Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Razorblade Romance ❯ Track 011: Death Is In Love With Us ( Chapter 11 )

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

***This chapter is set about a year after the last one, and is going to be longer than usual. Giving myself a limited amount of chapters to work with has really come back to bite me…but this is the bit of the story that I've wanted to write since I started!***

------------------------------------------------------------

Track Eleven: Death Is In Love With Us

I know it hurts too much, I know that you're scared;

I know you're running out of trust,

And wishing you were dead.

It's in your misery, you're not alone;

So come share your tears with me,

And witness it all go wrong

I know it and I feel it, just as well as you do, honey;

It's not our fault if death's in love with us,

It's not our fault if the reaper holds our hearts.

------------------------------------------------------------

“…sinian?...FUJIMIYA!”

“…What?”

“Oh, for crying out loud…I'm trying to give you your job here, so I'd appreciate a little concentration, Abyssinian.”

I don't know what Rex expects from me, on today of all days. It's not as if I've been particularly cooperative over the past year…I'm only here because I knew that the bastard Takatori wouldn't leave Yohji in peace unless I essentially forced him to.

Yohji…today, it's harder than most days for me to carry on with some semblance of normality. It's the third of March…his birthday.

I wonder what he's doing now; is he still in this area, this country, this life? It wouldn't be hard for me to find out, given that it's not like he's hiding or anything…but I can't. Seeing someone else living inside the body I knew so well for so short a time would simply be…disgusting.

The feel of a manila folder connecting with the back of my head brings me back to the present. Rex is glaring at me, and she shakes her head as she drops the sheets of paper onto my table.

This is a lot different from the old days of missions. No dramatic videos from a shadowed Persia; no justifications for the things that I do; no mission room briefings. Instead, Rex and I are standing in my kitchen, and in around a minute she'll leave me to go through the details alone.

“He wants this done by the end of the week. The payment will be transferred into your account after you've reported in, as per usual.”

“Hn.”

I really couldn't care less what `he' wants. I'm glad that they decided to do away with the video feed, because I don't know whether I could take orders that came from the mouth of that selfish little prick. At least when they come by paper I can delude myself into believing that they come from an anonymous source.

Rex sighs, and I look up just in time to see a slight sadness pass through her eyes.

“Look, Abys-…Ran, Mamoru told me what today is. We don't expect you to work tonight, just...look after yourself, okay?”

She turns her back before I can reply, walking out of my apartment and leaving me alone. Does she think that she understands what this past year has been like for me? And as for that Takatori idiot, I don't want his pity. I don't need anyone's pity.

It's bad enough that Rex felt the need to address me using my first name…the name that I took up again when I left Yohji behind in the hospital. There was no point in continuing to be `Aya', because it was only a painful reminder of the sister who left me and the man who gave me that name.

To the outside world, I am once again Fujimiya Ran; but there are very few people who know that fact. Apart from Rex, there are not many people with whom I interact. Of those, even fewer know my name.

I'm perfectly fine with this arrangement.

Glancing at the folder sitting on my table, I can't bring myself to read it. The information will all be there tomorrow, on a day that doesn't make my heart feel like it's breaking with every passing minute.

Instead, I find myself going to the second bedroom of this apartment, the one that I converted into a study not long after I moved in. Walking to the large bookshelf, I run my fingers across the spiral-bound spines of several identical books.

I shouldn't have these…I should've left them where they lay, and simply moved on. But I couldn't resist bringing them with me, and now that I have them, I can't bear to dispose of them. After I left the hospital that last time, I returned to the Weiss house. Most of the building was completely cleaned out…only two rooms remained intact. My possessions were all still in my room, where I'd moved them back the day Yohji returned from Europe. His possessions were all still in his room, too.

