Conflicting Memories

Sometime after (I didn't know how long after), I slipped away into a fitful form of sleep. My body ached with the remaining fire of the drug, and my muscles twitched painfully. these were the only things that I --barely-- was aware of; the only evidence that proved I was still alive. And believe me, I had doubts about it. Espescially after that rather unsettling (and painful) incident.

Just as my sleep started to perch on the brink of restfulness, I woke.

My surroundings were strangely familiar; quite unlike the medical facility I'd remembered being in.

A warm bed, nestled in the corner of small, neat living quarters. The dark metallic furnishings were both comforting and practical.

I found myself appreciating its efficiency. Much like like my early-childhood upbringings. I had inherited Father's love of such things.


Dad didn't care for modern surroundings. He said that "advanced" places were cold and unsettling.


I could remember both facts about my father, but only slightly, not with crystal clarity.

As if I had only read about these nuances in a novel, and couldn't tell if it were memory of something else I'd made up.

Where is this coming from? Why such confusion about my father?

Had I not just been told I had no biological parents? I was a clone, presumedly. My "dad" was not my truly my "father".

But that had to be wrong.

I remember it well: Father was my only family. Had been since mum died. He was a doctor, one of the finest surgeons in all of Great Britain.

Great Britain? What the--?

I've grown up my entire life in D.C., I'm an American, not some bleeding Brittish git!

I sat up with considerable pain. I ignored it.

"Bleeding"? "Git"?

Since when did I use those words?

Since you grew up using them, stupid!

Grew up using--?

You grew up in England!

The answer made perfect sense, and yet left me more confused than ever.

I swung my feet over the side of the bed, and stood up, expecting to feel dizzy. A sigh of relief when my head was clear and stable (aside from confusion, that is).

A white slip of paper, the corner pinned to the glass table by a slender vase, caught my attention. In a hurried but neat scrawl was a short note:

Meet me at the mess hall


I bent to smell the lone white rose in the vase before heading to clean up. Its sweet floral scent permeated the room nicely.

Amid my overwhelming confusion, one thing I was certain of: roses were my favorite.

The End

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