Chapter 3: Beginnings

The bed was strange. It did its job, was comforting and a nice place to rest, but it also felt alien. The sheets were crisp and hard and new. The mattress was too firm and cold where her body had not yet warmed it. It was almost resistant to her touch. It was as though the bed was saying 'Yes, you may rest in me for a time. I'll hold you in my arms. But just remember.. I am not your real bed. I shall not get too attached to you, so I advise you do not get too attached to me either'.

Yes, that was it. This was not her real bed. So the question that needed to be asked was whose bed was it?

Blue eyes slowly opened, and glanced about first at the bed and at the room around her.

No, this was not her bed. Neither was this her room. This room was all white, crisp and clean. Sterile even. While her room was.. was..

And the child faltered. Strawberry coloured eyebrows creased down in thought. She could not remember what her room looked like. Nor her bed. The memory was there, sure. She could feel it in her head. But each time she reached out for it the memory darted away. Skipping off into the distance and giggling.

The girl tried for a few times to mentally catch the memory. Chasing after it with as much effort as she could. But it was always too fast for her, slipping out of her grasp at the last minute. She liked games. Hide and seek was even one of her favourites. And so she persisted searching for the wayward memory.

Something flickered about within her mind and the girl grabbed at this sneaky fluttering memory that did not want to be found, thinking it to be the one she was searching for.

And then she began to remember.

Remember black, cold glaring eyes.
Remember an insidious laugh.
Remember fear.

She let go of the memory and ran. This time it was her turn to hide. Hide from the memory of the cold, black eyes. And hid away she did.

A few minutes passed in uneventful silence before the girl peeked her head out from under the covers of the bed she had found herself hiding in.
The memory seemed to be gone. The bed bound girl was too clever for it. No one could ever beat her at hide and seek.
With the game won, the girl slipped herself slowly out of the bed she was in. The bed that she was sure was not hers, but was unsure why she was in it.

On the cold, indifferent metal table beside her bed were two bright canary yellow ribbons. The room was not hers, the bed was not hers. But the ribbons were. She just knew they were, just the same as she knew the room was not.

And so these ribbons were gathered up and she set about setting them to their proper place, which was on her head.

Moments later pink hair had been set into two long pigtails and the girl smiled, tossing her head left and right and feeling the pigtail ends flick happily against the top of her shoulders.
That's how things should be.

Well almost, she concluded, glancing down at the thin white cloth dress she wore. The dress didn't seem familiar enough to be hers. But, after surveying the room, there didn't seem to be any alternative offered. So the girl concluded she'd just make do. Better an unfamiliar dress than no dress at all.
Feeling sufficiently ready the girl of pink pigtails and yellow ribbons set towards the closed door of the small white room she was in and set about the task of locating exactly where her real bed was.

Though when she opened it the pink haired girl was somewhat surprised to find a busy white corridor on the other side of the door. Busy with people bustling here and there, in and out of rooms. Some looking determined, others looking sad, some looking just plain lost.

Perhaps this is a place for lost people, the seven year old young girl considered. She certainly fit the bill, having lost her room and bed and dress. Maybe, she thought as she began to walk into the corridor, people who have lost things come here and are able to find them. In which case, her real room might be somewhere around here.

But before the lost girl could see if this was true, she was stopped by a very tall and very old lady quickly walking towards her. In fact, the pink haired girl thought to herself as arms came down to block her way, she had never seen anyone this tall and this old before. The lady was an amazing 5 feet tall. And appeared to be about three times the age of seven. The pink haired girl's mind whirled at the thought of what it must be like being so tall. It certainly would make playing Hide and Seek somewhat difficult.

"Oh, you're awake." The very old and very tall lady said, kneeling herself down to bring herself down to the girl's level. The lady was dressed all in pristine white, almost blending in with the sterile white of the walls of the corridor "I'll have to tell Doctor Anderson. He will be quite happy to hear. And you've done your hair too.. you must be feeling better. I do like your ribbons."

The pink haired girl put her hands up to the canary yellow ribbons that kept her pigtails up, happily bobbing on either side of her head and said with a happy smile, "Thank you. They were a present from a friend of mine. She gave them to me a long time ago." But who this friend was seemed to elude her at this very moment..

The currently not so tall, but still very old woman nodded at this, smiling in return to the pink haired girl. The lady's hair was quite different to the girl's. While the hair of the girl with the yellow ribbons was left to bob about happily, freely, as it so desired the brown hair of the woman in white was tied back very severely, scrunched into a bun seemingly designed to ensure it would never be able to escape.