I grabbed a bag full of things from my room, abandoning most of it. I was on my way from the house when I found myself standing at Yohji's door, staring blankly at the clutter around the room. Just inside the door, sitting on a chest of drawers, were these books in a neat pile…Yohji's sketchbooks. I'd never seen them before, didn't know that he had that many; but the top one had been open, and a rough portrait of myself was staring up at the ceiling.

I don't know why I picked up the pile of books and placed them in my bag…but I have them now, and sometimes I can't resist the urge to flick through them and witness how Yohji must have seen the things around him.

The first time I took a proper look through the sketchbooks, I found that tucked inside one of them was a photograph that I didn't know existed. I suppose that Ken or O-…Takatori took it; it's from our time in the trailer, one day when we were having no business and the weather was nice. I'm sitting on a patch of lush grass, looking like I want to murder something…Yohji is sprawled out next to me, cigarette hanging from lips that are curved in a bright smile.

He looks breathtakingly beautiful…I only wish that I had've taken more time to appreciate that sort of detail back then. But I was too wrapped up in my own little world of angst, and now it's unlikely that we'll ever be seen together in such a way again.

Lifting the middle book from the shelf, I walk to my small living room. Settling into a black-upholstered armchair, I open the cover of the book and look at the first drawing, one I've seen many times. The pen sketch is of a person lying in a bed, the sheet riding low on their hips to display their back.

Judging by the shape of the muscles and a distinctive scar running across an exposed shoulder blade, I know it's a drawing of me. He must have done it one morning while I was asleep, because I certainly don't remember him ever doing it. There are a number of similar drawings throughout two or three of the books, as well as some that must have come from his memory.

It's no surprise that he was placed into the position of art teacher; his skill level is amazing. There are also a lot of landscapes that look like one could walk right into them…I never knew that he had such a talent before I found these books.

Feeling a familiar heat build up behind my eyes, I close the sketchbook and take a deep breath, willing my heart to return to its normal pace. I thought that this would get easier after enough time had passed, but…it seems like it's only getting harder.

Did I make the right decision, leaving him in the hospital, alone? Or would things be…

No. There's nothing I can do about it now…except continue to mourn for a love that has long been forgotten by the other man involved.

------------------------------------------------------------

Sitting on the train, glad to be done with work for another day, I find my mind wandering. It's been over a year since I woke up in a hospital bed with a pretty nurse standing over me…and that pretty nurse is now my wife of six months.

Yes, we moved quickly, but it's not like I had anything else in my life to hold on to. I was essentially alone in this world, and Asuka was so kind and so loving…I felt that by marrying her, I might be able to gain some sense of identity for myself. Hell, I even took her last name and tacked it together with the first given name I thought of…'Ryou'.

That name means nothing, but it's still a step up from an anonymous man with no memory of his past. Rather, now I'm a `reborn' man with no memory of his past. I thought that beginning a family would help with that rebirth…but it didn't.

The doctors say that I will probably never fully regain my memory, and that trying to force the issue will do more harm than good. But how am I supposed to ignore my forgotten life when the dreams won't leave me alone?

Far too often, I wake up in the middle of the night with an unknown name on my lips…'Aya'.

I know that it hurts Asuka when I start saying someone else's name in the bed we share, but she believes that it's the name of a forgotten girlfriend that I had before my accident.

I don't have the heart to tell her that that dreams usually feature only a redheaded male…a pale-skinned, purple-eyed man who may or may not be the person she described as having stayed by my side for a month. I never see the rest of his features, so I can't ask Asuka for any details.

She handled it well for the first few months we lived together, but only three weeks after we married, the fighting started. She didn't understand why I couldn't just let it all go, leave it all in the past…It's not like I could simply turn off a switch. As the dreams kept coming and the name kept falling from my lips, we started to drift apart. We fought more and more often, and she began taking longer shifts at the hospital as I began drinking quite regularly.

Two things that have become apparent to me since I woke up are that I must have drank quite a lot in my `past life', because my alcohol tolerance is extremely high, and that I must have smoked a lot. Apparently, my lungs showed substantial damage when they were testing me at the hospital, but the addiction seems to have been forgotten.

