I. Reversed High Priestess >opening your eyes feels weird >because for one thing, you can't even do it >your eyeballs are all dry, and simply moving them around under your eyelids is already painful >they're just so sensitive for some reason >weak >same as your whole body, in fact, as you soon notice, being torn away from the warm, nebuluous void that was your world till now, and forced to consider your surroundings >you can barely get your limbs and digits to move, each and every contraction of your muscles its own exercise >it feels wrong >off, somehow >the simple act of moving your body is an alien sensation, and not the ordinary motion it should be >an ordinary motion that you'd do a thousand times a day, without as much as thinking about it >now you feel outright unwelcome in your very own body >it's hard to even tell where you start and where the not-you world begins >like that feeling you get when you repeat a word over and over and over again and it becomes just this mess of letters that you then question if it even means anything anymore >but with your whole being >as much as that makes sense >so, forcing your eyes open, you try taking charge of the situation >blinking through the searing pain as light hits your retina, you take in the view >it's... >a hospital room >...how? >...why? >... >ask all you want, no answers are coming >you're alone in the room, only kept company by all sorts of machinery the bed - and you on it - are hooked up to >it's a jarring sight >you can't even tell the time of day, the vibrating, fluorescent light above making it impossible to guess >incessant fragments of thoughts, questions, and emotions buzz in your head, threatening to push you back into the that darkness you escaped only moments ago >just how did you get here? >how long have you been passed out? >did you have an accident or something? >your heartbeat picks up as you begin to panic >your vision blurs, and before you know it your eyes are shut tight again >and you just-- >a sudden noise makes you flinch, the bolt of a lock, instinctively opening your eyes >the immediate, intense pain you feel makes you confused >something's wrong with your eyes >they're so damn dry it hurts >your body, too, feels like what must be some dessicated corpse, and you can't even lift a finger >... >ugh... hold on >something is eerily familiar about this, you realize >you know that SOMEHOW, this makes sense >even if it doesn't seem to >but your thoughts are so slow and foggy, you just can't put it all together >only this nagging idea, a feeling of something being very wrong that lingers inside your mind >just now noticing that you closed your eyes, you try opening them once more >with it comes the pain again, but you fight through it >oh >right >you're in a hospital >the fact that you're not all that alarmed by this suggests that you're probably aware of this >even if you don't think you are >and you have absolutely no idea how you got here >it's only this memory of waking up that you can recall >but that doesn't make sense either >if you woke up here once, shouldn't you know what's happening? >is something wrong with your brain? >shouldn't you remember being in THE hospital, instead of A hospital? >what is this place? >how did you get here? >and when? >the memory of waking up feels recent, so... >did you wake up and fall asleep again? >and how long ago was that? >like... you do feel pretty tired >and through your eyelids - that you didn't even realize you have closed again -, you can tell it's mostly dark in the room right now >it was probably an evening checkup or something, and the nurse must have woken you as they left >so maybe you should just... >sleep a little >you'll make... >*yawn* make sense of all this... >later... >there's a noise, making you snap to attention >that loud click, like when a door is being shut >but what's going on? >where are you? >you try opening your eyes, though they don't really want to cooperate >and there's pain in every little movement as well, all across your joins and bones and muscles >just what the hell is-- >... >wait >wait >you're in the hospital, aren't you? >it's an apparent realization, though for some reason, you're quite sure you knew that already >cracking one eye open just slightly, you confirm it to yourself >you're laying in a hospital bed >it's decided fact now >but... why? >it feels like something you should know as well, but you just don't >did you just have operation done? >did you have an accident? >is there something wrong with your brain? do you have alzheimers? >you can't think straight >thoughts, like mice, scurrying around in the dark recesses of your mind >you try closing your eyes again, hoping that maybe not being in pain would help >but it doesn't >it only makes you dizzy >so now, you try to find something to concentrate on, to latch onto, to focus >it ends up being the noise of heartrate monitor or whatever it's damn name is >some large beeping machine >... >... >after a couple of seconds have passed, you notice it >something else is happening in the room >although you more feel it than understand it >someone is... speaking? >to you? >grimacing with the effort, you force