𝗔𝗦𝗧𝗥𝗔𝗬 . original story

I

❝ 𝗜 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝗮𝘀𝗹𝗲𝗲𝗽 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗱𝗮𝘆𝘀, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗻𝗼𝘄 𝘆𝗼𝘂'𝗿𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗸𝗲𝗲𝗽𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗺𝗲 𝗮𝘄𝗮𝗸𝗲. ❞

—ᵀʰⁱⁿᵍˢ ᵗᵒ ᵈᵒ, ᴬˡᵉˣ ᴳ.

𓆉

You know, a question like: 'what the actual fuck am I doing here?' or 'who am I?' would've been reasonable to ponder on, but from the moment I was conscious enough to think, I was wondering where the nearest fish and chip shop was. Don't blame me, alright? It felt like I hadn't eaten for years, which could've been correct, given I didn't know how long I had been knocked out for.

I was spitting out sand, coughing up seawater like a cat with a hairball, and do you know what this old dude on the beach was doing? Simply standing there! Excuse me, I'm about to die! Help me!

I can't really remember what my life was like before I fell into my very long nap, but I'm pretty sure I was important. I was probably cool and famous too. I'm sure of it. Well, that's what I keep telling myself. It makes me feel better whenever I act entitled. I just say: 'sure it's fine! I probably used to be the Queen of England!'

I tried to get to my feet, but my legs love to be pranksters and denied to work. So I collapsed onto the sand like the graceful past queen I am. Not my proudest moment.

At least the creep was good at one thing. They helped me up, but to be honest, I think they were doing the most work to keep me upright. Look, I am throwing up the equivalent of a sandcastle, my legs are cosplaying worms and my brain has been replaced with a foggy mess of absolutely nothing. Walking is the last thing on my list. I'd rather lie down and cry.

They helped me limp across to the buildings nearby. Most of the houses had crumbling paint and nettles covering their garden like a blanket of pure stinging pain. That's my kind of garden. It would keep out intruders.

I wasn't thinking of exterior design while we strolled down to the end of the street. I wasn't really thinking of anything. I felt head–empty, like every memory had been ripped and stolen from me. Which is unfair, if you ask me. They're my memories, I deserve them.

The creep led me through a back door, into a building that reeked. Seriously, imagine the worst thing you've ever smelt, like, I don't know, your relative's cooking. Now times that by ten. Yeah, that what it smelt like. I was going to ask them if they ever considered investing in some air freshener, but my throat felt like it had closed up. Like someone had grasped their hands around my neck.

They took me up a flight of stairs and sat me down on a mattress. That poor excuse for a bed would creak if you even dared to breathe. I wondered if it was older than me.

Wait. How old am I? I stared down at my hands. I didn't look like a newborn at least. My nails were awfully short. I preferred my nails long, it was a handy weapon if you were in a fight. Once the creep was gone, I stood up, clutching the bedside table to keep myself steady.

The room was sparse. The creep must've had a small budget. There was a looking–glass though. What a treat! (That was sarcasm)

If I asked you what your biggest mistake was, what would you say? Stealing crayons from your siblings? Being born? Kicking that homeless dog that lives down the street?

Mine would be gazing into that looking–glass. I was a child! Practically a fetus! Perhaps I'm too dramatic, I looked like— what? Fifteen? Sixteen? My hair was ruffled and messy, there was sand covering my legs and face. Why was I so short? Actually. Its not an exaggeration this time. Is this how tall humans actually are? Wowie. You guys are small!

Human. A nagging voice at the back of my mind told me I wasn't one of them. I looked human. Yet the word felt foreign on my tongue. Don't ask why I was muttering to myself. I do that when I'm in stressful situations. I'm my life's personal narrator.

Who am I then? What am I? Where am I from? Why am I here? So many questions and not one answer. I gave up on searching for a response that wouldn't show itself. After trying my best to dust the sand off of me, I flopped down on the bed.

𓆉🫧

I could give you the satisfaction of telling you that that was the best sleep of my life, but that would be a lie, wouldn't it? I tossed and turned all night, probably running a fever. It didn't help how loud it was downstairs. Do those people down there never sleep?

In the quiet early morning I came to one conclusion: they're certainly not awake now. I don't think anyone is. Apart from me, of course. The only proof that the world hadn't been blown up while I was restlessly dozing was the window, that was also my only source of light. I could hear gulls crying outside, and every once and a while one would fly past, making the sunlight filtering through the window flicker.

I sat cross–legged, brooding, until the creep came in again, holding a cup of something. It better not have been that stinky stuff. They placed the cup down on the bedside table, taking a couple steps back, like I was a rabid animal that would bite them.

They were taller than me, broad shouldered with a pot belly. They had a shaggy gray beard despite not having much hair on the top of their head. Their forehead resembled a barcode with how many wrinkles it had, and their eyes were dark, brown— I think. They looked sad, weary.

"Who are you?" Was my first question. I felt required to speak. There was too much silent tension.

Their face contorted to both fear and confusion. Did they think I couldn't talk? "I— uh.. I'm Raymond Connolly. Mr. Connolly. Whatever, I don't mind."

Right, give me your full government name. Thanks. I meant your first name. Humans are so stupid sometimes. Dumb low–life relatives of bananas.

"Er... what's your name..?" Their voice snapped me out of my internal rant about the knowledge–lacking homo sapiens.

My name. That was the one thing I knew about myself. The only peice of identity I still had.

"Driftwood," I replied. "My name is Driftwood."