After this realization, the man turned in another circle simply because he didn’t know what else to do. After doing this successfully for three or four times, his stomach growled and another mission presented itself. The man then went back inside into the security and the homeliness of the cabin and began his instinctive search for food. Like a lion searching for his prey, the man wandered about the small kitchen, opening and closing cabinets in a stealthy calm. Finally after finding the bowls and the cups and the little poky pieces of metal used to pick up food, the man found a half-empty box of Cheerios and a jar of peanut butter. The man’s hunger was so terrorizing, that to relieve it, he simply put the box up to face, almost swallowing the Cheerios whole.

            The box of Cheerios was quickly finished and he threw the empty cardboard container aside. His hunger temporarily eased, the man’s mouth now felt dry and sticky with stale saliva. Again, he turned around in a full circle, searching for something that might relieve him of this new, uncomfortable feeling. Spinning around for a second time, the man located the source of the thing that might alleviate his thirst. Somehow he knew that water was only a twist of the handle away, and once more, his problems were solved for him. Quickly, and with more determination, the man turned the tap on.

            The faucet gurgled and growled and nothing happened. The man waited for what seemed like minutes until orange, rusty water finally came sputtering out. Without hesitating, the man splashed the desert-red water on his face until it became clear. He knew that wasting a single drop of the precious liquid would be a terrible shame. Now that the water was clear and cool, the man put his mouth to the faucet and drank. It was immensely pleasurable, especially since he hardly knew what pleasure was. After the man turned off the tap and wiped his face dry with his shirt, he addressed that silly feeling in his stomach telling him that something was really not right about his situation.

            Once again, the man looked around him, taking more time to inspect his surroundings. Closing his eyes, opening, closing and then opening again, the man began to really process what he saw. He was in a small log cabin with a table, a bed, a kitchen, a ladder leading up to some sort of loft, and two doors. On the ground, near the man's dust-shadow, the place where he woke up, were the shattered remains of some sort of syringe. He was presumably alone, judging by the small space and the silence it provided. He had just woken up on the floor and for some reason nothing looked remotely familiar. Then he looked down at his own dirty jeans and un-tucked shirt. He really didn't know anything.

            And then the true realization slammed into him, making his head hurt with dizziness. He didn't have a memory. While he once reasoned that the cause of why his brain was running so slowly was simply in correlation with his massive headache, he now knew that he actually had no memory of anything. He didn't know where he was, why he was there, who he might have ever been associated with, or even the time of day. And then the true shock rushed in. He couldn't even tell himself who he was; he couldn't even remember his name.

The End

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