Chapter Text
You breathe in. The cold airs of January make your throat feel cold, and you have to resist an unpleasant urge to cough. You look downwards, towards partially torn, cheap shoes that shield your feet from the cruelty of the ground, and stare at the leather, which sticks out uncomfortably and unappealingly in some places. They're your least worries, but a decent pair would have helped you as you stagger forwards, feet dragging upon a gravel path. You're vaguely aware of many pairs of eyes fixed on you, with what you aren't sure is concern to begin with, but don't waste time with addressing any of them. Your clothing feels thin, and you lay a hand upon the material of your shirt and clasp it. It feels cold.
You don't recognize the streets - not the rows of houses that line up in your sight, not the significant lack of greenery that goes past people's sickeningly picture-perfect front yards, and the airs of the place feel unfamiliar and almost suffocative in their own way. You find it particularly hard to focus - your vision is clear, but is lost elsewhere. You're increasingly self-aware that the leather can no longer protect the skin of your feet as well as they did hours ago. Cold.
Bruises litter your face, and they sting a little as the wind brushes against them. Cold.
You want to stop, badly. Cold.
It takes a moment for you to snap back to your senses, and even then, they begin wander. You stand in front of a door of wooden material, fresh white walls surrounding it, and become aware that you've trespassed into somebody's property. You bang, anyway, with as much strength you can muster and channel into your fists. Cold. You only need shelter. To analyze your situation? That's another problem. The door flings open, and you see a thin, pale shape, but you're unable to see their face.
You want to speak - an intended "Hello, I'm sorry to bother, I'm lost and I was wondering whether you could provide me with shelter for a day or so. I promise I won't steal anything" turns into a meagre "Please". It's not socially acceptable to do that - especially if you look like you have a permanent look of 'having been run over by a truck', and especially to a stranger. But you're desperate, and willing to lose every ounce of your dignity if it means avoiding the streets. You've seen how its inhabitants look - too hollow, too deprived of life, and you're thoroughly creeped out by even the prospect of retreating to a similar life, especially right away, and especially in that state of yours.
Cold.
That's not the entirety of what envelops you.
The stranger takes a hesitant step away, and you suddenly feel self-conscious. It's so humiliating.
You collapse before you can muster up any more words to explain yourself. Cold. Sore. It's not even winter, and it's the only thing that comes to mind when you think of yourself. Coherent thoughts are a little hard to do, and you allow the few ones you have to drift away.
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You don't know what to expect when you awaken. The ceiling is unfamiliar, and, God, does it look like it's in need of some serious repair. You're dazed, and your face stings, and you feel your head throbbing with pain. This is definitely not death - you wonder why you even thought you'd die. Sure, you looked like shit, but it wasn't that terrible. The next thing you notice is linen sheets wrapped around your body, and you're laying on a soft surface.
Relief washes over you like a wave suitable to surf on - what do you know about water, anyway? You don't recall taking a trip to the sea. You don't recall warm, grainy sand. You don't recall anything, to be exact - only that you're immensely glad that whoever you met didn't call the police immediately. You shift, and unwrap the sheets from yourself. You can hear faint sounds of shuffling, footsteps, the chink of a glass against another, a cough, but don't care to lift your pounding head to look, and instead rest and hope it will pass. Will it? Probably. Probably not without some form of medicine. The sofa you're laid upon is wide enough to sit upon, but you're painfully aware that you can end up on the ground with one wrong turn.
You finally lift yourself up a little - you're still lying, and clinging to the warmth, but you can see from behind the back of the sofa. The wallpaper is terrible, but you don't feel it appropriate to even crinkle your face in disgust. You see kitchen islands, cabinets, and a girl. Thin, delicate hands holding a plate over what the sink, one rubbing it in a rhythmic fashion. If she notices you're awake, she doesn't show it. She doesn't even peer in your direction and merely turns the plate over, repeats, rinses, and picks out something else. You don't know why, but it feels almost soothing to watch.
As nice it is to observe, you feel uncomfortable. You don't want to startle her, and you don't know what to say, anyway. You sit up and adjust yourself in a seated position, and you get a better look. Peachy hair that doesn't go very far past her shoulders, and it complements her complexion very well. She looks at you - or in your direction - for a brief moment, and you catch a glimpse of light blue, but find that she doesn't seem too interested in you. She merely walks off towards something else, and you're confused.
"Hi," You finally call out. Good grief, you even sound like shit. She turns to look at you, again, and you try to offer her a smile. She doesn't return the gesture, but doesn't seem displeased, either.