yourself to listen >"...you hear me...?" >this is all you manage to catch >and it takes you considerable time to make sense of the words, too >they're asking if you can hear them, whoever they are >you try to say something >or nod >or raise a hand, a finger >anything >but all you can produce is a whimper >a short one at that, fragile, just like its source >like the rest of your body, your throat is just as fucked up >feels like your vocal chords could snap if you actually tried to speak >instead, you force your eyes open one final time, painful as it may be >the light blinds you, as if you weren't used to it >eventually, your eyes focus on the lone figure by your feet >looks like a doctor >a dinosaur >nobody you recognize >still, wanting to ask him what's going on, you attempt to muster up your strength >but once again words fail you, and all you can get out is a pitiful moan >the doctor rushes to your side, shaking his head >"Please, just lay still for a little while longer." >"I will explain everything." >but you don't want to lay still >you want to get out of this damn bed >you want to know what's happening to you >you want to know just who the hell you are, even >because you can't rememeber anything outside of this room >something it feels like you should be VERY concerned about >but you're just too tired to worry >you have absolutely no control over anything anyway >the best you can do is, well... >lay still >... >seeing that you've complied with his order, the doctor brings you a glass of water >you taking it is out of the question, because even if by some miracle you could move your hand, the smooth glass would slip from your failing grip in mere seconds >so instead the guy gently lifts your head and slowly pours the liquid into your mouth >even these small movements make you feel like your spine could literally snap in half any second >as if it just wasn't designed to bend or move >swallowing is hard too, but thankfully it all goes down the right pipe >you cought a little still, but then, armed with the ability to speak now, you ask the doctor what's going on >the guy inhales sharply, looking away uncomfortably >but he returns to his professional demeanor soon >and then he tells you the news II. The Moon >you're now outside the hospital, leaning on your cane, taking in the smell of freshly cut grass and car exhaust >several weeks have passed since you woke up >plenty of time to come to terms with your situation >you've been in a coma >for over twenty years >caused by a bullet to your head >yep. >possibly the coldest of cold showers, these news were >what's more, nobody knew the details >they say you just showed up one day >the doctors managed to saved your life, reconstructed your face - it was only a broken cheekbone, thankfully - but that was it >if it wasn't for the people paying for your care and coming to visit you every now and again, they would have pulled the plug on you long ago >the doctor gave you the latest attendance sheet, but you didn't recognize any of the names >whoever they were, there was no way to contact them >they didn't even visit since you woke up >so... >it's just you now, and a wallet you apparently had on you when they brought you in >well, plus a cane >at least you know who you are now >or rather who the cards in your wallet say you are >the pictures are vaguely familar, yet feel as if they belonged to someone else >evidently, though, they all depict a face looking like yours >albeit two decades younger >...and that was it >while you didn't enjoy being in the hospital, at least you didn't have to worry about finding a place to sleep in there >during these past months you went through several rounds of physical therapy, basically having to re-learn how to walk >your fine motor skills are still impaired though >they might even stay that way, so the doctors told you >they've also said you need to check in every two weeks, for the time being >which is very considerate of them, especially after dumping you to the curb to essentially become homeless >can they even do that? surely it mustn't be legal >with little to no idea who you are, what do they expect you'll do? >probably not their problem, you figure >... >anyway, let's hope that credit card in your wallet isn't just for show >you could always try going to the police and figure out something about your "accident" >maybe that would clue you in on stuff >but apparently, the doctors did that already >nothing >as if this whole thing wasn't mysterious enough, here's another fuck you from fate >at least something tells you it's fate >so perhaps you were the kind of person who believed in fate? >who knows? >... >well, first thing's first, anyhow >let's go for a walk 'round town >maybe you'll see something to jog your memory >or someone might recognize you >hopefully >keeping an eye open for an ATM, you wander the streets for hours >wander, as in, sitting down on a bench every ten minutes >you did make up for some of the weight loss back in the hospital, but your stamina is still hot garbage >this time you're sitting in a park, watching a mother duck and her little ducklings >it feels good, being surrounded by nature >all the