Asuka says I should be thankful for that.

About a month ago, she came to me with a bright, beaming smile on her face. The conversation has stuck in my mind like we only just had it…

“Oh, Ryou, I have the most wonderful news!”

“Really? Did you get the Head Nurse position?”

“No, it's even better than that! Ryou, I'm pregnant!”

I remember thinking that this would truly be the start of a new life. By putting a human being on this Earth that had my genes, my new existence would be validated. I still reckon it might work; and for the first time since I woke up, I might actually have my own identity, as a father and a husband.

Apparently, the love for someone's children is greater than their love for their partner…I won't need fuzzy, vague dreams of a male lover if I can have a devoted family. Maybe then, I can truly start existing as Itou Ryou.

The train loudspeaker announces the arrival at my station; standing up, I move off the train and towards our house. It's only a small place, but it'll be big enough to hold the three of us.

Asuka and I haven't fought since she told me the news. Instead of going home to an empty house, like I was getting used to, I know she'll be there tonight. She's cut back on her workload, and I think that this marriage might actually work out in the end.

Maybe there is hope for a man without a past, after all. In the end, it's the present and the future that matters; and I'm free to carve my own. Maybe I'm the lucky one after all.

Turning the corner onto my street, there's a faint smile on my face as I walk the last few metres to our house, loosening my tie as I go. I've never felt particularly comfortable in the suit of a salaryman, but it was a miracle that I got any job at all, considering the profound lack of experience or references. It's tolerable, as long as I know that I have Asuka waiting for me.

I push open the front door of the house, greeted by the light and warmth of a true home. I can see that Asuka isn't in the living room…she's probably in the bedroom, reading a book or something.

“Asuka?”

I call her name brightly as I wander through the house, heading for the bedroom at the back of the building. The door is closed, which strikes me as slightly odd; I push the feeling aside and enter the bedroom.

Taking a few steps into the room, the sight before my eyes has my legs collapsing beneath me as I stumble backwards and connect heavily with the wall.

The door to the ensuite bathroom is wide open, allowing me the perfect view of my wife hanging by her neck from the shower curtain rod.

I start to hyperventilate as the reality of the situation begins to set in…but then everything changes.

The world goes black for a second, and when it comes back the leather belt around Asuka's neck has transformed into a thin silver wire. Blinking furiously, the belt returns before my eyes, but I don't have time to analyse that vision.

I feel myself slipping away, and in my place it seems like a completely different personality has entered my body. A cold, detached voice at the back of my mind observes the stillness and colour of the body in the next room, concluding that she's been dead for at least an hour. How I know this, I have no idea.

My right hand flexes and grasps at my left wrist; there's nothing there, and my nails scratch into the skin. I know I'm running on instinct…an instinct that I don't remember.

The strangest urge occurs to me; I feel like I should be meeting up with the others, now that the mission has been accomplished…

My head drops forward and I tip it back up, accidentally hitting my skull against the wall in the process. The pain strikes through my head, making the strange presence disappear, and I finally feel like I'm back in control of my body.

Spotting a piece of paper on the bed, I grab it and flee from the room and the sight before me as my heart begins to scream.

I'm back in the front room before I glance down at the paper clutched in my hands…it's tear-stained, which is only made worse from the wetness sliding down my own face to smudge the ink. The characters on the note are shaky and almost unreadable, but I recognise Asuka's hand nonetheless.

Beginning to read the words, my hands shake violently and I want to tear the paper apart and pretend that this isn't real; but my mind refuses to let me finish before I've read the whole thing.

`Ryou,

I want you to know that this isn't your fault. You've looked so happy since I found out I was pregnant, and that's why I had to do this.

I miscarried, and I lost our baby. There was no way I could handle seeing the despair that would surely have been on your face when I told you, and so I took the coward's way out.

