Since you seem like a regular shrink, you’ll want me to start off telling you about my childhood, how my parents treated me, and if I got bullied or something. I’m sorry to say I have no intention of going into something I don’t remember in the first place. Some memories from the last twenty-four years of my life are missing, and to be honest, I don’t mind it much. I must’ve been a really messed up kid, considering all the marks on my body.

For that reason alone, I’m content with knowing nothing.

So instead of telling you about my life, I’ll just explain how I got to wearing white scrubs and watching people scream their heads off down the hall. The story of how I got here begins at the end, where I woke up one afternoon on someone else’s lawn and had to choose between life and death. There was a gun held right between my eyes, the barrel smooth and glinting with menace in the sunlight.

I swear, the guy holding it was this close to pulling the trigger. I didn’t see him properly at first; it was late afternoon, if I remember correctly, so the sun was in my eyes and shadowed his features.

I wasn’t too concerned about seeing his face, though. I was too busy freaking the fuck out. I wanted to move, but his voice told me not to. So I laid there like an idiot, my eyes bugging out of their damn sockets as I hung on the scale of life and death.

But I didn’t die then, obviously. The guy took a slight step to his right and blocked the sun, leaning towards my face. He seemed young enough, but the aging skin around his eyes gave clues that he was probably a few years older than me. The beard on his face showed that he didn’t care much about shaving, or he didn’t have the time to. A look of pure terror crossed his face, but as quick as it came, it left. His skin didn’t gain back any colour, though, and he still looked close to crapping his pants.

“Get up,” he commanded, his voice deep and gruff. Instead of allowing me to get to my feet, he grabbed my shirt and hauled me in the air, causing me to damn near piss myself.

When I was finally on my shaking feet, I noticed that he wasn’t the only one with me. There was another. He was young as well, but noticeably younger than the other. He was still about a foot or so taller than me, though, with copper brown hair that glinted like gold in the sunlight and flawless, slightly tanned skin.

I was forced to look away from him when the other knocked my head with the back of the gun. He grabbed my wrist roughly and pushed me towards their small cabin, which I hadn’t noticed before. The cabin stunk of old wood and sunflowers; a weird combination. I couldn’t mention anything about it, though. Not with a gun pointed at my head.

The oldest forced me to sit down on a futon covered with a flannel quilt. Everything screamed lumberjack, but the oldest didn’t look like one. Neither did the pretty one.

“Who are you and what were you doing on my lawn?”

I had answered as truthfully as I could, although he could have blown my brains out because of it.

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean ‘I don’t know’? What, you just dropped out of the fucking sky?”

The corner of my lip twitched in morbid amusement at the thought of raining men, but I didn’t laugh. It would just piss him off even more.

“Look man, I know how bad this looks, but I’m telling the truth. I have no idea who I am or where I came from, much less do I know how I ended up on your lawn. I just...”

I sighed and scratched my head, unsure of what to say next. I tried to act suave as hell to show I wasn’t dangerous. That’s one thing I learned about myself; I’m able to stay calm in sticky situations. I always go with the flow—I never argue about anything. I think it’s easier to live life doing exactly what people tell you. You end up with fewer enemies.  You can write that down in your notebook, if you want. Quote me.

Anyway, the eldest looked over to the youngest, waiting for a verdict. I hadn’t noticed the youngest staring at me until then. His eyes made my skin itch. I didn't like him much.

“He’s telling the truth,” the guy spoke, his voice as smooth as honey. It dripped in the air like warm molasses, causing my breath to catch in my goddamn throat.

“Are you sure?” the oldest spoke up, breaking me out of my stupor.

“Yes. His mind is truly blank.”

The gun wavered.

“See?” I rushed to say. “I told you; I don’t know a thing.”

It was dropping.

“So if you would let me go and I’ll—”

“No!” the man shouted, pulling up the gun again. “You can’t leave. You seem so much like him...I'm not sure yet if you're..." He sighed heavily. “You don’t seem hurt anywhere, but you stink pretty badly. Go take a shower, will you?”