trees, the animals, the shrubbery, the blue sky above >there's even a cool breeze coming in that carries reddened leaves around, catching into your clothes and caressing your face >it's the first time you felt wind in... >well, in over twenty years >wind that wasn't produced by a creaking ceiling-fan anyway >it's a little chilly, though, making you shudder a bit >it must be autumn >the doctors did tell you the date - on multiple occasions -, but you never cared to remember it >what difference does it make to you anyway? >whatever things you had going on in your life before, they're probably not very relevant twenty years after the fact >at least you don't have to worry about going in to work tomorrow, or about being late for a date >makes you wonder, however, like it does every day now without fail... >just what kind of life did you have? >where is your family? where are your friends? >distant relatives? coworkers? >did you even have any of those things? >someone who cared about you, and someone you could care for? >you can't know for certain, but there's this sad feeling in your gut, a lonely pang that tells you that these questions are probably all pretty much moot points >... >looking down at your feet, you notice that there are some fallen leaves stuck to your shoes >to distract yourself from the ever-present sense of grief - for a life you can't even remember anymore -, you reach out with one of your feet, and slowly crush one of the discolored leaves under your sole >there's a satisfying crunching sound, prompting you to play around with the dead leaves a little more >it feels pointless, and a little childish, doing this >and though you're an adult now, twenty years ago... back then you would have been what? eighteen? >by then surely people can get mature, but maybe you just weren't that kind of person >just another mystery to add to the list >... >picking up one of the still mostly-intact leaves at random, you follow the color gradients on it with a finger >perhaps you should try looking for meaning in them >might as well, no? >if you believe in fate, then it must have been for a reason you picked up this one leaf in particular, right? >so... >obviously, it's dying >that's just autumn for you >and you did die in a way, too >whatever your life once was, it's gone >...anyway, next, there's a piece of the leaf that's chipped off, from the still more green-ish part of it >if you try translating that to your current situation, then... >a piece missing? >well, there are definitely many pieces missing >like your identity >some message from fate that would be, stating the obvious >no, it's rather... >maybe it says that there's a piece of the whole you have no way of figuring out? >like, apparently, you used to be the kind of person that gets shot >in the head >churning meaning out of a leaf really is as silly as it gets, but still, could this be fate warning you? >perhaps you shouldn't be wanting to look into the things that landed you here in the first place? >... >with a sigh, you let go of the leaf >silly or real, it doesn't matter anyway >not like you even knew where to start figuring stuff out >the only direction you can go is forward >thought it's not like you knew where that was, either >in one last ditch effort to distract yourself from your worries, you look for the ducklings you were watching earlier >they have since climbed out of the pond in the center of the park, and now they're waltzing through the flowers in a neat little line-up >towards their nest, most likely >you follow them for a while with your eyes, till they get lost beneath some bushes >then, with nothing better to do, you finally find it in yourself to get up from the bench >not before making sure your cane found its footing on the gravelly road though, serving as yet another reminder of how fucked up your life is right now... >later in the day, you do manage to find an ATM >but lo and behold, your card has expired >either that, or your account has >with the help of some of the locals, you make your way to a bank >and though they were indeed helpful, the odd looks and not-so-subtle stares they gave your sunken-in, misaligned features didn't exactly make feel any better >en route to the bank, you also get the feeling that you're being followed >but no matter how many times you whip around suddenly or take four consequetive right turns, you can't find proof of it >must be just your imagination >or maybe it's ghosts >assuming that you already do believe in fate, other sorts of supernatural phenomena don't feel like that big of a stretch anymore >regardless, the paranoia sticks with you even as your issue is being handled by the guy at the bank >no amount of pleasant smalltalk can make it go away a hundred percent >as such, of course, you don't say anything about your "situation" >only that you need access to an account for which you lost your card >which is true, sort of >fortunately you did have all your necessary credentials in your wallet >scribbling your signature feels weird, however >not only because you struggle to hold a pen, but because jotting it down is another of those familar-yet-foreign things >nevertheless, the transaction