Young Writers Society

Of course it was black. The only thing that Thomas ever saw anymore. Black and, when he rarely awoke, Toffee stabbing a needle inside of him. At some points, he woke up to the daily torture with his back getting branded or a knife being scraped across his arm. Then, the pain would make Thomas black out again.

Of course, Thomas wasn't afraid of that anymore. Since that was a daily occurrence, he grew used to waking up to bruises and scars dotting his body while Toffee inserted a needle into those spots. Then, of course, Thomas would fall unconscious yet again.

Thomas felt like he was floating in the cryogenic container that Toffee put him in the one time, but instead of the freezing cold of the cryogenic chamber, it was warm and soft, like a comforter. He also could move as he wished without hitting any hard, glass sides. However, when Thomas looked down, his heart skipped several beats.

There was a face staring at him.

It was horrifying. Tan skin stretched over the square-ish face shape, revealing a handsome face with a roman nose and eyes like chocolate staring at Thomas through wide eyelashes. They were framed by almost inhumanly curved eyebrows. There was a prominent mole on his left cheek, going well with the messy dark brown hair that the face sported. When Thomas looked closer, there was a red thing that looked like a hoodie hood around his slender neck.

Before Thomas could look at the face more, it smiled, blinding Thomas with straight white teeth; obviously this boy listened to his dentist. At least, Thomas was sure that it was a boy. He had a boy-ish feel to his aura, if Thomas could describe it as nothing else. The boy turned back to face whatever he was watching before.

"I still don't like you, Tom," the boy said. There was a certain musical tone to his voice, as well as a tinge of happiness. Thomas loved it immediately.

The view of the face shifted, showing a zombie--at least, what Thomas thought was a zombie--fighting some men in usher uniforms. He didn't know how it happened, but he was disappointed as well. He wanted to look at the boy more.

"I still don't like you either, Marco," Thomas said. It was automatic. He didn't not like the boy; Marco, his name was.

What had the boy called him, Tom? Thomas knew that Tom was short for his name, but he hated it. Tom seemed like a douche's name to him. No wonder he said that he didn't like this Marco boy.

The picture froze on the boy's face, making some crumbs on his face obvious. Marco seemed to glow from the light behind him. Thomas had the urge to reach out and caress Marco's cheek. However, as Thomas reached his arm out, Marco's face cracked and the pieces shattered in oblivion.

Thomas cried out, seemingly in pain, as the blackness began to press down on him and crush him, pinning him down to the ground that Thomas was not aware existed before. As Thomas gasped for air, his eyes shot open.

A girl dressed in white--a nurse, a voice in his head told Thomas dimly--called out that the "mystery patient" was awake. Thomas was confused. Who was the mystery patient? A bolt of realization struck him. He was the mystery patient. He had just woken up, didn't he?

There were needles everywhere. Thomas forced himself not to hyperventilate about it. He didn't want Toffee to know about his weakness. Of course, he was sure that Toffee knew already, but he didn't want to take any chances.

Thomas started to sit up, but the same girl pushed him down onto the lying position. She pressed against the metal in his left arm, making Thomas wince.

Wait.

There was no metal there. In its place there was a scar with little lines across it. Stitches. How Thomas knew that, he had no idea, but they were stitches nevertheless. It was sore; recently made? Thomas then realized that there wasn't any metallic heaviness in his head anymore. He must have had all of them taken out.

"Hello, sweetie," the nurse said. Thomas groaned and grimaced at the same time, causing pain to shoot up his spine. "Can you tell me your name?"

Thomas didn't know how to answer. Weren't these humans working for Toffee? They would know his name. Unless this was a test. What did Toffee try to do to him this time? He decided to try a different name.

"Thomas," Thomas answered. His eyes widened and he tried to hold his mouth shut, but he found that he couldn't move his hands. There was metal around his wrists, which also prevented him from sitting up further. He cursed but sat there. He knew that struggling was futile. Why did I say my real name why whywhywhy

"Hello, Thomas, can you tell me your last name?" Thomas scrambled to answer, but didn't know. His eyes widened even further and he stuttered. "I-I don't k-know." He knew that this was not normal, forgetting your name, much less your last one. "I don't know!" He began to break down in tears. He arms hung limp at his sides as he cried. Thomas felt vulnerable until the nurse unlocked the restraints, after which he brought his arms up to his face and cradled himself.

