IMAGES PLAYED at the edge of his consciousness, creating a webbed but disjointed slideshow. Scenes seemed connected but confused, like a storyboard that had been tipped and jumbled, disjointing the order and twisting the timeline. Suddenly, the screeches of women—some in pain and others in panic—permeated the air as gobs of liquid fire enveloped them, searing their bodies and finally silencing them. Screams in a forgotten language left his mouth, joining the throngs of agonized moans as an eerie silence and pain overtook him. As quickly as it started, it stopped. Blackness threatened to overcome, but then the scene changed, or maybe it just became clear, because the vision of a man wearing a cloak came into focus. He was bathed in red flame, and his step crushed the concrete beneath him while tempestuous winds swished and swirled around him. He walked forward, holding something in his hand that seemed solid but at the same time wavered with pulsing energy. Hatred so intense it almost took a physical form radiated from the cloaked man as he moved closer to where a second man lay panting. The second man seemed defeated; he lay battered, bloody, and bruised. The cloaked man grinned, purpose shining in his movements, and an aura of evil—pure evil—surrounded him. He moved on, but it seemed to take a long time for him to get close to where the second man lay. It was as if he were fighting an invisible force that impeded his progress. As the second man lay there, repulsion seeped in, emboldening him to move. He did so, but being too weak, merely stumbled back to the ground. The man with the cloak approached calmly, getting closer and closer. His cruel eyes shone under the dark cloak as finally the shadow of a face could be seen. The embodiment of fear peered out from the darkness of the cloak as a countenance was both lit up and thrown into relief by the light of the object positioned aggressively in his hand. A smile played across cruel lips as he raised his hand to strike—

  MONSON AWOKE WITH A START, breathing heavily and feeling slightly feverish. The curtains darkened his room, making it impossible to tell the time of day. Monson reached up, placing his hand on his forehead, and felt cold beads of sweat on his brow. How long had he been asleep? It couldn’t have been long, but there was no way of telling because of the curtains, and he didn’t have a watch with him. Monson noticed a pitcher of water sitting on the bedside cabinet to his left. He stood up, retrieved the pitcher, and poured water into a glass, downing the contents in two great gulps.

  And people always wonder why I look so tired, Monson thought wryly. He climbed back into bed and stared at the ceiling. Strange images flashed across his vision as realization hit him. A dream, yet another, that he could barely remember. He closed his eyes, trying to grasp and decipher what he saw.

  Pain. Screaming. Distinct. Familiar—damned familiar. Everything is damned familiar! Monson opened his eyes, punching his bed in frustration. He had dreamt of something important, but now he couldn’t remember the dream or why it was important. Was it a repressed memory or a piece of the past? Why? Why couldn’t he remember?

  Monson felt like tearing his hair out, if only to give him something else to ponder. This vision or nightmare was different—a new dream from a new avenue of the mind. He felt that, but he didn’t know how to latch onto these dreams. He probably never would.

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  This line of thought made Monson wonder about his past self. A single moment had wiped out the person known as Monson Grey, and now lying on this bed was a shadow of that person, that seemingly fictional being, who wrestled with his own fears and the realities of his life. When he looked in the mirror, he didn’t recognize the face looking back at him.

  Monson rolled onto his stomach.

  What am I left with? Where do I go from here? Will these dreams ever make sense?

  Monson paused. His dreams.

  Monson wondered what his dreams were like before the attack took everything from him. Were there dreams he could remember? Were they full of happy thoughts and silly desires? Did they reflect his heart, his wishes, his humanity?

  Humanity?

  Monson scowled to himself.

  What humanity? What is humanity, even? Does having dreams and ambitions make up your humanity? Or is it something else? Something like…

  Fear.

  What was there to fear? Monson wasn’t sure. But he did know that he had fears: fear of the known, the unknown, the probable, and the possible. He feared death. The idea scared him. But more than death, he had a fear of life—living when he did not know himself. He just had fear.

  Monson let out a long yawn, exhaling the air and with it those difficult subjects.

  What was with these depressing thoughts? Be thankful you’re alive. A lot of people aren’t. You were spared. You were lucky.

  “That’s right,” Monson said out loud. He looked for something else to occupy the time.

  Maybe I’ll do some reading.

  After a moment or two of looking, Monson found his backpack just inside the door to his room. He assumed that Brian had put it there, as he couldn’t remember doing it himself.

  In his current state of memory loss, the only thing Monson could depend on was Molly. She had been there for him, rarely leaving his side in those first difficult days. Those had been some of his most trying—the ones right after he awoke from his comatose state. He awoke knowing so little and seeing only strangers in a strange place. Yet Molly was there for him. That was truly a time he would never forget. He remembered the touch of Molly’s hand as she asked how he was doing. He remembered the look on her face when he asked, “Who are you?” He remembered her scanning his frame and the rich detail of her tear-filled eyes as she took in his scarred and torn body.

  Monson felt the rims of his eyes water. Tears?

  He dabbed at the corners.

  Hope for understanding and recovery did come, however. Molly made sure of that. They spoke long into the night, and slowly, painfully, as if he were pulling pieces of himself through a mesh net, Monson began to remember; memories flooded back to him. They weren’t much, but they were his. He knew it would be a long time before he was back to normal—assuming he got there at all.

  Monson paused at this. Normal. What is normal? Monson possessed no concept of the word; the idea remained beyond his reach.

  He chuckled as he thought about the whole ordeal. Coren. Baroty Bridge. His grandfather. All of those people. Monson stopped laughing, ashamed of himself. These were not laughing matters. Monson tended to use humor to deal with stress, which probably wasn’t always the best idea, but go with what works was his philosophy. Monson adjusted his body, trying to find a more comfortable position.

  He felt drained, weak, and tired… always tired. He was so uncomfortable.