"Hello." She responds coolly, and for the few moments of awkward silence you get between you two, you inspect her eyes. They don the colour of the skies - definitely not the ones that you saw earlier, but the type you see during sunny, warm summer days. She seems to expect you to say anything further, and you expect questions, but she doesn't ask any, only watching you with subtle curiousity. You clear your throat a little.
"Uh, what happened?"
You know exactly what happened - but hearing it from somebody else is a nice confirmation. She narrows her gaze and shrugs.
"You fell on my doorstep. I felt it would be impertinent to leave you outside - and you were injured, so I took care of that, too, as much as I could." is her response. Her voice is light and sweet and feels like honey on your ears. You're surprised that she regards this so calmly, and wonder whether she's ever done that before with other desperate idiots banging on her door. You feel your face turn a shade of red, for some reason. You're not too fond of physical contact, and the very thought that you had been in a state where you'd have had to have somebody's hands upon your skin feels mildly disturbing. Even handshakes are not something you find yourself doing too often. You're not going to mention that - your wounds are patched, if not a little clumsily, and your features don't feel like somebody had been stepping on them for 3 hours straight, and it doesn't really matter, anyway.
"Thanks."
Thanks? Is that all you have to say?
"You're welcome."
You hadn't had many conversations throughout your consciousness, and the few that you did were awkward and short. Just like this one seems to be. The girl doesn't seem to be interested in pestering you with questions, and resumes her own mindless activities. You're confused - that's not how it works; and you're relieved, because there are no possible questions that could come out of this scenario that you can answer. You don't know anything. Not even your name.
You stand up - the house is not nearly as warm as your protective shield of sheets was, and the contrast of temperatures dazes you for a moment. You're still in your old clothes, and they look terrible, but at least your shoes are off, and you enjoy the feeling of the carpeted floor beneath you. You gaze at your host, opening your mouth to say something, and then closing it again. You don't know what her intentions are, and wonder whether she's just politely not asking you to leave like you should. Something lights up in your mind- you don't even know her name. You didn't ask. Well, neither did she, but you feel it's just rude of you.
"And... what do I call you?" You really need to shape up on your conversational skills.
"Pearl."
Pearl. The way it rolls off her tongue sounds so charming. You find a smile crawling upon your features - you're quite fond of her already. You're an intruder, though, and a little too lucky. "I dun have any names that I know of. Sorry." Shame washes you - even in the depths of your brain, you just cannot recall a single memory that would relate to your identity. She nods understandingly, though, and approaches, staring at your neck, and you realized you had somehow forgotten about the dangling necklace. It's the only decent item you seem to own, with a violet vial attached upon it - you had been rather protective of it. Thank an earlier incident with a petty thief.
"That looks like an amethyst," She comments, and picks up the vial - you flinch slightly when her fingers accidentally brush lightly against your chest as she does so. She studies it, almost too intensely. "Do you know anything about this?"
An amethyst. No, you don't know anything about it, either, but it sounds pretty, and you feel a sense of familiarity when Pearl pronounces its name. Almost as if... "I guess you can call me that."
"Call you what?"
"Y'know... that thing."
"The amethyst?" She smiles. Oh, God, she smiles. It's so radiant, and you hadn't seen her do so up until now, and you feel like it's infecting you. "Yes! I don't see why not. At least until you find your identity. You know, it kind of suits you, after all."
Does it really?
She says 'you'. You'll find your identity. Of course you will, but she doesn't say 'we'. She doesn't offer her help, and you feel mildly disappointed - but, after all, you're strangers to each-other, and she's under no obligation to aid you past that point. You nod quickly, and she releases her grip on the vial. It falls back on your chest.
"What do you plan to do from now on?"
You have no idea. "Maybe I'll go to the hospital. Or the police. They can help. Thanks for your help, er, Pearl. I better be going."
"So you're not even staying for dinner?"
The question throws you back a little, in a pleasant manner. You'd love to stay for dinner, but you also don't want to owe her more than you already do. She stares patiently, and no matter how easy the answer is to say, you don't respond. It doesn't mean anything to you - you'd probably be on your way anyway following that, and maybe she's just being nice. You do look like you were dragged straight from the streets... which isn't too far from the truth, really.
"Well, are you inviting me?"
"Yes."
That's the worst approach to finding out anything about yourself past a name given on a whim, but you're hungry, and a trip to the hospital at that time of day would prove tiresome to you - nighttime is possibly the least safe option, too. And Pearl has that curious glimmer in her eye - you can only wonder. "Then I have no reason to say no."