BEAST.

Chapter 1

      Nothing. Definition: Not anything, not a single thing. That's how I like to describe myself because it's exactly how I feel. It's all I know.

     Now, I'm not trying to be purposefully "edgy" or "unstable". I'm not trying to pretend to be "heartless" or "soulless", to invent to others I'm some trendy emotionless individual that acts like crippling anxiety is a personality trait. I suppose the right way to say this is that nothing... is what I've become.

     Ever since I lost my memories.

     Amnesia, post-traumatic memory loss. Long term or short term, no one at this damned hospital is sure. I would tell you how this happened, if I actually knew myself. I only have a small recollection, bits and pieces from what nurses and doctors alike told me with one fact being that I should have died in that car crash.

     I, Atlas (or so I've been apprised), was in a Ford white pickup truck speeding down some dark windy road before being stopped abruptly by the impact of me colliding into a small yellow buggy three months ago. I was ejected from the car from the cause of not wearing my seatbelt onto the pavement where I cracked my skull. Dr. Sinjoin, my primary doctor, showed me the scan and I won't lie, that huge crack looked pretty cool.

     Although, it did almost end my life seeing as I did die for one full minute in the Or before they were able to revive me. Such a daredevil, I know. Let's not celebrate just yet as there is a dark side to everything, my miraculous recovery had a pretty heavy one. You see, the owner of that quaint bug themed car wasn't as lucky as I.

     She died.

     Or well, I murdered her.

     I'm not allowed to say that in my weekly therapy sessions with Dr. Simaya, she's a close colleague and cousin of Dr. Sinjoins. Both Indian, good looking - smart. She's a psychologist though. The first time I brought it up, over and over I was told that it wasn't my fault because it truly wasn't. My brakes were cut.

     By who? Unbeknownst to me and the NYPD. She says I'm suffering from survivors guilt but I didn't pay much attention because it's just something to add to my list of the many things wrong with me. So maybe I'm not just nothing. Maybe I'm a murderer, yet the attempt on my life is the one being investigated. I was no help in my own case, since I have no remembrance of the events that took place that night so trying to question me was a waste of their time.

     The nurses had taken note though during my recovery being unconscious, I muttered the words "I can't stop! I can't stop!".

     Spooky, right?

     I did have some visitors, or well visiting attempts. They wouldn't allow a man they called my brother and some girl he kept trying to bring along to see me for the past few months. Dr. Sinjoin told me the girl claimed to be my best friend. I don't understand the meaning.

     Definition: a person's closest friend.

     Nurse Quinn probably shouldn't have lent me her laptop and gain access to the internet but what's done is done. I've read people have multiple best friends, but this title is supposed to be special and for one person only. Incredibly contradictory but I'll look past it.

     The door creaked open a crack and I turned my head to look over my shoulder at the familiar spectacled brown eyes.

     "I'm decent." I turned forward as Dr. Sinjon pushed his glasses forward and cleared his throat, entering the room. I caught a glimpse of myself in the small circular mirror that hung by the door, blue eyes staring back at me. My hair was so blonde it looked almost white, whiter than my fair skin at least.