It was blissful for a while, then a second later, it no longer was.

The sounds were distant, but at the same time close enough that they forced him into realizing what was beyond this peaceful world of his. They were the cooing of chickens, soft and rhythmic, but at the same time sharp enough to slice through the blanket of darkness he was swaying within.

His slumber began to fade.

A second went by, then another, then the third, and so on and so forth. Maybe minutes passed, he didn’t know, but after a while his eyes fluttered open heavily. And like a newborn baby, he was almost completely blinded by the sudden bright rays of light that rained down upon him, coercing him to shut his eyes once again.

He remained still on the bed he was laying on for a while, keeping himself in a watered down darkness that constantly had light sneaking in to taint it, and after a minute or so realized that his body had some problems with it.

His legs and hands were extremely heavy, almost to the point that it felt like they did not exist. His breathing was a bit too shallow, while the scent of early morning making it into his nostrils of the feeling that they were too little to sustain his life. Furthermore, he couldn’t seem to recall anything.

Why?

He opened his eyes again, this time they adjusted to the bright light of his surroundings, bringing to his view what was around him.

The first thing he saw were the wooden beams above him. They were quite weathered—almost too weathered—but they hung on strongly, preventing the ceiling from crashing down. He shifted his gaze from it as soon as he’d seen enough, and they’d only moved a bit before he figured out that he was in a bedroom.

With walls and a door of rough-hewn wood, as well as floorboards and furniture of the same category, the room gave off a rustic vibe; although, at the same time, it was simple and cozy.

Where am I?

He turned his head to his side, and there was the only window in the room, a small one opened just wide enough to let in shafts of early morning light.

The earthy smell of soil he was breathing in was stronger from this direction, and he could see the reason why.

On the other side of the window were the things that had served as an alarm clock from nature for him: Chickens.

His brows narrowed in displeasure at the sight. The chickens, their figures did not look natural. They were larger and robust, their beaks seemingly sharper and their claws longer. Furthermore, from their forehead protruded a black gem-like horn.

However, his feelings of uneasiness directed at the livestocks quickly dissipated as something obviously more important took center stage in his head.

How come I feel like I know what these are, but I can’t seem to remember anything about myself? What’s my name?

“You’re awake?” The sudden arrival of a voice snapped him out of his reverie. But his reaction was stifled by the heaviness of his body, causing his eyes to turn towards the direction of the room’s door before his head could follow. “You’re awake,” the person repeated, their voice almost too flat to be considered one with any form of pitch in them. They had dark skin and a clean haircut with a really sharp style; their hair was fuller on top but barely visible at the sides and back. They were dressed in a black sweater and blue jeans, and in their hands were a set of clothes.

He did not intend to frown at this teenage boy standing across from him, but he did regardless. “Who am I?” Also, that was not the question he had intended to ask, but it was what was rampaging violently in his head so he had blurted it out subconsciously.

Correcting himself did not cross his mind, though. He did want to know who he was and what had happened to him.

“Sam,” the teenage boy replied quite nonchalantly, almost as though he did not find the question weird. Maybe he didn’t? “At least that was what was written on the picture.”

Sam? Picture?

If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

The teenage boy walked further into the room and placed the set of clothes he had brought on the table near the bedside window. He then took out a picture from the table’s drawer. It was ripped at its right, causing a photograph that should have revealed the faces of five people to reveal that of only the two to its right.

One was a young beautiful woman with blonde hair and hazel eyes. While the second, a teenage boy of seemingly the same age as the one holding the picture. He had a mole on the left of his hazel eyes, and similar blonde hair as the woman, just his was cut clean and uniformly in an extremely close manner to his scalp, making the texture of his hair barely noticeable.

Me? Is my name really Sam?

He felt a strong connection with the person in the picture. Even though he was yet to see his actual self in a mirror, he truly believed that that was him. And a second later, he came around to believing that the name written on the body of the ‘him’ in the picture was his as well.

