Lost Soul
Chapter One: Reflection
It was like a deafening roar. A disorienting jostle before the quiet calm. At least, that is all what dreams can present him. And every time before he wakes up, the dream if that's what you want to call it ends in a rather eerie laughter. He wakes up in a cold sweat, like most people wondering what these visions mean. He finds himself looking to a row of old bunk beds, at least remembering how he got to such a place. To what he was told after he woke up to this haven, he was found at the doorstep covered in mud and suffered through the rain. His origin beyond that remains a mystery even to himself. He was also told that he suffered a high fever for a week, thus explaining a rather bad case of amnesia. Such an ordeal begs the question whether the past can really define a man. To this individual's case, even a name will suffice. He is called John as of now, as in John Doe. And this haven? This place? It is a homeless shelter, a sanctuary for those of bad fate, if not souls who are lost. Such a place is rather fitting for such a man.
Morning comes, along with breakfast. Porridge is all that the community could spare as the main course. Three slices of white bread and a cup of water, the breakfast of champions. The line to the food long and the stature of most of the people are that of broken individuals, lurching in a uniform fashion. Save for John, he is rather fit to physical peak. Though it is hard not to go native in such living conditions. He seats himself with two individuals he has come to acquaint with, Stan and Gil. Stan has a frizzy beard, thick covering his mouth. It makes one wonder here the spoon vanishes to when he eats his bowl of porridge. Stan also has long hair, graying along with his beard. Other than that, his clothes were from the box, used and close to fading. Gil, on the other hand, was a shorter fellow who is bald with dirt on his face. Gil has a rather subtle lisp if one pay close attention.
"Gotta love this, man. Cardboard soup." Gil complains, his bowl near empty.
"Better'n nothin', baldy. 'sides, from the looks of it, ya just want more." Stan replies, chewing on a slice of bread. "So John. Any progress? Remember anything yet?" He looks towards the young man.
"No. But something tells me I've had a better breakfast than this…" his expressions are somber, as though he struggles in contemplation. Such an elusive past taunts him so.
"Fair 'nuff. Though I ain't complainin'. It's better'n stealin' food and live off the streets like some bums…" Stan retorts, concentrating on his porridge.
"Bums like that steal to survive. It ain't pretty, but people gotta survive one way or another." Gil finishing his last slice of bread. "I'm tellin' ya. No one is born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Not 'less yer Bruce Wayne…" And there it is, the name strikes a familiar tune to John's ears.
"Bruce Wayne?" John reflects on the name and why it is so strangely close to home.
"Yer kiddin' right?" replies Gil with a slight snort.
"Kid, Bruce Wayne is known to anyone with a TV. He's the prince of Gotham..." explains Stan, chewing on his second slice of bread.
"I think I know the man…" John struggles to place the name with a face.
"Sure, sure. And I'm Superman!" laughs Gil.
"I ain't too surprised, kid. Rich folk like Wayne might have kids 'round yer age. Rep like Wayne and the skirts, I ain't surprised one bit. Ya look like him too…" observes Stan.
"Hmm…" John again bears a serious contemplative tone in his facial expressions, trying to file faces and fragments of his elusive past like a memory rolodex with missing cards.
"Listen, kid. Let's take a walk. You, me and Gil will stroll 'round town jus' to see whether it'd jog a memory or two…" Stan suggests, wiping his unseen mouth in the thick tuff of his beard.
Why is it so hard? John asks himself. Laughter. It must have something to relate with that grotesque laughter. In the back of his mind, he is a bit afraid to explore it.