a gymnastics freak or something.

The guy who ran into me is back on his feet as well and ... is there something wrong with his face? God, look at that guy. He's got ... are those fangs? Are they making a movie here?

"There he is," someone yells and the freak turns around to look behind him. I should be running, shouldn't I? Just in case this is not a movie. Just in case ... what is that thing? He can't be human, can he? Humans don't have these ... ridge thingies and fangs.

"A hostage would come in handy," he mutters and turns back to look at me. "You just got yourself elected, girl."

"Get away from her!"

Big black bald guy is skidding around the corner now, some of the kids he always takes out at night right behind him. They're armed, all of them. Some of them carry ... swords? I expected guns, but swords? I also see some crossbows and ... stakes? Okay, this night is getting weirder and weirder. I really should be going. Come to think of it I probably should be screaming in fear or something. Interesting that I don't.

Fang guy comes towards me and something clicks inside my head. His hand reaches out towards my throat and a moment later he stumbles back, his nose bleeding. My knuckles smart a bit and I realize I just punched him. Right in the face. Hard.

Before I can even catch my wits my body starts moving along without me again. I spin around and deliver a thunderous kick into the same face I just punched in, taking the creep off his feet. Big black bald guy and the rest have stopped running and are staring instead. Fang guy is prone and in a heartbeat I'm kneeling next to him and ...

Oh my God! I just ... I just jammed that spoon right into his ...

He ... he didn't just turn into dust, did he?

What the hell is happening here?

TO BE CONTINUED