My Name is Ranel [Short Story] ✅

Part 4

He looks as taken aback as I am as soon as his name leaves my mouth. Colton Squire, that's his name. Looking at him is like opening a reference book, as if his name is stamped right into his face. For some odd, considerably uncanny reason, I know him – I do. But how is he related to me? The astonishment is all over his face as he takes in my view, his mouth slightly parted and his head tilted a bit to the side, eyebrows drawn into a deep frown and forming creases on his forehead. "Yeah," he says softly, eyes still not leaving mine, and I feel like I am being X-rayed.

"I know you," I say, not seemingly certain to whom those words are. He just nods – still stupefied, I'm assuming. "I'm—"

I stop short; I'm ... who? I'm not Martin – I know that. Suddenly I find it hard to breath as I try to rack my brains out for my name. What's my name? I swallow hard and look desperately at Colton, as if his face will give me all of the answers, as if my name will also be right there, written on his face, though I'm not sure now whether he even recognises me, for he simply gapes at me. No, that does not sound right. I know that we both know each other. Then why isn't he saying anything? Perhaps he has forgotten who I am entirely.

Colton looks unsettled as he approaches me with deliberate steps. Though nearly a foot shorter than me, he gives off an austere vibe, and it is all so familiar. "Keane," he says with a rather quiet voice.

"W-what about her?" I say, my voice coming out in rasps as I still try to claw my brains out for just my name. It is like sitting in an exam and trying to remember what the cube root of eight equals to when there is a minute left until the exam ends. It feels like a matter of life and death, and it is unbearably harrowing. I am aware of how deep my breathing has gotten.

"She told me about you," he tells me, pressing his lips together, and I can see his Adam's apple bobbing up and down.

What's my name what's my name what's my name what's my name what's my name—

My breath hitches when he rests his palm on my forearm, and I swear I can feel the pulse in his fingers throbbing, pushing into my skin. "Your name is Ranel Fleming," he says resolutely, swallowing hard. He recognises me, then. "You were a private, I was your leader and ..." He trails off.

I inhale and exhale deeply as I take in the information; I am Ranel Fleming, and I was a soldier. Ranel Fleming, a soldier. "And?" I breathe out.

His eyes leave mine, and his hand that is on my forearm falls to his side. "And," Deep breath. Why does he seem nervous? "We were close friends."

"Were?"

"If you want to put it that way," he murmurs, throwing an exaggerated casual shrug. His eyes land on mine again – they are really hazel – and a smile breaks out of his face, though they don't quite reach his eyes. I now notice the bags weighing under his eyes, how dishevelled his dirty blonde hair is. He looks like hasn't had a decent sleep. "It's been a long time, Ranel."

It feels foreign to be called that name. However, it gives the sense of being home. I study his face – even his face looks like home, as all of the familiar features; his bronze eyebrows, soft, gleaming hazel eyes that seem iridescent if you're not paying a close attention, his flat jaw, his fair skin, him in that uniform, even the way his jacket is slung over his shoulder looks familiar. The question is now directed at me; who is he to me?

Close friends, he said.

Something is tugging at my brain, saying that there is more about him. "It's been a long time," I mutter to no one in particular. "What did Keane tell you?"