"I'm Nurse Elliott." The lady introduced herself with, still holding her arms out so that the pink haired girl could not get by, "What's your name sweetie?"

A name? Yes. She had one of those too, the pink haired girl considered. Just as she had a bed and a room and a dress that was not boring and white. But like many things at the moment, finding it eluded her at this instance.

"I don't know." The pink haired girl eventually replied, actually giggling at this. "It's hiding. But I am very good at hide and seek so I should find it soon enough."

Anthony guessed it would be cold out today. Already it was 6 am and still the glass of his bedroom window was cold to the touch.

The sun should have risen about 20 minutes ago yet he couldn't feel any difference in warmth. His bedroom window faced east so the glass of the window was usually the first thing to be affected by morning warmth. But today it was not there. Most likely due to cloud cover. So it was easy to guess it would be cold out this morning. The opening of the window and feeling the still cool night time air brush across his face confirmed his suspicion. It was fall. The days were getting cooler. Defiantly jumper weather today.

Sliding out of his bed, bare feet touching woollen carpet whose fibres squished and sprung underfoot, the teenager took the necessary three steps that took him to his wardrobe. Door opened, Anthony ran his fingers lightly along the edges of hung up clothing. Browsing by touch what he felt like wearing to school, based on both mood and the probable weather.

After a few back and fourths Anthony's left hand stopped on a material that felt to be made up of rows upon rows of soft vertical piles that stood up from the weave of the fabric. The piles felt like hundreds of thin cotton cords all running down the length of the clothing. He recognised the feel of it to be his favourite corduroy jacket.

One reason it was his favourite was the material was so interesting. It was always fun to grab a section of the material and rub it together. The texture of the material produced such a satisfying and amusing sound and sensation when it was rubbed against itself. The texture of it was just so fascinating. And when your world is a world of touch, feel and sound unique textures and designs made life that much more interesting.
So this jacket was soon pulled from the closet and draped over his shoulder.

Kneeling and opening the second draw from the top, Anthony felt through the folded pants neatly stacked within. The pair of pants he wanted had a somewhat stiff, unyielding texture.
The weave of it was a fine twill weave.. hardly noticeable to the touch, but the small curves and bumps of the weave still there if you were explicitly looking for it.

As his fingers ran along the fabric he knew by the touch it was denim. The firmness of the material coordinated nicely with the rugged feel of the already chosen corduroy jacket. And so these jeans were pulled from the draw and added to being slung over his shoulder also.

Socks, underwear and a t-shirt were also taken from their retrospective draws and, moving back to his bed and placing the clothes down in easy to reach positions, Anthony got dressed for school. Four minutes later the teenager cautiously walked towards his bedroom door.
His steps were light and careful. Not because with his lack of sight meant he had difficulty navigating around either his room or his house. No. Anthony had grown up in this house. He knew every step, every obstacle, every intersection like the back of his hand. The only time he had trouble navigating was when someone left something in the middle of a walkway. Which, almost never happened, since his mother was so pedantic about ensuring her son never faced any difficulty due to what she saw as a disability.

His steps were measured so as to ensure he didn't make a sound. Like the morning three days ago when he had got dressed for the first time without parental guidance or interference.
So what if his clothes didn't match? Why on earth shouldn't red and green be worn together? It made no difference to him. 'Green' did not exist in his world. Nor red. So why should he care? The clothes he had picked out this morning matched to him. Felt coordinated to him. Coordinated by texture. They were his choices and in the end that was the most important.

So stepping lightly, Anthony opened his bedroom door. Pausing only to pick up the cane, which he was told was white, that was resting upright against it. And headed out first the bedroom and then, listening carefully to ensure no one else was awake, out of his house.

The cool morning air was refreshing. In fact, it excited him. Here he was, out of the house, by himself. For the first time he could remember. And he was going to walk to school by himself. Whether his mom liked it or not. She had made a fuss about the clothes he had chosen and put on three days ago. Saying they first were not suitable. Then when he challenged her on that, that they were mismatched. But Anthony had told her the same thing he had thought earlier. That it didn't matter to him. Colours were an alien concept to him. They held no meaning, so therefore they should hold no sway.
There had been a lot of resistance from his mom. First she had put her foot down, saying that he would be attired suitably if he wished to leave the house.
Then Anthony had put his own down. Saying that if that was the case, he'd stay in his room.

An hour had passed, neither saying a thing to the other till finally, 10 minutes before school, his mom had said that since he was now late there was no time for him to change and he'd just have to go to school as is. That was three days ago and for the next mornings after that there had been a simular clashes.

