Flashfire

Ch1

The man was aware of his body before the rest of his consciousness caught up. He was in a rather uncomfortable position, face down on something hard, nose smashed against his face. For a while he could only lay there, brain seemingly turned off except to the physical weight of his own body.

Like a computer rebooting that had been through a hard shut-off, his consciousness slowly came to him. He was a person–yes, that's right. He was a human being. A very sore, weak human being. There was pain, unpleasant and sharp. It was all over and it was horrible. A moan escaped his mouth, which admittedly surprised him.

He had a voice! Yes, he had a voice. Of course he had a voice. If he was a human being, of course he could make sounds.

Peeling his eyes open, he was unhappy to find brightness. Blinking against the harsh contrast of the blackness he had come from, his eyes adjusted slowly. Once that happened, he decided he was done being smashed against the floor, and tried to lift himself up.

His own weight caught him off guard. Or, perhaps it was the fact his arms felt like wet noodles. Whatever it was, he fell back onto the ground. This didn't help the pain any.

"Ow," he said, and then moaned again.

His voice! Yes, his voice. It sounded familiar and yet foreign all at once. It belonged to him, he knew that, but it was all so muddled. It was like he was trying to remember himself through a dream–which was preposterous. This wasn't a dream. He was awake.

Trying again, this time he managed to actually lift himself up and sit on his behind. He stared at his arms, his knees that were drawn up. He was wearing a red plaid shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Dark blue jeans–crumpled and wrinkled–covered his legs and black socks adorned his feet. Disconcerted, he stared at his open palms. They were large, rough. Even though this man was sure he had seen his hands millions of times, they looked new to him.

All at once a startling thought jolted his synapses. How did he know he was a man? And, perhaps more importantly, what was his name?

He thought. He thought, and he thought. The more time spent trying to remember his name was more time that he felt panic start to rise. As sure of time as he was of himself, he didn't know how long he sat there, on the hardwood floor, cradling his head in his hands, trying to remember his own damn name.

Now feeling sick, he looked around himself. Maybe his surroundings could help him. Yet as he looked around, he felt more despondent than ever. He was in a living room. Everything had a rustic feel to it–a wooden table, a red couch, a TV on a wooden TV stand. To his right sat a table, a very cool looking table that looked to be made from the stump of a tree, knotted and uneven. Gingerly he got to his feet, taking a few seconds to make sure his legs were stable enough to hold his weight. Then he walked to the table.

Sitting on it was a set of keys and a golden picture frame. Curiously, he picked up the frame and stared at it. It was a picture of two men, outside, arms wrapped around each other's shoulders. He smiled faintly, tracing his thumb against the glass that held them. He didn't know who they were, but they looked happy. Really, really happy.

Careful to not break it, he put the picture down. Feeling a bit braver, he began to explore his surroundings further. His feet led him to a small bedroom (equally rustic) that held a large bed and a dresser. He checked the closet. Running a hand over the clothes, they seemed distantly familiar to him. Shaking his head he shut the door and left the room.

The only other room was the bathroom. He flipped on the lightswitch, and looked to the left where the sink was. A mirror hung above it. With a nervous apprehension he wasn't sure he had ever experienced so deeply before, he looked at his reflection. With a bit of shock, he realized the man staring back was one of the men who was in the picture.

The man before him looked like hell though, unlike the picture. Deep circles plagued his grey eyes. A five o'clock shadow covered his strong chin line and small upper lip. His hair was thick, cut short. Leaning forward, he noticed he was starting to get some grey hairs in his otherwise brown hair.

All at once he knew who he was. And it wasn't just that–memories flooded him. His entire lifetime up until this moment came flooding back to him. It was all so intense he stumbled and shouted out. Had he not fallen against the door, gripping the doorknob in a death-grip, he would have fallen back to the floor.

With a ringing in his ears, he blinked several times. Once the noise stopped, he righted himself and looked back at his reflection.

"Fuck, Liam," he muttered, stepping forward once more and looking deeply into his blood-shot eyes. "The hell did you do?"

Liam patted himself down, looking for his wallet and cell. Wallet was in his back pocket; cell was currently MIA. In a strange curiosity, he pulled out his driver's license to make sure he really was who he thought he was. When the name Liam Schneider stared back at him, he chuckled, shaking his head.

Liam made his way to the kitchenette of his apartment. When he saw what time it was, he swore. Slipping on his red converse and frantically grabbing the keys off the table, Liam ran out of his door, locked his apartment, and ran down a flight of stairs. It was here, at the base of the steps, that he found himself facing another door. Finding the key quickly, he unlocked it and shut it behind himself.

Liam would have flipped on the lights but they were already on. One lone man sat at his bar. The internet driven juke boxes hadn't been fired up yet, nor had the "Open" sign at the front window. At the commotion of the door being opened, the other man at the bar lifted his head and looked to Liam.

Liam hesitated. The man was also in the picture frame. All at once he knew who this person was. Also all at once, the other man lurched to his feet, tripped over his stool which fell to the floor with a great clattering, and literally ran around the long bar. As soon as he reached Liam, he barreled into him, hugging him fiercely.

"Woah, woah, woah, Caleb. What's all this?"

Liam stood, his arms raised in surprise, as the other man wearing a green shirt, denim jacket, bluejeans, and sneakers continued to cling to him like a barnacle. When a minute passed and Caleb didn't let go, Liam hugged him back and chuckled.

"Hey. What's up, buttercup?"

Caleb looked up at Liam, looking the strangest mix of emotions. If Liam didn't know any better, he would have thought Caleb was about to cry. But Caleb didn't cry. Now deeply concerned, Liam put his hand on Caleb's cheek.

"Hey..."

Caleb smiled, and he definitely was blinking back tears. Laughing, he pulled himself from Liam. Liam rubbed his arm.

"I'm just really happy to see you," Caleb told him, still beaming.

Liam laughed at him. "Uh, we saw each other last night..."

Caleb shook his head, looking wistful. Liam raised his eyebrows. "You're kinda freaking me out, dude."

Caleb seemed to shake off whatever was happening right then. He smiled, patting Liam on the shoulder. "I'll open up, yeah?"

"Sure," Liam said, coming around the bar with Caleb. "I'll start up the music."

Liam walked straight ahead while Caleb veered to the right, using his own key to unlock the double-door of the bar. He then flipped on the sign to Open, and peered out at the night.

Liam watched Caleb's profile. He opened his mouth to tell him about what had happened upstairs, but...something unsettled him at the thought of that. So instead, when Caleb turned to him, Liam merely smiled.

"Sorry I was late. Thanks for holding down the fort."

Caleb merely smiled.