I Am the Real One, Right? (ONC2024)

Chapter Ten: Finding the Other Two

As you already know, we consulted with Dr. Helen Archer, who shed light on the extraordinary events unfolding around us. She explained that the lightning flashes weren't random—they were actually splitting and duplicating my existence, distributing versions of me across the same timeline. That's how I emerged from who I thought was my impostor, and similarly, another version of me appeared when I was struck a second time.

Armed with this knowledge, we learned from Dr. Archer that there are at least two more versions of 'me' out there, each trying to navigate their realities just as we had been. Even more daunting, these versions had begun their journeys before us, potentially altering historical events—changes we weren't even aware of.

This chaotic situation, however, presented an opportunity. The other version of me, unaffected by the memories of Violet that still haunted my thoughts, was ready to return to our original life. He was eager to attempt rekindling things with our—his—wife, whom he still viewed with fresh eyes. Meanwhile, my task was to unravel what went wrong with Violet and, with any luck, repair those relationships.

Before we could act on our personal goals, there was an urgent need to address the situation with the other two versions of me. It was crucial to find them and sort out their circumstances to prevent them from inadvertently creating more duplicates, further complicating the timeline.

With a plan in place, I bid farewell to the other me, allowing him to reintegrate into our shared life. Meanwhile, I embarked on a mission to track down the remaining versions. My first step was to investigate local hospitals, looking for records of patients admitted for lightning strikes around three months ago.

Starting with the nearest hospital, I navigated through corridors echoing with the distant sounds of urgency and healing. At each hospital, I inquired about admissions involving lightning strike. Most staff members were perplexed by my queries, but a few were intrigued enough to help dig through old records.

Each hospital visit was arduous, often yielding more questions than answers. The sterile, buzzing hospital corridors seemed endless, and my conversations with medical staff were filled with vague confirmations or head-scratching confusion. But persistence paid off. Finally, in a smaller, quieter community hospital that seemed like just another dead end, I stumbled upon a promising lead.

I inquired about patients who might have been admitted for lightning strikes. One of the nurses seemed to recognize me, that was the first hint. Another confirmed that a patient was admitted here three months ago under mysterious circumstances: a man found unconscious on a road after a severe storm, with no identification.

The description was close enough to my own experience to send a jolt of adrenaline through me. Could this be one of my other selves? The nurse noticed my heightened interest and offered to guide me through the patient records.

We descended into the basement, where rows of filing cabinets and the scent of musty paper dominated the room. With the nurse's help, I located the file in question. It contained a few more details: the man had woken with no memory of his past. This was it; this was the other me. Now, the question was, how do I find him?

I got a clue when I enquired further with a ward boy at the hospital. He remembered that the person he recalled had befriended a homeless man during his brief stay. He recalled of what he remember the shelter where the homeless man usually stayed. 

With this new information in hand, I drove to the shelter. It was a stark, utilitarian structure on the edge of the city, its faded brick walls telling stories of better days. Inside, the air was thick with a mix of disinfectant and worn-out hopes. The hallway buzzed with the low murmur of disjointed conversations and the occasional clatter of a meal tray. I navigated through groups of people, some eager for company, others withdrawn into themselves, each person a mosaic of untold stories.