Finding West

2

STRANGER



I am a man without an identity.

A heavy mass of dread weighed down my legs as I made the short walk from the kitchen to the bathroom. I knew it had to be done, but even the idea of looking at the stranger in the mirror one more time fired fear down my spine.

But I did it. I put down the bundle of clothes on the counter, took a deep breath, and looked in the large rectangular mirror. Seeing the face I didn't recognize wasn't so bad the second time around, not quite as shocking. I still didn't recognize the man who stared back, but at least I no longer wanted to throw up at the sight of him.

The bandage on my forehead looked fairly untouched, but I pulled it off anyway to see the damage underneath. The wound that had allegedly knocked me out was held together by butterfly strips, but it was not so big that it might cause memory loss. At least, I didn't think so.
I ran a finger along my dirt-stained cheek and pulled my lower eyelids away from my stark grey eyes but felt no spark of recognition.

"Who the hell are you?" I asked, my breath fogging a spot on the mirror.

My dark brown beard was thick: not completely unkempt, but coupled with my wild hair, I looked like a mountain man. It was a wonder the woman outside hadn't mistaken me for a bear and just left me to die on the side of the road.

Not wanting to keep my host waiting, I tore off my clothes—finding no wallet or any form of identification in my pockets—and stepped into the tiny glass-walled shower and turned on the water.

The cold blast of water was a shock, like a thousand little knives stabbing my chest, but it was reassuring in a way. Pain was something I remembered, something I was apparently used to. I looked down at my body, surprised at the definition in my stomach, at the muscles on my legs. Then I saw them, the indented lines on my body consistent with scarring. I saw one on my thigh, then a long one along my side, and suddenly it was like a hunt, as if finding each one could unlock the memories in my head.

Who the hell was I and why did I have so many scars on my body?

It felt good to be clean, to wear dry clothes again even if I was freeballing in some other man's jeans. Even the reflection in the mirror looked marginally better. I combed my fingers through my hair, brushing it away from my face, and straightened out my eyebrows. It was the best I could do under the circumstance.

When I came out I was greeted with the most heavenly scent known to man: the mouthwatering aroma of frying meat. I followed my nose and found my host in the kitchen, pouring orange juice into two glasses.

She spun around when my grumbling stomach announced my return. "I guess I'm hungry," I said, rubbing my stomach and eyeing the food, hoping she'd made some for me.

She pointed to a plate on the counter. "Help yourself," she said, taking her own food to the table.
I followed suit and sat down across the round table, feeling a little awkward at the normalcy and domesticity of it all. "Thank you for—"

"You can stop thanking me now," she said in that raspy soft voice of hers that was always edged with steel, as if she had to constantly prove something. "Anybody would have done the same."

"No, they wouldn't," I said. I didn't know how I knew, only that I was certain kindness like hers did not happen every day, that not everybody was hiding a heart of gold under a gruff exterior. "So thank you."

She flicked a hand in the air and began to eat. I watched her for a few moments, fascinated by the movement of her lips. Her long blond hair was pulled up in a ponytail, and there was no trace of makeup on her pale, heart-shaped face. Still, anyone with eyes could see that she was a blue-eyed beauty hiding underneath a baggy sweatshirt and an attitude.