Which is what brought him to where he was now. Out the door before she awoke. Walking alone through the surprisingly busy streets. It was all about proving himself. Proving he was capable of doing things himself. And since he had achieved a minor victory with the choosing of his own clothes, Anthony was now after a major victory. And that was proving he could walk to school by himself. He had done the walk many times before with his mom. And he knew the path by heart. So he had no fear about this expedition. In fact, he was thrilled. The only fear that Anthony had was the fight that was going to erupt between his mom and him when she found out what he had done.

He had given a lot of thought to the message he would leave for her to find. Should he explain exactly why he was doing this, to prove he can do it and retread the same old argument? Or should he just keep it simple. Let his actions speak for him.

In the end he and typed on his computer and printed out for her a note that said
'Walking to school today. Don't be mad. - Anthony'

He doubted the line 'don't be mad' would somehow stop that inevitable outcome. But it was worth a shot. Just the same as this course of action was worth the attempt to prove to her he was no longer a child. He needed to be allowed some independence.
And if today's walk didn't do it, he would just do it again the next day. And the day after that. And there was walking home from school that could be thrown in for extra emphasis also. The exclamation mark to his entire statement.

The end of Anthony's cane swept back and forth in front of him, as he walked down the sidewalk, sweeping the path before him for obstacles. He had been using a cane for years. So the stick was almost like an extension of himself. It extended his sense of touch and feel, so that anything that came before him could be quickly detected, felt and addressed. There was no awkwardness involved in it, no uncertainty. He had been blind since birth. So not being able to see where he was walking did not even cross Anthony's mind. Navigating through touch, sound, and smell was to him just the way things were done.

So he walked. Noting the sound of cars along the street to his right. Noting the sound of bird song overhead as he passed by trees whose branches rustled in the wind. Noting how fresh and vibrant the air smelt today. The day of his first lone walk.

It was a twenty-minute walk to his school. And it wasn't till about the half way mark that Anthony first encountered one obstacle that he hadn't counted on. His route was carefully planned. Each street that he arrived at that he needed to cross was either quiet enough so that he could hear if there was traffic coming or not, had a set of traffic lights that made audible beeps when it was safe to cross, or was manned by a school crossing guard.

But now he had reached a main road that, for a reason he couldn't determine, the traffic lights were silent. Usually traffic lights that had been set up to assist those who were visually impaired would emit from their pedestrian crossing button a soft electronic beep, sounding every three seconds when it was not safe to cross. When the traffic lights would halt the traffic and allow pedestrians to cross, the electronic beeps would change to a rapid three beeps a second and would stay that way for the duration that it was safe to cross.

But this set of lights were silent and Anthony knew they shouldn't be this way. Each time in the past he had walked through them with his mom they had sounded the reassuring beeps. The indication that all was well, crossing safety was assured. And Anthony knew he was indeed at the lights, despite their silence. His mental map that he walked and the sound of high speed traffic before him told him as such. With a sweep of his cane in front of him Anthony felt it impact against something hard, heard the sound of hard plastic clanging against metal. Stepping forward, the teenager put his hand out and felt the cold, hard metal of the stop light and, lowering his hand slightly, found the round rubber pedestrian crossing button with his fingers.

He pushed the button and waited. Even though there was no sound emitting from the stop lights if it halted traffic, Anthony was sure he would be able to hear when the traffic stopped. He would be careful though. Give it a test. As this was all uncharted, dangerous territory. He would press the button and if he heard what sounded like the traffic stopping he would count in his head how long it remained stopped for. All whilst standing safely on the curb. After which, when the traffic sounds started whizzing by in front of him again, he would then know how he would have to make it to the other side when he tried the button a second time.

In fact, he might just stand stationary on the curb for the second trial also Anthony considered. And count again, just to make especially sure his estimations were correct. After which he would know it would be truly safe to cross the third time he pushed the button and the third time the traffic slowed and stopped.

And so Anthony waited. And waited. Listening to the traffic before him. Finger pressing down on the crossing button a second time in the effort to try and hasten its function.

But after five minutes of waiting and no indication that the traffic was going to slow a realisation began to creep its way along Anthony's mind. That perhaps the lack of sounds emitting from the crossing lights and the lack of any sign the traffic's course was slowly were related. Perhaps the lights were malfunctioning.

Anthony's finger was now rapidly pushing on the button it rested on. The frustration within the blind teenager venting itself on the stupid rubber disk. It wasn't fair that on the one day he needed it, this crossing was not operating.

