He was not happy. He was cold as balls.

On top of that, it smelled like pickles and something dead. He didn’t particularly like either of those scents, but it really smelled like someone was burning a pickle-scented candle nearby.

Did pickle-scented candles even exist? His head hurt too much to think about that anymore, but he was sure they shouldn’t. ‘Something dead’-scented candles definitely didn’t.

He yawned and stretched before scratching at his itchy stomach-

“Don’t do that.” Instructed a worried voice.

He snapped fully awake and sat up, whacking his head against something solid. He yelped and recoiled.

“I told you not to sit so close.” Chided another voice; older, more stern than the other.

What was going on?

His eyes darted around nervously, but it took a few more seconds to adapt to the darkness of the room.

The first thing he was able to notice was a small flickering flame in front of him. As the rest of the scene slowly came into focus, he was unhappy to find that the flame was, in fact, attached to a candle.

“Is that pickle-scented? He asked with a frown.

He glanced at the person sitting to his left. They were rubbing their forehead, which meant they’d probably been the one he’d headbutted.

They didn’t respond, so he looked around some more.

In front of him, obscured behind the light of the candle, was another figure.

Both individuals wore long black cloaks that masked their faces oddly. Like, the person in front of him was holding a candle directly before their own face. Surely he should be able to catch at least a glimpse of their face, right? He was pretty sure light worked like that.

“Are you guys part of a cult?”

They certainly seemed to fit the bill. Sitting in dark rooms, wearing impractical clothes, burning weird candles. You get the idea.

One of them might have a sacrificial knife or something, but he couldn’t tell because of their big, stupid-looking sleeves.

“He sure is lively.” Commented the head-rubber. A girl, guessing by her voice.

Hard plastic wheels slid over the floor with a clicking scrape as she rose from her chair.

Did demon worshipers usually have swivel chairs? These ones did, but they could be the minority for all he knew.

A bright set of fluorescent lights flicked on a moment later, illuminating the room. The female cultist returned and dragged her chair forward across the shiny linoleum tile.

She pulled back one sleeve to reveal a pale hand with black-painted nails. She snuffed the candle’s flame between her forefinger and thumb.

His gaze flicked up, past the candle’s small trail of smoke. The other figure held a clipboard and a pen in rough, scarred hands. Both items were plastic and characteristically black.

As he’d said. They had a theme.

He jerked his leg back when the pen trailed across the sole of his bare foot.

“What the hell?” He hissed.

“Making sure everything is working right.” The man responded gruffly as he marked something on his clipboard..

Why would it not be? He looked down at himself searchingly.

He furrowed his brow when he found he was naked and smeared with blood. It was no wonder he was so cold.

He rushed to cover himself with a blush. Not that it really mattered. They’d both clearly seen all of him already.

“We have some questions we’d like to ask you.” The woman reached out a hand and patted his arm in what he thought was supposed to be a comforting gesture. Of course, it fell short due to him being naked, and her being a stranger.

Also, he had no intention of answering any of their questions.

“Do you remember your name?” Asked the man with the clipboard.

Oh. That was a real doozy.

He didn’t.

“Uh.” He frowned, unhappy with that fact. He shivered in the freezing room. Only partly because of its temperature. There was something indescribably uncomfortable and lonely about not having his own name.

The man muttered something and made a mark on his clipboard.

The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

“Is that it?” He asked.

“What?” The dark hood inclined as the man raised his head to properly look at him.

“My name.” He hesitated, “Did you say it was Owen?” He asked hopefully.

“I said your name was unknown.” The man corrected.

The nameless boy flinched and looked away. There was nothing explicitly harsh about the man’s tone, but hearing those words felt far too cruel even without any malice behind them.

The lady reached out and grabbed the clipboard away from the man. “Would you like us to call you Owen?”

He rubbed at his chest, hoping to massage away the ball of shivery unhappiness that was growing there.

“I…” He swallowed, “Hah… please?”

“Alright.” She nodded, hood bobbing once before going still again. She scratched something onto the clipboard with the pen. “Are you ready to continue?”

He- Owen shook his head. He didn’t feel ready to even keep breathing. Every breath was sickening and tightened in his chest like a hand around his heart.

He couldn’t remember anything. It wasn’t just his name, it was everything.

All that remained were bare ideas and concepts. He had no recollection of friends or family. Not a childhood pet or a favorite subject in school.

Nothing.

Like every personal memory had been scrubbed away.

Owen’s breathing was growing erratic. Under his hand, he could feel his heart racing and stuttering.

“Themis.” The man rapped his knuckles on the metal table Owen was sitting on.