I've failed you as a wife, and failed our child as a mother. I understand if you can't forgive me for this, but know that I will always love you.

I wish that you find someone else to love, or that you can find your Aya again. You deserve to be happy, Ryou, and I hope that you can be.

I'm so sorry.'

The next thing I remember is coming back to myself in a dingy bar, a collection of empty bottles and glasses littering the table in front of me. The agony has been replaced by a dull ache…but that's not quite good enough.

If I die of alcohol poisoning tonight, then that's the way it's supposed to be. Will I see you in Heaven, Asuka? Or will I watch you from below in Hell?

Maybe I'll find the answer to that question at the bottom of this next glass.

------------------------------------------------------------

The noise of the city nightlife drowns out most of my thoughts, allowing me the brief peace that comes from not being able to focus on my own issues. But the further I walk, the quieter the streets become and the louder my mind speaks.

It reminds me that I wasn't even in the same country as Yohji for his last birthday; and that before then, he always disappeared on this day and wouldn't usually come back for a couple of nights. Looking back now, I can pinpoint the year that it went from irritating me to tearing me apart inside…but back then, I was too much of a coward to do anything about it.

And now he's gone.

I wonder what his life is like now…is he happy? Is he spending tonight in bed with a woman? Or with two women? It wouldn't surprise me, considering some of the stories he told…

My depressive mood turns livid when the breath is suddenly knocked from my body. Quickly registering that some stinking drunk leaving a bar has slammed right into me, I lash out with my fist and connect against the moron's jaw. He falls to the ground, and as I begin to walk away he starts to yell in a slightly slurred voice.

“What the fuck was that for, Aya? Stupid bastard…”

I feel like I am about to vomit, and whirling around I see the man sprawled out on the ground…the long-limbed, blonde-haired beauty who looks like he's been crying for hours, faintly illuminated by the light from the bar.

“What did you just say?”

I can't believe…it's…it can't be…There's no way that the man on the ground is…is Yohji? And did he really say…'Aya'?

“I said, what the fuck was that for, man? And then I called you a stupid bastard, you stupid bastard! Why, what're you gonna do? Gonna hit me again? Please, do it. But make sure you do it properly; you may as well just go ahead and kill me, I don't even fucking care anymore…”

He looks so dejected, drunk off his babbling ass and sitting on the ground with one hand gingerly prodding at his jaw, that my first urge is to pick him up off the ground and embrace him until he can't breathe…I haven't laid eyes on this man in over a year.

But clearly, he doesn't remember. I must have imagined him saying my name…though why I'd imagine someone saying the name I haven't heard in a year, I don't know. Some sort of wistful delusion, I suppose.

As it is, I extend my hand to him, waiting for him to accept the help to stand again. My mind is in a state of shock…Yohji is sitting in front of me…talking to me…and I don't think this is a dream…

The moment his fingers clench around mine, the world stops. For a second, the only life in the universe is me and this man who used to be my everything. I truly never thought that I would see him again, let alone punch him in the face when we met once again…

I forget that fact that he doesn't remember what we had, and simply revel in the feel of his skin on mine. Yohji doesn't seem to appreciate the moment in the same way.

“Oi, you, as nice as I find holdin' your hand, I gotta tell you, I'm straight and marri-…”

His voice trails off, but he said enough to drag rusted nails through my heart. He…he got married? As in…married to a woman? Oh, God, I though that time would make this easier…I drop his hand, stuffing my own in my pocket.

“…But I guess I'm not really married anymore, what with the whole `my wife is dead' thing…”

His words break through my cloud of self-pity, and he dissolves into laughter that chills me to the bone. It's not a humourous laugh in the least…it's a bitter sound, one that grows more and more maniacal before dissolving into loud sobs of anguish. Did he just say…dead?