Thoughts swirled quickly through Anthony's head of what he could do now. Over the last few days it had been all he could think about, this mornings expedition. He had been daydreaming and planning it. Imagining how triumphant it would be when he did get to walk to school on his own, how it would be proof he could be independent. He hadn't imagined during his planning that something like this could happen. And because of this he didn't have any type of backup plan.

The teenager debated his options. He could turn around and go home . .
As quick as that though appeared Anthony just as quickly dismissed it. He would rather stand here all day than have to go back home with his 'tail' between his legs. It would have been better to have not tried at all than to have tried and failed. Because at least with the former there was always hope. But to admit that he couldn't do something? To have to say that to his mom? No.. he would not. He could not.

He could always perhaps walk down the block further. See if he could locate another cross walk somewhere. His mental mapping skills and directional sense were pretty good. After all, when you're blind you developed them and honed them on a regular basis. But still, deviating from this route was uncharted territory. If he did find another set of traffic lights further down the street he couldn't guarantee, what with this cross walk not walking or making audible sounds, he'd know when he eventually made his way back here so as to continue on with his planned path when he was on the other side of the street.

Once again, it was the fear of failing. Of not getting to where he needed to go. Of ending up lost and wandering the streets for hours until someone eventually found him. Of having to face 'I told you so' once he was home.

So really, his one choice was to cross this street. And aren't things like this sent to try us? Imagine how much more sweet his victory for today would be with the knowledge that he was able to cross this street by himself. No stop light. No assistance.

But how was the question. Anthony held his breath and listened. Straining his ears to catch each whiz of each car as they sped by. Every so often there was a gap in the traffic. About five seconds of empty noise both before him and around him of him as the last noisy car went by. The motorway sounds fading into softer background noise all too briefly which indicated there must be a gap in traffic, no doubt caused by further upstream traffic functions. The only way for him to get across, Anthony decided, was to do it during one of these gaps.

The teenage boy used his cane to find the edge of the curb. Shuffling himself over until he felt the tip of his shoes at the very end of the safety zone that kept the traffic from him and vice versa. He folded up his cane, as he would need to run at the first opportunity and didn't want to accidentally drop it or have it catch on something as he made he sprinted his way across.

And then he waited, heart racing, till finally he heard a gap in the traffic. Part of his mind told him not to do this, to hold back. He was scared. But before this feeling could grip either himself or his feet too much Anthony was lurching forward into a run, sprinting as fast as he could. Adrenaline pushing him faster and faster.

There was silence all around him. The only sounds he could hear were the sound of his shoes impacting with road. Of his heart beat pounding in his ears.

And amongst the silence only broken by footfalls, there was a new sound. It was a whispering sound. A sound that it took Anthony a few seconds to recognise. But sometimes a few seconds is all it takes.

First there was the sound of bicycle tires skidding to his left. Then there was the feeling of hard, unyielding metal and softer yielding limbs impacting against him, lifting him up and tossing him into the air.

The sightless world before him was thrown into chaos. Anthony felt himself tumbling over and over, tangling amongst the metal of the bicycle, unknown pieces of metal cutting into his skin. He tfumbled against the road, first his shoulder painfully smashing against it, then his knees and finally his head. After which Anthony remembered nothing.

This room was nice. It was painted a soothing yellow. Butter yellow, the pink haired girl thought to herself. Yes, that is the exact shade. Which is quite different to say, buttercup yellow. Vastly different. In fact, she continued to ponder, if this room was painted buttercup yellow the feeling it would give off would be more energetic than soothing. Buttercup yellow was the colour of open fields where one could run and play. Of friends all laughing and chasing each other. With the bright sun all too quickly making its way across a clear blue sky.

For a brief moment the pink haired girl almost felt herself there. Running through grassy plains, the sound of laughter and happy squeals floating through the air, over the bird song of content canaries.
And then it was gone. And the girl was back in the room of butter yellow walls.

Periodically around the room large stickers of such things as animated bears holding balloons and ducks in bath tubs were stuck to the butter yellow walls. This did puzzle her a little.. as it seemed somewhat in contradiction to the calm mood the room seemed to give off. For if anyone ever really came across a lumbering bear with balloons tied to its paws, or a wild duck in their bathtub they would be anything but calm.

There was another one of the very old, very tall people in the room. This time a man. He had said his name was 'Doctor Anderson' and he seemed rather nice. He also seemed very interested in games. Which was good, the pink haired girl thought, games were always fun. Not that doing work wasn't fun also. But games made people happy, it made them laugh. And laughter was important.

