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.
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.