Kneeling next to him on the footpath, I ignore the fact that he doesn't know who I am and wrap my arms around his shoulders. For the first time in God knows how long, I make physical contact with someone who isn't about to die by my hand…the experience is made even more surreal by the fact that the man in my arms is Yohji…or, a new man who inhabits his body…

As much as it's going to hurt, I have to play dumb here.

“Shhhh…What's your name?”

“My…my name? It doesn't matter, it's not…not my r-real name anyway, just one I made u-up off the top…top of my head…”

His voice cracks and fluctuates wildly, his words punctuated by sobs and gasps for air. My arms tighten around him, but he stiffens and breaks out of my grip. His body is still shaking, but I can tell he's trying hard to calm himself; the alcohol in his system is making that difficult.

“S-…sorry, I'm making a total mess of myse-…”

He cuts his sentence off, cocking his head to the side. The clouded look that had been put in his eyes by the alcohol disappears, replaced by a frightening, searching clarity. As if the intoxication has been completely flushed from his system, his voice is steady when he starts to speak again.

“I know you…I mean, have we ever met before?”

------------------------------------------------------------

The man standing above me inhales sharply at my question. The stabbing pain, the one that comes back whenever I try to remember, starts in on my brain but I attempt to ignore it. I can barely see him, with the light coming from behind silhouetting his features, but there's something…something about this man that means a lot to me.

The pain in my head is compounded by the pain in my heart from Asuka, but all I can concentrate on is the man in front of me. Wobbling slightly, I stagger to my feet; the man comes in and out of focus, but I try my hardest to stop him from going into double. He takes a step back, as if looking to run away.

I reach out and grab hold of his bicep. He knows something…

“What do you know about me? About my life before I forgot everything?”

He takes a deep breath, wrenching his arm from my hand.

“I've never met you, you drunk bastard. Go home, sleep it off.”

He hisses the words, sounding furious with everything. That only serves to make me angrier, as do his words; I can't go home, not with her body still hanging there…

“You're lying.”

The words are out of my mouth before I know why I'd say something like that. He sounded convincing, and what would I know? I don't remember anyone I met before this time last year, so he's probably telling the truth.

But that horrible, cold voice from earlier is back; it's telling me that he's lying, and that there's no doubt about it. Does this mean…is this voice from my old life, or something?

“And you're drunk. Look, I'll drive you home; you're in no condition to do it yourself.”

I'm fully aware that he just purposely changed the subject, but it suddenly doesn't matter. Asuka…why did you have to leave me like that? The cold voice comes back, whispering something that sounds like `again', but I ignore it.

I can't go home, I have no home to go to anymore…The tears begin to flow again as all the pain I tried to ignore comes back full force.

“I…I don't have a-a home anymore…”

The man steps back towards me, and for a moment I think that he's going to hug me again. My head mentions that I should be freaked out by the thought of a strange man touching me like that…but my body leans towards him, even as I continue to bawl like a child.

…Is there something that my subconscious remembers about this vaguely familiar person? Or am I just going insane in my grief?

As if catching himself, the stranger freezes and puts a reasonable distance between us. I can't see his face, but I want to know what he's thinking so badly…

“Why? There has to be somewhere I can take you.”

I don't even care that this man is a stranger anymore. The story of the past few hours is spilling out of my mouth before I can stop it.

“I got h-home this afternoon and…and my wife, she…she'd k-…she'd k-k…My wife fucking killed herself! Oh God, Asuka, I can't believe you're dead…”

My legs go weak once again, but before I feel the hard pavement scrape my knees an arm wraps around my waist. I'm bent almost double with only this man's arm supporting me to stand…

His deep voice rumbles through my ears, and for whatever reason…it soothes me.

“I'm going to sit you here against this wall. I have to make a call, but I'll be back in a minute, so don't move.”

I know it's an order, which vaguely irritates me, but nonetheless I let him gently lower me to the ground. Once he's satisfied that I can't fall any further, he turns and walks away, pulling out a mobile phone. He's too far away for me to catch any of the conversation.