He had gotten her to play a number of different games so far. Many of them involving her memorising different pictures on cards and naming them back to him. It was all rather fun, but also in a way rather simple, thought the pink haired girl.

Of course, she won every game. Doctor Anderson seemed ever so impressed. He had started off with simple pictures, containing things like apples and oranges. Then moved on to ones with more detail, such as scenery where she needed to count the number of trees and then without forewarning once he had lowered the picture so she couldn't see it anymore, also name the number of clouds in the sky.

But it was still simple. And she still won the game each time no matter how many unexpected questions Doctor Anderson challenged her with. She had an amazing eye for detail, he commented. But the pink haired girl just smiled back. It wasn't so much she was good at remembering. Rather, when she saw a picture she saw.. well.. it was like she was seeing a complete puzzle. Each item inside the picture, each colour, was a piece of the puzzle. They all connected into each other, forming the entire picture. Without the right items with the right colours the puzzle pieces wouldn't bind together.

So when Doctor Anderson asked her to remember what was on the pictures he showed her, it was easy. It was just a matter of knowing how everything fitted together. And she just knew.

"Okay, we're going to play a different type of game." Doctor Anderson said to her, having seemed to have given up trying to beat her at the picture remember game. She was just too clever. "It's a remember game as well. Let's start with your ribbons.. Nurse Elliott said that a friend had given them to you. Who was this friend?"

The girl reaches up and touched the ribbons in her hair, running her fingers slowly along their tails. She frowned, thinking. The feel of the silky smooth ribbon running through her fingers seeming to stir forth something within her. For a moment she was in the field of buttercups again. With the laughter and sunshine and birdsong all around her. But all too quickly the memory disappeared, before she could turn about and try and see from who the laughter was coming from.

"I.. don't know." The pink haired girl admitted after a while. She was now a little sad. She didn't know who had given them to her but she had a feeling, deep inside, that they had been a rather special gift. A gesture that she had always remembered and cherished, until now.

Doctor Anderson's voice was gentle. "That's alright. I'm sure you'll remember in time. Let's try something else. Do you remember your mom? Do you remember the last time you saw her?"

She looked back at Doctor Anderson, confused, her mouth repeating the word over a couple of times. 'Mom'. It was a strange word. Sounding so foreign.
"What's a mom?" the girl eventually had to ask. This new game wasn't as easy as the first. The rules seemed to be different. But if admitting she didn't know what a mom was somehow meant she lost the game, Doctor Anderson didn't show it.

"Mom is another name for mother. Your mummy. A female grown up who looks after you and takes care of you. Do you remember anyone like that?"

What was a grown up? Maybe it was someone who was, well, fully grown. She looked down at her hands, studying them. They were hers alright, but compared to the hands of all the very old, very tall people here her hands were practically tiny.

"I'm not a grown up, am I?" She asked, wishing to clarify. These were such new concepts to her.

"No." He said with a smile. "I'm a grown up. Nurse Elliott is.. well.. technically a grown up. You're a child. A kid. A person is usually called a grown up when they turn 21 years old."

Twenty one years old? How old was she? Years were the shifting of seasons. From summer to autumn. Autumn to winter. And winter to spring. But the pink haired girl felt she had seen many of those. Hundreds. Thousands. Millions. Did that mean she was millions of years old?

But she wasn't a grown up. Doctor Anderson had said it himself. She was a child, a Kid.

Yes, that sounded right. A Kid.

She repeated the word. Kid. It seemed to resonate something within her. Like a crystal being struck, causing it to vibrate and sing. A sparkling pink crystal. She repeated the word over and over in her mind. Kid, Kid, Kid, Kid. Feeling the resonance grow.

Suddenly her eyes widened, crystal clarity in them, a memory having sprung out at her. Shaken loose by the resonance, "My name is Pink." Pink said.

Whether Doctor Anderson was impressed at either this revelation or that she had won his game yet again he didn't give any indication. Instead he tapped his chin for a moment then wrote something down on the clipboard he had beside the pile of pictures he had been showing her. Something he did not seem to be about to share.
"Pink?" He repeated. He then gave her a smile and said, "Well then. If that is what you say your name is, then that is what we must call you. Pink it is."

And to this the girl smiled.

Her games with Doctor Anderson didn't last much longer after that. He said it was enough for one day. Pink wondered to herself if maybe he had enough of her winning all the time.

She knew that sometimes when you were very good at a game that sometimes it was nice to lose on purpose, every now and again. To ensure the others you played with got a chance to win. But she didn't think that was the case. Doctor Anderson never seemed very happy when she lost. Just understanding. He was more happy when she won. And in the end it was making people happy that was important.

