Doyle, wake up. It's time. You've slept long enough.
The room was filled with darkness. Doyle tried to hold his hand over his face but couldn’t tell if he was actually doing it. His body ached from muscle pain even when he laid still. The pain was so extreme that when he lifted his hand, he couldn’t gage the degree of pain from laying still to actually moving. His eyes couldn’t help him either. Rendered useless by the darkness, he felt blind. He closed them again. The sour taste of iron filled his mouth as his dry tongue shifted from side to side. Doyle laid there on the cold platform trying to collect his thoughts. Little memories of the past were present in his mind. He had no knowledge of how he got to where he was, or where this was at all.
Memories are important. Imagine forgetting your co-workers name when he greets you in the morning or a phone number for that special someone that you told yourself that you'd never forget. It becomes an annoying feeling of loss. It's almost as if someone took it away from you without your consent. You had no intention of letting go of that information, yet it is gone. Although in this case it would be only a small part of your memory you still feel violated and try to retrieve that knowledge as soon as possible, and once it comes back to you, you could jump into celebration and even run to your co-workers office and greet him at midday with "Good Morning Steve".
For Doyle, it was a little more severe. The past in his mind was and empty void that once held the memories of events that made him who he is now. He could not recall a single face, his childhood years, his first love, but most important he could not recall himself. In his recent dream he was referred to as Doyle by a strange voice. Strange in respect that it was the only familiar thing that he could remember. Maybe because the voice in his dream was after his memory loss and became the oldest memory in his mind.