Then… Sam looked at the woman standing beside him with her hand on his shoulder. Is that my mother? He shifted his gaze towards the torn part of the picture, unable to see their faces but able to make out their build. One seemed like an adult man, while the two figures in front of him looked to be those of teenagers just like Sam—a boy and a girl. Who are those? The same way Sam’s name was written on his body, the other two teenagers had theirs written as well. Sam frowned. Eleanor? Rain?

At that moment a loud yawn broke the silence in the room, and, of course, startled Sam. It had come from his right, after all, and he had not noticed that someone was so close to him all this while.

He turned his head to see a man sitting down on a reclining chair beside him with a book placed over his face and a boat shaped hat on his lap. The man removed the book to reveal his facial features then, and Sam’s heart galloped ferociously.

They were broad, well chiseled, and surrounded by a rough but charming stubble. His hair was a slicked back beauty of brownish gray. And his build was nearly so muscular that his jean shirt looked like they would rip. Maybe it was for that reason that the man rolled up his sleeves, exposing the thick strands of hair sweeping over his veiny forearms.

He was just one of the many masculine men that existed, but Sam doubted the possibility of the existence of anyone better.

“You’re awake?” The teenage boy returned the picture he had brought out to show Sam back into the drawer. “You’re awake.”

Why not just say it once? Sam kept his criticism of the boy to himself.

“Oh, Richie!” the awakened man hooted; his voice had a tinge of roughness to it, and there was a local accent there as well. “You’re here?”

“I’m always here, Old man,” Richie replied with a flat tone. “The boy you brought back is awake too.” He gestured at Sam with his thumb, and the masculine man looked in that direction.

Sam was still unable to move, bound to the bed by an invisible chain. The man smiled at him.

“I’m Hunter. Jim Hunter,” he said. “The picture we found with you points to your name being Sam. That right?”

Sam’s expression pinched. Why did he not just directly ask for my name instead of putting it that way? That Richie also did not seem to find my question weird. It’s almost like they know I have amnesia.

He remained silent.

“I see,” Jim nodded. “Well, I’ll take it your name’s Sam, since you probably don’t remember.”

“Why would you think that?” Sam asked with an unpleasant tone.

“Well, we’ve got a good doc, and she’d told us the possibility of you waking up without any of your memories was high.” He flayed his eyes over Sam. “And that it’d take you some time to get used to your body.”

A doctor? Well, that makes sense.

“How long was I asleep for? What happened to me?” A minute or so later, Sam cut in on a conversation between Jim and Richie which apparently involved a bottle of whiskey.

Jim looked at Sam for a moment before standing up from the reclining chair he was sitting on. Hat in one hand and book in the other, he said, “A week or so.” Sam blinked. “As for what happened to you, it’s still kind of early for that conversation, don’t you think? When you get your feet kicking, come meet me in the sitting room.” Jim grinned. “The morning after it rains is always the best for drinking. I’m gonna go have a bottle of whiskey. Get him a cup of water, Richie.”

In other words, you’ll only tell me what’s happening here after you’re done swiping a whole bottle of alcohol? You alcoholic!

Sam didn’t push it, though. He didn’t know who they were, so he had to proceed cautiously.

With that, Jim left the room while whistling a tune. Richie, on the other hand, remained with Sam, despite being told to bring him a cup of water.

“And you, what’s the deal with you?” Sam asked, his question for Richie, but the boy remained silent. “Why do you keep looking at me that way?”

He would not have been disturbed by the boy looking at him if only his eyes were not of the weird kind. They were without vigor, dead even, and deep down seemed to hold a frightening desire fueled by impulse and violent anger seeking to erupt at any given chance. They were the kind of eyes that would force people into keeping their distance from him. Sam was considering that.

Richie shook his head. “No reason in particular.” He then turned around and headed for the door. On his way out, he muttered one last thing, “You just have the same eyes as me.”