Well, everyone needed a rest after too much play. So that is probably the case, Pink concluded. She had just worn him out. He was, after all, so very very old. A 'grown up' as he put it. Perhaps when you got old you weren't able to play for as long.

Then again, she had felt as though she was older than him hadn't she? She wondered why. So many questions. Things would be much easier if all her memories would stop hiding themselves.

But she had just found two. Two very important ones at that.

Her name was Pink and she was a Kid. And knowing those she felt much more herself.

Hours later, within the room that was not truly hers, Pink sighed and looked at the crayons in her hands yet again. They just weren't working the way they were supposed to. She was so excited at first when they had asked her if she wanted to do some colouring. She'd experimented with them by rubbing them against various items within her room. Lamps, bedside tables, the walls. But all it had achieved was one of the nurses giving her an annoyed looked when she had walked in, discovering the colourful smudges everywhere. She hadn't voiced her displeasure though. Maybe Doctor Anderson had told her not to.

It didn't matter, Pink decided as she dropped the red crayon back into the box , she was giving up on the colouring for the moment. She didn't know what result she was expecting, but she knew that grubby smudges on walls were not it.

But now there was the problem of what to do. It was dark but she wasn't tired enough to sleep. Maybe it was because she had already slept enough lately, at least according to the very old, very tall people. Three days. From when she had been brought to this place before she woke up in the bed that was not hers.

Standing from her little carpeted mat on the tiled floors, Pink decided that maybe it was about time she tried to find her room again. Her real room, not this place with the cold titled floors, bright white bed sheets and annoying crayons that didn't colour. She was sure that was probably where all her missing memories were hiding, in her room. Once she found her room she could win the game and play something else.
And so Pink tip toed out the door of her hospital room and, noticing there being far less people about now that it was dark, began creeping down the empty, nighttime halls.

She wandered the long winding corridors for a while, trying to find anything that looked familiar. A bed, a cup, even a dress. Though nothing did, Pink did find the contents of the other rooms interesting none the less. All of them had kids in them. Some her age, some older, some younger. All asleep.
She wondered to herself if they all were here too because they had lost something.

"You shouldn't be here." A voice said, coming out of the darkness at her after she had crept into one of the rooms to investigate things further. It had been a boy's voice, a little older than her it sounded like. But it was too dark to tell for certain. Turning about, squinting within the gloom Pink realised she actually couldn't see the person at all within the dark.

"Yes I know." Pink answered back, "I was actually out looking for where I should be." It was the truth after all.

"Well this is my room." The voice said, coming at her again from the darkness. It seemed to be coming from her left so Pink edged her way towards it, "You'll get in trouble if the nurses catch you out of bed."

Blindly groping about, edging forward carefully, just as Pink thought she was almost at the source of the voice her shin collided with something cold and hard. She let out a rather loud cry of pain and jumped back, banging into something else which caused her to cry out again. Before any further misfortunes could befall her as she hopped about, clutching her hurting shin, there was a click and suddenly light filled the room.

It took a few moments for her vision to adjust itself and while it did Pink had the somewhat uneasy feeling that she had been here before. The blindness, groping about and feeling something cold and metal. Then bright white light.

She squeezed her eyes shut and concentrated. The memory was dancing around on the edge of her consciousness, just out of reach. Pink kept replaying the feeling of touching hard, cold metal in her head, within the darkness. It seemed to be linked to the dancing memory somehow. But as she concentrated the cold, glaring eyes came for her again. And fear clutched at her heart.

Within her mind Pink faltered, afraid, and drew back away from the memories. She could not face the cold, black eyes. Even if it meant finding that which was lost to her.

The memory of cold metal and blindness danced about a few more times and then was gone, no doubt finding a new place to hide. Pink sighed and opened her eyes.

"Better?" The voice asked. In front of her was a bed, the metal post of which she had bumped her shin on. In the bed there was a fair skinned, brown haired boy. His right hand was still resting on the switch of the lamp he had just turned on.

Pink looked at him for a few moments. His face was set in a mask of neutrality. In some ways he reminded her of the bed she had awoken in. His face and body language seemed to say 'You do not know me, and I don't know you. So do not think that will readily change'. He did seem like he belonged in this place of lost things.

"Yes, thank you." Pink replied, walking over to the edge of the bed. The bed was very large. So much so that Pink guessed one of the very tall people could lie in it without having to squish up. The boy in the bed was a little taller than her, meaning that an awful lot of the bed was just empty space. So Pink, rather than just stand there and look up at the boy in the rather large bed, grabbed hold of one of the bed posts and climbed up onto the bed, to sit on the end. After a somewhat surprised look on the boy's face he seemed to realise what Pink was doing and shifted himself into a sitting position also, until they were both sitting on the bed, facing each other. Pink staring at the boy, him staring off into the distance.

