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    Summary

    He pushes himself up from the bed and onto his elbows and does his very best not to panic. Everything feels fuzzy, his thoughts slipping and sliding over themselves. There doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with him physically--when he flips over the blanket it reveals nothing but pale blue hospital robes and undamaged skin.

    Well. Not undamaged. There’s scars he can’t remember for the life of him getting--puckered circular ones that he can’t imagine came from anything but a gun, and even sections of healed over burns, red-pink swathes of skin. A jagged scar stands out on his hand, like someone had used it as a knife block. His left foot is a mess of scar tissue in the shape of a bullet wound.

    It hits him, suddenly, that he can’t remember where he was before he ended up here. And if he tries to think back further, to the last week, nothing. There’s a blank space where his memories should be, as if he started existing from the point he woke up today, watching the dust spiral downwards through the light of the open window.

    (Or,

    Under no circumstances would any of Takemichi's friends let him go.)

    Language:
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