To Be Obscure

| CH. 24

Air struggled to leave me as I opened my eyes. My chest was tight, sore, and everything hurt to move. From my lips down to my fingers and toes, I was stiff, cold, and detached from my body.

My gaze settled on a light fixture on the ceiling, an old-style chandelier. Three of the bulbs were burned out, but the rest brought life to the room I laid within. The walls were covered with tattered wallpaper, and dark curtains covered a large window, partially boarded up with damp wood. I could feel old carpet beneath my fingers, but a warmth under my head—a lap. I shifted my eyes higher to see Nathan's sleeping face. My sore hands moved to touch him, and that's when I knew he wasn't sleeping. He was unconscious.

The sound of a lighter's flame settled on my ears.

"It's been years, John," a voice said, "you haven't changed at all."

Every part of me screamed in agony as I pushed myself up to sit. Parts of my vision clouded with white before my eyes fell upon a man that stood near the door. He didn't look at me, but down at the cigarette in his hands. His lighter burned the end of it before he returned it to the pocket of his jeans; he drew in one long drag of it, before lifting his eyes to look at me.

Those blue eyes turned bright, illuminating his pale face and blond, slicked-back hair. The image of him blurred with a memory I'd never recalled before: a man, standing in a field of tall grass, looking at me with the same gaze.

The man in the field was younger, softer, with a smile on his face; the man in front of me was hard, with a scowl and furrowed brows, eyes separated by a single stream of cigarette smoke.

When I blinked, the field vanished, leaving me in the dim room, accompanied by the man with vivid eyes. He lifted his chin and blew smoke at the ceiling. "Sorry, son, would you rather I call you Lamont? It'd make no difference to me."

My fingers dug into the carpet. "Who are you?"

His eyes closed as he flicked ashes down at his feet. In his silence, I took the chance to look at myself. My clothes were dirty, my hoodie gone. I felt around my sore abdomen as I pulled at my shirt. It was red and black, colored by my blood, and ripped around my shoulder where the bullet drove through. I touched the hole with shaky fingers, feeling against the tender wound. My skin had sealed closed, but it was terribly bruised and sent sharp pains down my arm.

"Stop moving," the man said. I met his gaze again. "Do you remember what happened?"

"Yes," I muttered. "Why wouldn't I remember?"

A strand of blond hair fell between his eyes with a shift of his head. "Because you can't seem to remember anything else. You don't know me, or anyone here. You don't know where you come from."

I pushed myself up to stand and Nathan's body slumped down against my feet. I looked at him, kneeling to examine his face. He seemed to have no new injuries.

"Apologies," the man said, "Ronald is a rather loose cannon. He'll be dealt with. Casualties seem to follow his every step."

I drew in a breath at the sound of his name. "Where is the fucker, now?"

The man cocked a brow. "Why, he's here, of course. Where else would he be?"

"Here," I stood, shifting my feet to keep balanced, "where is here?"

"Surely your memory loss does not include spans of a few hours. You're here."

"Listen, old man," I said, and froze because he didn't look old at all. There were minimal lines on his face, and his hair seemed natural, not dyed. The light in his eyes flickered to a normal shade as he took another drag of his cigarette.