"I'm Pink." The pink haired girl finally introduced herself as after a few seconds of silence between them. "I'm here cause I'm lost. Are you lost too?" She was still awfully curious if anyone here was like herself.

The older boy before her shrugged. His face did not change, still seeming to convey a warning that 'You will not know me. Do not try', "Just some tests. I should be out back at home later tomorrow. I'm Anthony."

Pink guessed that meant the boy wasn't lost, since he knew that he would be home soon. She didn't concern herself too much about Anthony's comment of tests, as she had already had hers given to her by Doctor Anderson.

"Why are you called Pink?" the boy in the bed opposite her asked. His brows farrowed slightly while asking this.

Pink's smiled, her hand going to play with one of her pigtails. Her hair drew such attention. But in a good way. The nurses always smiled when seeing her, which was nice. As she had thought before, making people happy and smile was important. The boy opposite her really seemed like he needed to smile.

"Because that is my name." She giggled back.

"Oh." came his response, the boy seeming to consider this for a while.

Then once again there was silence again between the two. The type of awkward silence that can come with a first, unexpected meeting between two people. As each judges the other and tries to find something, some interest, some experience in which to connect the two. At least, Pink thought, she was interested in trying to talk. Anthony seemed like he wanted anything but to talk.

Eventually the younger girl said, looking for an opening, "What are you looking at?" Her blue eyes tried following Anthony's distant gaze. He wasn't looking at her, and hadn't done so since she had sat down on the bed.

"Nothing."

"You are." She replied. For he was, she was sure.

"No I'm not." He said again, there was now a flatness to his voice. If Pink had thought the boy in the bed had seemed closed off before, his body language and expression now told her he was now practically impenetrable. Whatever opening Pink had been looking for now seemed so much more harder to find.

"I'm blind." The boy eventually said, the flatness in his voice still there. "My eyes don't work. Even though they might be pointing somewhere, I can't see anything out of them."

"Oh." came Pink's reply. She didn't think she had ever met anyone who couldn't see before. She closed her eyes again for a few moments, trying to fully understand what it must be like. Everything was black to her, the bed, the boy, the building of lost people all dropping away into nothingness.

After a few seconds Pink opened her eyes, letting the world return and asked, "Is it scary?"

"No, it isn't scary. I've been like this all my life. I don't remember not ever being like this." He added, "I mean, do you get scared from being able to see?"

Pink considered for a moment, remembering the cold eyes that would come at her in her head, when she stepped too far into places that she didn't appear welcome.

"Yes. Sometimes." Her voice was soft, dropping to almost a whisper. It was once again the truth after all.

And to this Anthony's expression softened. His tone lifted itself out of the flat ravine it had descended into after Pink's question about his sight, and he asked, almost curiously, "What are you able to see that scares you?"

So Pink began with the explanation she had first given Nurse Elliott and then to Doctor Anderson. She told of her memories that would not come to her when she called to them. Of not remembering anything before awaking in the bed that was not hers, but knowing deep inside that some where she did have a room and a bed that was truly her own. Of having lost who she was.

She told it all, over again, except this time there was a difference. She told Anthony something she had not wanted to worry Nurse Elliott or Doctor Anderson with. With a deep breath she began to tell him that which she saw that scared her.

"Sometimes when I try to remember something that I've lost.. There's a memory that chases me.." she whispered, keeping her voice soft unless she draw its attention again. "If I try to remember something important, this other memory comes. I don't know what it is of, but it contains these scary glaring eyes. And laughter. But this isn't friendly laughter. It is the laughter of someone who is happy because I am not."

She sadly sighed, admitting, "I'm scared I'll never mind my memories. Cause the eyes will always be there, waiting for me. And I don't want to face the eyes. That's scarier than not having any memories."

The boy opposite his reached forward, sliding it along the bed. It eventually found her arm and, after running down it's length, his hand found hers and he held it, comfortingly. "I'm sorry." He said. "It must be hard, not remembering anything. Where you live.. your friends."

The girl of the pink hair and yellow ribbons smiled at the gesture and the words, replying as she brushed her sadness to the side, never one to dwell on negatives, "It's okay." And she then added with a giggle, "I don't remember not ever being like this."

