Some may have wondered where they were, who they were, or maybe even managed to reach the level of wondering why they were who they were and where they where, but when Cylo Ferris woke up without any recollection of the who's, what's, when's, where's, why's, and how's of his existence, the only thing on his mind was that he was spectacularly hungry.
And so, without worrying where exactly he was, he stumbled around in the dark, and without wondering exactly whose hands he had at the ends of the arms that seemed to branch from his shoulders (and so on), he reached them out in front of him to search for something to eat.
It was around this time that he realized something was amiss. He couldn't see a thing in this blackness, but he had always had extraordinary night-sight. Except, no, he hadn't, because that was the sort of thing someone who knew who they were remembered, and he didn't know who he was. So, without thinking any further on the subject, he dismissed the thought and chalked up the lack of sight up to having terrible night vision and the stray thought that denied this to the fact that right about now, he would just really like to have better eyes.
Of course, when his eyes began to hurt and he tried to blink, only to realize they were already shut, he was made quite aware of the fact that having bad eyes had much less to do with things than having closed eyes. So, feeling a little on the foolish side, he opened what he presumed to be his eyes and tried this 'looking around' business once more.
What he saw was pretty unremarkable, but more importantly, not a buffet table. Or even a kitchen. Or anything remotely resembling a food-storage facility. There was a very small chance that he might find an old sandwich stuffed somewhere ridiculous and housing an advanced society of mold-people, or maybe a half-melted candy bar in some hidden nook (or cranny), but he didn't bother getting his hopes up. He had a strange feeling that this dimly-lit room would be pretty immaculate, and an even stranger feeling that it was his room.
* * *
A strangely easy time was spent finding his way out of the room, through a hall, down some stairs, past an ornate front door, and into a kitchen. Strange because, though his eyes were now open, it was still very dark, and yet he did not stumble or falter or fall flat on his face even once.
But he was, honestly, too happy to be in the presence of food to question his uncanny ability to know things he didn't know.
Like the fact that he would have to pull upward as well as outward to open to door of the stainless steel behemoth that was the refrigerator in this place. Or that the cheese had gone bad a few days ago. Or, most importantly, that there was a particularly delicious sandwich hiding behind a wine bottle just there in the bottom bit. No, to the left a little. Yes, that one.
He had just managed to slide said sandwich from it's frigid home when the bright lights in the kitchen turned on, causing him to first close his eyes in pain and drop his sandwich, and then open them in a squinty manner and fumble for the dropped sandwich. Eyes watering from the sudden change in lighting, he grabbed the sandwich with both hands and pointed it at the entrance to the kitchen as if it were some sort of pickle-firing weapon. And then he waited, for his eyes to adjust or for the intruder to make a move.
A long silence was broken by a sigh, a sigh that came from a face that looked a mixture of incredulous and weary, a face that belonged to a woman, a woman of perhaps four point five decades. And four point five decades that had been incredibly kind to her, apparently, because she was very well-preserved, to use the most modest term. And while this woman is enormously important to the story in later stages, right now the only thing that mattered was what she said after the aforementioned sigh.
"Cylo, you need to stop getting up so late to eat. I thought someone broke in," said the woman, in exasperated tones. "And what on earth are you doing with that sandwich? I don't know how I ended up raising a lunatic like this."
And then it all came back to him. He was Cylo Ferris, a mild-mannered highschool senior. This was his house, his kitchen, his sandwich, his mother, and he had just woken up in the middle of the night, in his room, because he was hungry. He had no explanation for why his memory had gone kaput momentarily, and frankly, thinking about it gave him a headache.
So he didn't.
"Sorry mom, I'll try to be more quiet next time," he said, lowering the threatening sandwich. The sheepish smile on his face gave him the perfect image of a loving son who was truly sorry for waking his mother.
For good measure, he traversed the length of the kitchen and gave the woman a warm hug. She seemed surprised by the gesture, but accepted and returned it. A hint of... guilt, perhaps? passed across her features, but Cylo was currently too busy with his embrace to notice her face.
He was just happy to be home.