I told no one of the times when he visited me in my sleep. I couldn't bear to have them grow concerned. They would question me and force their opinions on my conscience. How could I explain it? I knew every feature of his face, and yet I have no memory of ever seeing him in my waking days.

Most of those that I've met since I first awoke in this foreign, hostile city, I have kept everything from. I imagined up my life story and lied through my teeth to them. My situation was not normal. The only people who knew of my condition were those I had met at the pub the other night. And what did they care? They probably didn't even believe me.

And yet, here I was without a clue, passing each day in a depressed stupor. I lived in the apartment I'd first awoken in, and I only went out for food or to visit my few 'friends'. Except for last night: that had been a mistake. I hadn't meant to tell everyone about myself, but they'd boughten me drinks, and I'd gotten carried away.

I pushed the heavy covers from my shaking body and carefully touched my toes against the cool floor. The apartment was richer than any of my friend's, and the bottom drawer of the dresser was full of money. That was how I was living. At least once a day, I would catch myself wondering if whoever owned the apartment would return. I would get answers from them if they did, but I would face my fears too.

I was positively haunted by my erased life. Perhaps, one day, I would get the push that was needed to get me on the road to discovering who I was. I feared the day, but I knew it had to come. I couldn't keep living like this. Something would catch up to me from my past life. And then it would begin.

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