Anthony's expression was a little blank for a moment as he seemed to take in these words. His own words, from earlier, repeated back to him as a friendly joke. From one who indeed could not remember being that way, cause she couldn't remember anything.

And then he started to laugh along with her giggles. The two sitting on the bed, in an island of lamplight, their laughter echoing through the night shadows. Connected.

As their mirthful sounds died away Anthony asked her, his mouth still slightly upturned in a smile, "Is your name really Pink? As in really really? Or is it a nickname?"

"Well, I think it is. It feels right. And that's what matters, isn't it?" Pink said, adding with another one of her giggles, "Anyway. It matches my hair."

"I wouldn't know." Anthony said. But he was still smiling. It wasn't said in bitterness, rather just a simple statement. "But I don't think I've ever met anyone with pink hair before."

Pink thought about the nurses that always smiled when they saw her and commented on her hair, usually being the first thing they noticed. And once again thought about what the world is like from Anthony's perspective. Once again closing her eyes for a few seconds to try to imagine it.

Eventually, after opening them again, she lifted the hand that was still clasping hers and placed it atop her head, allowing his fingers to rest amongst her hair at the base of her pigtails. "Imagine.. umm.. " she tried to think of how to best describe the essence of pink.

"Cotton candy?" Anthony ventured.

To this Pink gave a delighted squeal, bouncing up and down on the spot she sat in delight, "Yes! Cotton Candy is perfect!" Nothing radiated absolute pink more than pink cotton candy.

"Well, your hair does smell kind of like cotton candy.." Anthony revealed. "It was that and your footsteps that made me guess you weren't one of the nurses when you walked in my room. Anyway, a nurse would have turned on the light."

Pink was somewhat surprised at this. Not at the explanation of how Anthony functioned in a sightless world. But rather, she brought the end of a pink pigtail under her nose and sniffed and giggled.
"You're right! Cotton candy." she admitted between the giggles. "I never noticed."

And Anthony chuckled. Eventually removing his hand from where it perched atop her head, placing it back down by his side. "Or forgot." He pointed out.

Pink giggled again at this. "So yes! Imagine cotton candy." And started to describe further, "It's like.. a puffy cloud of pinkness." She paused though, her giggles dying away a bit. Would Anthony even know what a cloud is? You couldn't touch a cloud. You couldn't smell a cloud. A cloud was something that you understood cause you could see it.

This was going to be hard.

"Ok. Cotton candy!" She started again, seriousness in her voice, quite determined that she would get this right. Determined she would describe it without using any visual terms. It was somewhat important to her that Anthony understand what pink was. As that was her name, wasn't it? "It's.. all fluffy and soft. And smells so so sweet. And you taste it and it is even sweeter. So sugary you get all light headed and giggly and happy. That's what pink is. It's a girl's color. Blue is for boys, while Pink is for girls. Because it is so sugary and sweet. Delicate and all giggly and well.. girl like."

And Pink watched Anthony, expectantly, as she finished what she thought was a quite good description of what the color pink was. The boy seemed to mull these words over for a good while. He eventually said, "Okay. . so if I am to imagine your hair.. I just imagine you? As you just described yourself. At least the impression that I get.."

She was a little disappointed, as this wasn't really what she was trying to convey. But, as Pink considered further, she guessed she could work with it. Her name was Pink, her hair was pink, she loved the color most out of all of them. Why not? If Anthony needed to imagine the color pink then he could just imagine her. She would be an ambassador for pink!

"Okay." The newly appointed ambassador for pink said cheerfully, "If you think of pink, think of Pink." giggling as she so often did.

It was then that the sound of distant footsteps began to carry themselves into the room of the two nighttime chatters. Somewhere outside, within the halls of the building of lost people someone was approaching.

"You better go." Anthony said upon hearing it. "That will be one of the nurses. You'll get in trouble if you aren't in your room."

Pink nodded to this. Everyone had been so nice to her here so far, she didn't want to cause any problems. She looked at Anthony and somewhat impulsively gave him a quick, friendly hug. As that is what he was now, wasn't he, a friend? The only friend she could remember.

The boy was a little stunned at the impulsive gesture, but it was over soon enough and Pink was sliding herself off the bed and making her way back towards to door. "Goodnight Anthony." She whispered as she reached the doorway, being cautious to not get caught out of bed as Anthony had warned. But then again, she was good at hide and seek wasn't she?

"Will you visit me again? Tomorrow? Before I go home?" came the response. The look on his face was hopeful. No longer was his face telling her 'you will not know me' as it had when she first arrived.

"Yes, of course. I promise."

And there again was the smile that Pink thought Anthony looked much better wearing.