------------------------------------------------------------

As Yohji speaks, my mind begins to turn, analysing the facts while trying to block out the pervading bliss that appeared when I laid eyes on him.

Firstly, either his memory has come back enough for him to remember Asuka, or he married someone with the same name. That nurse from the hospital? I feel an irrational flash of jealousy, which leads to the next point.

More than once, he mentioned someone being dead; it would also appear that his wife has committed suicide.

And thirdly? I've got my arm around his waist to steady him before he falls. The familiar shape of his body, and the familiar smell underneath a layer of disgusting cologne and alcohol…Even though he's struggling to stay upright and is in a terrible condition, I harden just a little.

It's been a long time since I experienced this…my body is crying out for attention, but that will only do more harm than good.

And by the sound of what he's said, the woman's body is still at his house. I can't call the police, because I don't know where to send them; I don't want to hurt Yohji further by asking a lot of questions.

I only have one option in this situation.

Telling Yohji that I have to make a call, I prop him against the wall of the bar and walk away, keeping watch on him out of the corner of my eye. I don't want to let him out of my sight…he's truly broken, once again.

This is all so similar to the night I watched him kill Neu, and the night that he appeared in my room and stayed for the very first time.

Sighing softly, I pull my mobile phone out of my pocket. There is one number on speed dial that I've never had to use…but right now, there's no other choice. The direct number to Persia…I don't want to call him, but as the Chief of Police he'll handle this situation properly, and he surely knows where the house is.

I didn't want to have to bring Yohji back to Kritiker in any fashion…but there's nothing else that I can possibly do. For Yohji, I have to make sure that his wife's body is treated properly. It seems that he loved her, whether it was true affection or if his subconscious simply reached out to the name.

I steel myself as I press the button to call the number. I have to make this as quick as possible, before Yohji gets any stupid ideas in his head. He might not recognise me, and he might be a totally different person, but…if something happened to him, I couldn't take it.

I still love him.

“Abyssinian?”

The easily-recognisable voice of Takatori sounds astounded. It's no wonder; I've managed to avoid nearly all direct contact with him since the final mission against Epitaph.

“Persia. It seems that there has been a…disturbance at the residence of former agent Balinese. From what I can gather, his wife has committed suicide and her body is still in the house.”

There's a shocked gasp from the other end of the line before the professional voice returns.

“And how did you come to know this information? I though you'd cut all ties with the former Balinese.”

“I came across him in the street, intoxicated and clearly not coping. He doesn't recognise me, but he told me the information himself.”

There's silence, and I vaguely wonder if Persia's face is crinkled in concentration, just as he used to do years ago. When the voice returns, I'm surprised to hear that the cold professionalism has disappeared from it.

“Listen, Ay-…Ran. I know that this is going to be hard for you, but could you please stay with him for a while longer? I'll send someone over to deal with the body immediately, but…who knows what trauma of this kind will do to his mind?”

He sounds so genuinely concerned…for a moment, I could have sworn that I was talking to Omi and not the manipulative bastard who leads Kritiker. Then, the true weight of his request dawns on me.

“Ran? Please, can you look after him? His doctors did mention that a severe shock or rush of emotion could possibly trigger his memories…I don't want him to be alone if that happens. I also don't know if he'd be feeling suicidal…Please, Ran, I know you still love him.”

I…I'm actually not sure if I can do this. Comfort is a foreign concept to me…surely I'd just make things worse. And what gives Takatori the right to ask something like that of me? Presuming that he knows everything about how I feel…

But, a part of me whispers, he's right.

“Fine.”

And with that snapped word, I sever the connection.

Turning back to Yohji, I walk over and am about to come up with some sort of a plausible cover story when I hear him snore.

He's fallen asleep, propped against the rough wall of the dirty building.

Despite everything that has happened, the shock of seeing Yohji and the pain of seeing him suffer, as well as the request from Persia, I can't help but let out a small laugh.

He hasn't really changed all that much.

