APH America One Shots

Don't You Remember Your Own Family? (Part1)

Alfred-12
Matthew-16
Arthur and Francis-Old
TW: Slight possessiveness, amnesia

Alfred woke up in a cold sweat, eyes immediately darting around the room to get a bearing of his surroundings. He was lying in a white bed in a room that reminded him of the inside of the Bed and Breakfast homes in magazines. The curtains were closed, yet the brightness of the yellow wallpaper still managed to hurt his eyes. He felt his stomach roll.

Where was he? Who was he?

Sitting up, he felt a small tug on his arm and looked down to see an IV punctured into his skin, as well as a tube that traveled to what seemed to be a heartbeat monitor. Was this a hospital? It didn't seem like it. Everything was so foggy, he could hardly think straight, let alone form coherent problem solving skills.

The door opened and he jumped, but relaxed slightly when it was just a woman in nurse scrubs that walked in. So, it was a hospital then. But what was he doing there? Did something happen? Why couldn't he remember?

She seemed surprised that he was awake, but quickly recovered sending him what she must have thought was a reassuring smile. It just made Alfred's skin crawl. "Oh. You're awake already, we weren't expecting you to be up for another week."

Another week? Did that mean he had been asleep for more than a week now?

"How long have I been asleep?" Alfred didn't expect his voice to sound so scratchy, nor for his throat to hurt as much as it did. It was almost as if someone was crushing his windpipe as he talked.

The nurse's smile thinned. "About two weeks now," she said, her voice now clipped and cold. Alfred wasn't sure he believed her, but he could sense there wasn't any room for discussion. He decided for another approach, any information was welcome.

"Um, where am I? How did I get here?" he asked. The slow rise of panic was starting to kick in as he realized his predicament. He was at the mercy of these doctors, if they even were doctors, and he had no what was going on or had any memory of getting there. The only thing he could remember was that his name was Alfred and he was 12 years old.

In fact, he couldn't remember anything from before waking up in this room. All he wanted to do was curl up in a ball and cry. It was too overwhelming, it had to be a bad dream. One that he'll wake up from soon and then everything will finally make sense.

Sensing his distress, the nurse told him she was going to find the doctor, and quickly left the room, the door slamming shut behind her. Alfred winced as the sound echoed across the room, and shut his eyes as hard as he could and hid under the covers of the bed. It was warm, too warm, but Alfred didn't care.

Muffled voices sounded just outside the door, and the boy curled himself smaller into a ball. "Poor kid," he heard a man say, his voice so deep it made him sound harsh. "Let's give him some space before giving him any news. Patients in these cases tend to be unpredictable. Especially at such a young age."

News? What news? What more could possibly be happening, wasn't this enough? The air suddenly felt too tight, the heat too much, so he flung off his blanket. Alfred tried to swallow down the lump in his throat, but the weight in his chest only tightened.

Eventually the waiting became too much, and ripped the IV out of his arm, barely registering the sting. He jumped off the bed and stumbled a bit from his legs being in misuse for god knows how really long, but he gained his balance back quickly.

He swung the door open and peered down the hallway. A wave of deja vu washed over him, the floral wallpaper seeming familiar. Too familiar. Tears in his eyes, he stormed down the hallway, ignoring the pins and needles in his feet and legs, not stopping until he came to a door he assumed led to the outside.