When I feel myself waking, my mind is in a fog. As if the deep mist has fallen over it, clouding, and making it hard for my thoughts, my memories, to find me. They search for sometime, but pain is the first to find me, as determine as it is. The scratches from the thorns and slapping tree branches burn and my head pounds with the worst of headaches. My calf muscles pulse from overuse and my sides are still slightly stitched. I moan and roll over. Memories hit me next just as awareness did. My eyes snap open, ready to see the forest floor or that creature’s creepy, glowing eyes. But I see none of it.
Instead I see a tan, cloth wall splattered with water stains and dirt. I gasp and sit up. Where am I? What is this place? The first though to come to mind is a tent. Those brown, triangle tents that can be used as a small room. I lay on a sturdy cot with a thin, back aching mattress, a paper thin, white blanket, and a pillow in need of fluffing. Beside me is another cot that looks used by the ruffled blanket. In the back of the tent is a desk with scattered papers and two candles, one a stub and the other half way there.
Everything about this tent seems blank to me. How did I get here? Who put me here? Where is my home? I try to think of home, the place of sanctuary, but nothing comes up. No, that’s impossible. Everyone has a home. But…where is mine? I try to think of a family, any family, but I can’t think of anyone. No names, no faces, no familiar voices. I can’t think about anyone but myself. And the little girl with her “Daddy”. I feel myself entering panic, another emotion that has finally found me. I throw the blankets off and stand up, only to find that I am clothed in only my under garments. What happened to my clothes?
The crisp air reaches my body and goosebumps rise on my flesh. I shiver and wrap my arms around my chest. Clothes. I need some clothes. I look around, but find no dresser, nothing that could hold what I want. I whimper and look at the edges of cot, around it, and under it. Bingo. Underneath the cot is a box, old with holes at the tips and a wrinkled surface. I drag towards me, open it up, and take out its contents, all which are slightly rumbled and dusty. A loose, white T-Shirt and a pair of jeans that are in need of a belt, which so happens that there isn't one in the box. The old, dirty, white tennis shoes are worn at the heels look fine to wear. I also find a pair of socks that have holes where the big toe is. I put everything on, continuously having to pull the jeans back up and the sleeves of the T-Shirt on my shoulder.
I put the box back under the cot only to see something else under there. I cock up one eyebrow and grab it. Bringing it out, I find it’s only a normal, everyday, black ink pen. It must belong to the person writing the papers. I stand back on two feet and return it to the worn down, dark, wooden desk. The chair is a swivel one with tiny wheel connected to a leg that splits into four at the bottom. It is also battered, the wood chipping, threatening splinters. I put the pen next to the scatter papers, yellow with age. Wait. Yellow? I look at the papers, the writing blurry but legible, and read at the date scribbled in the left, top corner: October 12th, 2012. How long have I been a sleep? When did I sleep? Nothing is returning to me. No memories but the creature, the trickery of the forest, and the familiar little girl. What is wrong with me? I can’t even remember my own name, my own birth date! I read the rest of paper, hoping it will clue me on something, anything.
October 12th, 2012
I know now. It’s all so clear. Why didn't I figure out this on my own before! I laughed at my Innocents, the girl that never knew. I’m no longer that little girl who tries to plead “Daddy” into taking me to Dreamscape. I can enter myself. My tutor has taught me the way and “Daddy” is nothing but a fragment of my memories. He can’t bother me anymore. But my tutor says I must be watchful, because when a person leaves their “Daddy” or their “Mommy”, they will try their best to find you again. Using your Innocents against you so they can once again hold your mind. I’m not afraid though. My battle is won and “Daddy” won’t see me again.
Astrid
Dreamscape? Innocents? Then there is the mention of “Daddy” and “Mommy” too. What is going here? Who are these people and where are these places? And the name. Could that possibly be my own? Astrid. It seems to fit, like a piece of the puzzle I was missing for the first few minutes I've been awake. But there are still many to be found. I move that piece of paper out of the way to see if there are other written pieces, but the papers are blank. I gulp a lump in my throat that has slowly snaked its way up there, but its stuck. The lump of worry won’t leave me this soon.
The sound of footsteps clear me from my thoughts and I spin around to see the first person since my awakening.