goes through without hiccup >and as it turns out, you have quite a huge amount of money saved up, too >whatever your job used to be, looks like it paid pretty well >with no card though, your only option is to make a withdrawal >better hope you won't get mugged >no one wants to mug a walking corpse, right? >anyway, now you only need to find a hotel or something, given that even if you do have a home in the city, you have no idea where it could be >however, all through your walk, you saw several billboards advertising a luxury resort right on the edge of town >and although with no source of income, you probably shouldn't splurge like that, but fuck it >you did just come out of a God damn coma >you'll treat yourself if you want to III. The Devil >it's already late in the evening by the time to wobble your way over to the hotel, yet the place is bustling with life >and it's really, REALLY pompous >gold and silver everywhere >fancy cars coming and going >fancy people in fancy suits >exotic gardens >the only thing out of place seems to be the staff >they ALL looks like freaking illegal immigrants >though, hmm... >actually, now that you think about it more, they're not even the only out of place thing >because you are, too >next to all these suits and tuxedos, evening dresses and jewelry, all you have is the change of clothes they gave you at the hospital >donations for the poor, most likely >simultaneously, however, the more time you spend here, the more and more sure you are >you know this place >you've been here before >it's no more than a hunch, a weird taste in your mouth >but it's a persistent one at the same time >which must mean... you used to frequent the place once? >going by your bank records, you probably could afford it >so then why is there a feeling of unease building up inside of you? >standing in line, talking to the attendant, it all goes without hiccup >but the jitters only grow, to the level of anxiety almost >not understanding the reason, though, for better or worse you chalk it up to the tiredness catching up with you >like... well... it WAS a rather long day >all you want to do now is to crawl up in a bed and sleep >preferably preceeded by a bubble bath >with scented sandalwood incense >huh >now, that's a very specific want >were you also the kind of person who's into oriental stuff? >like those cartoons? >you really can't tell if that would be a sign of good taste, or bad >and so weird to think you know about these things from a country half a world away, and yet you don't even remember your own face... >the elevator chimes a pleasant tune of bells, signaling your arrival to the floor your room is on >which turns out to be as outlandish and extravagant as you expected it to be, from a place like this >even slightly more so >a penthouse suite on floor thirty, one of a handful of similar rooms sprawled out on this floor >definitely luxurious >and there are some pleasure pools just a few stories down, too, you're told >sounds like a perfect plan for tomorrow >you don't really have anything else to do anyway >not even for today, bar that bubble bath >and despite how tired you feel, you can't help but be instantly drawn to the large wall-to-wall windows, where you spend some time looking over the city from up here >but even after lengthy minutes, no matter how hard you try, none of these streets and buildings bring back any memories >do you not actually live here? >is that why none of your relatives came to see you? maybe they just down't know you're here? >do they think you're dead? >would there be a way to find them, provided that they're still alive? >twenty years is a long time >and if they didn't know where you've been all this time, could you have been pronounced dead? >or maybe the reason why you can't remember any faces or voices is because you've already cut ties with your kin? >is that why you seemingly spent so much time in this very hotel? >there's barely anything in this world you know anymore >your own reflection on the glass, even it looks just as alien as everything else around you >even after minutes spent looking into those tired, baggy eyes, you're just not sure who's looking back at you >the only thing you truly feel is yours - and not whoever else this body used to belong to -, is the scar on your face >it's honestly quite ugly >made worse by how assymetrical your face is now, with your cheekbone jutting out at a weird angle on one side >makes you feel grotesque, like a monster >like someone forcibly pushed out of the norm, out of life, made into little more than a mockery >but then again, it's the ultimate reminder of a miracle >you were shot in the head, and you lived to tell the tale >just how did that happen? >what did you do to get into a gunfight? >or maybe you were just a bystander? in the wrong place at the wrong time? >but then why doesn't anyone know who you are? >and who were those people that paid for your surgeries and whatnot? >how can't they be tracked down? let alone by the police? >is this all just the work of fate, after all? >so many questions >and zero answers >... >well >you likely won't get any better just standing around >might as well take that bath >except, there's a knock on the door >and albeit hesitantly, you do open up >standing out there is another dino >a woman >she seems to be around your age, going by her face >still, while you're ugly as can be, she's extraordinarily beautiful >neatly trimmed orange scales, tastefully done make-up and lips red with lipstick >even her brown hair, long and wild, looks perfect >oh, and she's very obviously latina >so... what business could she have with you? >the only thing you can go on is her dress, silver and gold, like those of the staff in this place >could she be a manager or something? >"May I come in?" >her voice is confident, clearly expecting you to say yes >"S-Sure." >your mystery visitor wastes not another second, entering the room with a strides that match her bold tone >at the same time her movement is graceful, almost feline >she's definitely no janitor >in fact she seems to be feeling at home so much, without asking she sits into one of the large, leather-clad armchairs >you close to the door carefully, watching the woman as she leans forward to take her high heels off, uncaringly revealing her deep clevage in doing so >with a slight blush you tear your eyes from her, circling her seat and sitting down on the larger couch to her left, the wide windows spanning behind your back >by the time you find a comfortable position so has your guest, running her now bare feet and toes through the plush carpet >she sighs contently, obviously at ease >meanwhile your anxiety picks up again, feeling awkward also >you keep your eyes on the latina dino, waiting for her to speak >which, in another minute or so, she does >inspecting you head to toe, there's a sharpness in her glare that takes you unprepared >"You lost a lot of weight." >this is the first thing she says to you >a simple observation >yet one with severe implications >implications that as you even begin to think about, the beat of your heart already picks up, excitement written across your monstrous face >this person, whoever she is, knows you >she knew you twenty years ago, and she knows that you woke up >sure, this tells you nothing, you have no idea who SHE could be >other than maybe one of your visitors at the hospital >but... >"I... I'm, sorry, I don't..." >you try to mutter something about how you have no idea who you're talking to >but as your voice fails, so she waves a hand dismissively >"Lost your memories, sí? Could it really be true?" >she leans forward in her seat, her already inqusitive gaze turning much more serious >feels quite uncomfortable, giving you the jitters once again >"Uh... Yes. I can't remember much of anything, or... Anyone." >your answer is robotic, devoid of emotion >more tired than anything >because while it really does feel unfair to be robbed of those two decades and whatever came before, it doesn't feel like a personal loss >you don't even really know what was taken away from not, no specifics >only a general sense of pissed-off-ness >upon hearing your words, your conversation partner tooks a few seconds to chew through them >it's starting to get real awkward that you don't know who this is >but just as you're about to ask she gets up from her seat, and with steps light as a feather, swaying her hips, she walks up to the window >you turn in your seat to follow her, watching her start to play with the edge of the short curtains, her back turned to you >once again you take note of the uniform she's wearing >because while it seems the staple uniform of this place, it's way too elegant, looking like a bespoke suit, even >could she be the owner of this resort? >and how does she know you? >did you two work together in the past? >is that why you remember this place, and why you have so much money in your bank account? >were she paying for your surgeries and treatment? >is she the reason why the doctors didn't pull the plug on you while you were sleeping? >shuffling in your seat, you try your best to phrase these questions in a coherent manner >perhaps you should start with something easier, something normal >like her name >but once again as you're about to speak up, she interjects >"Completo clean slate? You don't remember nothing?" >the way she asks you this, especially now that you can't even see her face, makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up >there's a sudden, curious edge to her voice, replacing the concern you thought you heard so far >something is just plain wrong here >the excitement you've been feeling subsides, alarms going off in your head >this is a stranger, after all >a stranger, who seemingly knows quite a big deal about you >perhaps even including that bullet in your head >slowly, you stand up from the couch as well, keeping it between the two of you as you turn to the woman >"I'm sorry, you said your name was...?" >you try to mask the nervousness from your voice, even as you feel beads of sweat collect on your forehead >"Por supuesto, how rude of me..." >she says, pirouetting away from the window >it takes considerable effort for you to stand your ground and back away as her gaze fixates on you again >it's clear that she's the one dominating the conversation, not you >"Mi nombre es Rosa."