“I know.” She responded.

Themis pulled back her right sleeve and pushed her palm out toward Owen. His hand trembled as he reached out to stop her. He wasn’t sure what she was doing, but he felt vulnerable and scared.

With her other hand she easily pulled his arm away. She squeezed his wrist comfortingly.

It wasn’t comforting.

Owen’s light head grew dizzy and he screwed his eyes shut against the black spots that crept into his vision.

Something tapped his forehead and he dragged his eyelids open to see Themis’ hand hovering in front of his face.

An eye was tattooed into the center of her palm.

The eye flashed open and exploded kaleidoscopically in his vision.

:(:):(:):(:):

When Owen came back to himself, he found he was in a locker room of some sort. While unconscious, he’d been wrapped in a few towels to keep him warm and laid down across from an enticing shower.

“Ugh.” Owen’s head felt like it was splitting, but he was less anxious than before.

Whatever Themis had done had mellowed him, but really messed up his head. Overall, he was grateful for it.

Maybe they weren’t weird cultists. Even if they were, they must have been doing something right. Themis’ weird hand-trick was proof enough of that.

Since his arms were trapped, Owen shook himself out of the towel-burrito like a wet dog.

He pulled himself to his feet, using the bench he was leaning on to support his weight as he rose.

Owen frowned and took a few unsteady steps on the chilly tile.

He assumed he hadn’t gone too far since the tile seemed to match the room he’d met the possibly-cultists in. More than that, the smell of pickles and death still hung lightly in the air, this time with an underlying tone of bleach.

Idly, he brushed his hand down the pair of ugly new stitches that ran across his stomach. He didn't remember where he'd gotten the injuries, but that wasn't all that surprising. He didn't remember anything.

Once inside the shower, he pulled the short curtain across the doorway. Owen turned to face the shower itself and began to fiddle with the controls until a warm stream of water was raining down onto the sloped white tile.

For a moment, he watched the water flow into the drain in the center of the small room before he tested the temperature with a hand and carefully stepped under the running water when he was satisfied.

Owen groaned quietly and slumped against the wall, content to just let the water run down his back and wash away the cold and dried blood.

By the time he felt like moving again, Owen was sure he’d have a large red mark on his forehead from pressing his head against the wall for so long.

He also realized he didn’t have any kind of soap. He turned around to survey the shower. It was possible someone had left some behind.

While he didn’t favor the idea of using a stranger's soap, he was somewhat desperate to remove all of the caked-on blood.

And there it was, sitting magnificently on the shower’s shelf.

A small green bottle of liquid soap, like the kind you might find in a hotel bathroom. In this case, it was the most beautiful sight he could think of.

Enticing as a siren’s call, it practically had his name on it. As in, a small black sticky-note stuck on its side literally had his name on it, written in silver to show up on the dark stationary.

Owen popped its cap off and squirted a large portion into his cupped hand. When he estimated he’d taken enough, he began to scrub it into his roots with enough vigor to dislodge any grime that might be there.

After a bit longer, he washed the suds out and soaped it a second time. This time, going slower and massaging his scalp gently. The first wash had likely been enough to get clean, but the second allowed him to actually feel like it.

Finally, he moved to the rest of his body, scrubbing every inch of his skin once, twice, and then a third time with what remained in the soap bottle.

Looking at the empty container, Owen realized it was possible he’d overdone it, but at least he finally felt clean.

He stepped out and dried himself off with a white towel that had been folded and left on the bench for him, notably labeled like the soap had been. He pressed the soft fabric to his face and inhaled deeply.

Owen sighed into the towel, happy to find that it still smelled freshly washed and didn’t carry the same pickle scent that seemed to be ever present in the rest of the building.

He dressed in the clothes that had been left beside the towel on the bench; a big black hoodie and a pair of soft black sweatpants. Both were a little too big, but manageable enough.

After a moment of thought, he tucked all the sticky-notes into his pocket. Well, the ones that had been on the towel and both articles of clothing, at least.

The one that had been pasted onto the soap bottle was too soggy to keep and the ink had run.

Owen wasn’t sure what he’d do with the notes, but they were his. There wasn’t much that was.

Owen gave himself a once-over in the dirty mirror above one of the porcelain sinks. His black hair was sticking up all over from being toweled off and his pale blue eyes had heavy bags under them for whatever reason.

His face felt familiar, if not entirely his own. Maybe too pale? Perhaps his ears stuck out too far.

Actually, no. That one was just a personal complaint.

His clothes were also a few sizes too large.

Yeah.

That’s the look of someone ready to take on the world.