Lifting his unresponsive arm over my shoulders, I haul him from the ground. My skin is tingling where he's pressed against my side, but I have to ignore it. For now, it looks like I must take him home…to my home.

I feel my heart leap at the thought that I truly have Yohji in my arms, and that I'm carrying his unconscious body to my car…and I know that he's still inside that glorious body somewhere.

After all, he thought that he recognised me…surely that wasn't merely his drunken mind confusing me with someone from his new life.

At least, I hope not.

Reaching my car, I gently lay him down in my back seat. I suppose I'll have a visitor sleeping on my couch tonight; though only God knows what's going to happen when he wakes up tomorrow.

It occurs to me that for the first time, I'm with Yohji on the day of his birthday. The world is a cruel place, when you do the things I do.

------------------------------------------------------------

Sitting up on a strange couch, I finally survey my surroundings while my head pounds with a feeling I recognise as being a hangover. I've been awake for twenty minutes, and for fifteen of those minutes I was crying my eyes out about yesterday.

Now, there's just nothing left. Only a throbbing numb feeling and a slightly uneasy sense that comes from waking up in a strange place, that I know only to be a living room. I have no idea where I am; there are no pictures on the walls to tell me who might own this place, and when I looked out of the window only the concrete jungle of the city greeted me. There is nothing out of the ordinary to indicate where I might be.

The only possibility I can come up with is that this place belongs to the man I met last night.

He said he didn't know me…but it didn't sound like the truth. Is this further proof that we really have met before, the fact that he took an emotional, sobbing drunk to his apartment?

My head aches even worse, and so I make a conscious effort to stop thinking. Whoever brought me here is gonna appear soon, I know it; there's no point in stressing about the unknown factors.

Settling back into the comfortable couch, I spot a spiral-bound book sitting on a low table to my left. Well, if I'm just going to be passing the time…

Reaching across, I grab the book. Upon opening it, I'm surprised to find that it's a sketchbook of some sort. The first drawing seems to be of a person in a bed with his back turned to the artist…it's done extremely well. Did the person who lives here draw this?

Flicking through the pages, I can't help but notice that many of the pencil and pen sketches feature the face of the same man, one with short hair and delicate features. Something reaches out to me from the drawings, but then again, that's been happening a lot lately…

I hear footsteps coming from a hallway behind me, and it occurs to me that it's probably whoever brought me here. Finally, I might get some answers about where I am.

The door to the living room opens, and I close the book to place it back on the table. Movement catches my eyes, and I see a small piece of white paper fall from the pages to the ground. Rolling over to pick it up, I see bare feet appear in my line of sight as I reach down to grab the paper.

Picking it up, I guess that it's a photo from the weight and size. As I turn it over, I see the feet across the room move.

“NO! DON'T!”

I barely hear the panicked yell as I take in the contents of the photo. In the foreground, lying back as if basking in the sun, is a lanky blonde man…me. Is this…is this how I looked before the accident? There's no doubt that it's me sprawled out there, but…why?

My breathing gets faster as I see the other man in the photo, sitting behind the blo-…me with much more class. His facial expression is pure anger; and yet, I still recognise those features. A pale face, set with purple eyes…and framed with deep red hair.

This is the man from my dreams; I never saw the rest of him, but those three details are so identical to the man I dream about fucking that I know it's him.

A million questions jump to mind, with a few coming to the front of my brain in perfect clarity. Does the person who lives here know who this is? Can they take me to him? Why do they have this photo, anyway? Who the fuck are they?

I address the feet from my current position, still hanging half off the couch.

“Hey, who is-…”

My voice stops working when I lift my head to fully take in the man standing in front of me.

For the first time, I finally see the man who helped me last night. In the night, he was just a dark and shadowed figure; but now, in the light of day…I see my pale, redheaded, violet-eyed rescuer.

My voice momentarily comes back, allowing me to gasp out a single sentence.

“Who am I?”