"Bring the doctor in here," one of the nurses told the other. The other nurse did what she was told and the first nurse turned to Thomas. "I am Kaila Summers. It'll be okay. I'm sure that it'll come back to you at some point! Be positive."

"I can't. I can't be positive. Toffee is going to come and take my name away. He took my name. Toffee did it. I know it. Toffee--it was him," Thomas muttered to himself. "He took my memories."

"Who is Toffee?" Kaila asked him. "We might be able to find him and bring your memories back! Do you know where you were? Was he in that building?"

"No he was underground he was in hell I was in hell," was Thomas's almost incoherant answer. He mumbled more things about hell as the doctor walked in.

"Hello. You are Thomas, correct? I am Dr. Peter Dalsia," the doctor said. "I am the current mental doctor and therapist in the building. I actually work in Oswald Psychiatric Hospital. The nurses told me that you don't know your last name?"

"N-no," Thomas said. He didn't entirely trust this man. There was something n his eyes that indicated danger. "I do not remember my last name."

"Okay," Dr. Dalsia answered. "What else do you remember? I'll jump straight to it. Rack your brain. Your age? A memory?"

Like hell was Thomas going to tell Dr. Dalsia about Marco. "I am seventeen years old. I remember the terms of things and what they are called. I know that I had a panic attack when I first woke up. I know about-" He stopped. He might have wanted for Toffee to get caught, but he knew that mere humans could not catch him if they tried. "General things. I do not recall any specific memories."

As he said those things, he realized that they were true, to an extent. He did recall the memory with the zombie and Marco, but he wasn't going to share them with a potential creep. He also didn't want to tell him about Toffee, since he didn't want Toffee knowing that Thomas still remembered him.

"Okay," Dalsia answered. "Do you remember how you got here?"Thomas looked to the side and sighed, rubbing his wrists where the cuffs were. "No, I do not."

"Alright. What's the last thing you remember?" Dalsia pressed. A light-bulb went off in Thomas's head. Dalsia might not know anything, but suspected that Thomas was keeping something from said therapist.

"Unfortunately, I am not keeping anything from you, Dr. Dalsia. I promise you that I want to find out as much as possible about my situation as you do." Thomas avoided the question to make sure that Dr. Dalsia wouldn't pry further.

"You speak in a very high manner, not unlike English people," the therapist noticed. The racist statement caused bristles to run down Thomas's spine. As if I didn't like this man already, Thomas thought. "Do you know why?"

"No, I do not, in fact," Thomas answered. He snapped a little bet, beginning to get annoyed that the man was just recording the fact that Thomas was observant instead of answering him like a good therapist. Where had Thomas gotten another therapist before? Thomas didn't know, but he wished that he could get another person. "I already told you that I don't remember anything!"

"However, I know that you are leaving something from me," Dalsia said. Finally, he tells the truth, Thomas thought. "I can see it in your face." He studied Thomas's face and got very close to him, making Thomas extremely uncomfortable. At this point, all of the nurses had left the room with shaking heads. They knew that Thomas was going to end up in Oswald and felt bad for him--generally, the people who were treated by Dr. Dalsia did. There were many unsettling rumors of the place that the general public didn't like.

Thomas scooted back from the bed. "Please get away from me."

Dalsia pulled back. "I apologize. Do you know anything else?"

The boy shook his head. The doctor--if Thomas could call him that--wrote down a few things on his clipboard. He then looked back up. "Since it's obvious that you want to be left alone, I'll tell you my diagnosis."

Thomas blinked at him, saying nothing. He wondered when the doctor was going to tell him. The doctor stared back, obviously expecting a question. Dalsia sighed.

"I believe that you have amnesia and possibly PTSD from whoever, or whatever put you in here. My recommendation is to put you in Oswald Psychriatric Hospital as soon as possible so you can get better."

Thomas nodded his head with sadness. He didn't want to go with the creepy doctor, but he also didn't want to stay with the needles and where Toffee was. He hoped that Toffee wasn't waiting for him at the asylum, or "psychiatric hospital" or whatever it was. Dalsia smiled nicely to Thomas and walked out of the room. "I'll get you tomorrow to get you time to rest," Dalsia called over his shoulder.

But, behind Thomas's back, Dalsia grinned widely, his eyes narrowing into slits. He could tell that this was going to be fun.