He didn't even ask if I wanted to take a goddamn shower. It seemed pretty absurd; telling the guy you nearly killed to take a shower in your house as if he’s family. I didn’t have much of a choice, though, since the oldest took me by my elbow and pulled me to my feet before roughly guiding me up the steps, shoving the gun at my back. I figured that he was nervous about something, which was probably the reason he was trying to keep me away somewhere so he could think. I didn’t think I smelt that bad, after all.

He opened the small bathroom door and pushed me in before muttering, “Keenan will have some stuff for you to wear. Just go into the room on the left when you’re done.” He paused for a moment before adding, “Just do as I say, alright? If you come out of there the same way you went in, I won’t hesitate to pull this trigger.”

For the first time, he left me alone. I noticed that I wasn’t scared. In fact, I realised that my fear had come and left, as if something had sucked it away. Either way, I was calm and grateful for it. There were too many sharp things in that bathroom and I wasn’t sure what I would do if I were really scared.

By the time that door was shut, I’d already begun weighing my options. It was either I did what he said and lived, or I tried to get out and possibly die during the process. I looked over to the small window in the bathroom, glancing down to see how high it was from the ground.

Jesus, I would’ve broken my damn legs if I had jumped. The next thought I had was to grab the tweezers next to the sink and hope it was strong enough to break through skin, but I knew I wasn’t tough enough to do that. I’m still not and never will be, so you can cross ‘psychopath’ off your list of potential diagnosis.

I then decided that I should do what that man said. I mean, I didn’t know who I was, so where was I going to run, even if I broke out? Who would I turn to? I tried making myself believe that was the reason I stayed with them for so long—I didn't have a place to go. But I was just being a coward, really. I knew that once I left that house, I was as good as dead. I’m not much of a survivor, you see. I learnt that the hard way.

I took off my tee shirt, and that was when I saw the scars. They were ragged, deep, and black. They ran from my abdomen, all across my stomach, and to my chest. I was really skinny too, which made the scars look even uglier. Jesus, you would have puked if you saw me then. I'm a bit less bony now, but it's not like I'd show you or anything.

I jumped into the shower and did my thing. I tried not to let the scars bother me, but they were really hard to look at. Instead of looking down at myself, I let my eyes focus on anything else; the off-white tiles, the old half dead shower, or even the wide array of shampoos and soaps. Even now, I have trouble looking at my own body. But I guess that’s something we can talk about later.

I wrapped myself in a fluffy blue towel that hung on the door. It must have been that guy’s, because unlike Keenan’s sunflower and poppy seed scent, the towel stank of stale sweat and burning wood. I wasn’t all that embarrassed about using someone else’s towel, though. I would rather have that than a bullet in my brain, to be honest, so I pushed all unwanted thoughts out of my head as I followed his instructions and went to the room on the left.

The room was painted a soft yellow colour but was sparsely furnished, only holding a bed, nightstand, and a guitar sitting at the far corner. From the doorway, I could see the closet; it was already filled with clothes.

It took a while to spot Keenan on the bed, leisurely sprawled like he didn’t have a care in the world; like he wasn’t rooming with a man who owned a gun and an unstable mind.

None of my business, I thought. I’ll get out of here soon.

“And go where?” Keenan muttered, causing me to freeze.

“W-what?”

Keenan blinked as if I had just walked in. “What? Nothing. Here are the clothes,” he said, handing me a bundle of warmed clothing. I stood there awkwardly with the clothes as Keenan lounged on the bed. I coughed, calling his attention.

“Aren’t you going to leave?” I asked as politely as I could. “No offence, but your eyes kind of freak me out.”

And they did. They were the colour of rich honey, the iris seeming to move on its own in some psychedelic swirl, like a mini typhoon.

Despite my words, Keenan merely laughed. “You’re embarrassed? The one who doesn’t even remember his own name is embarrassed by being seen naked?”

I took his words to heart, which was probably what he wanted. He smiled expectantly as I dropped the towel and quickly fixed the boxers around my waist. I slipped on the pair of dark jeans and reached for the grey sweater, about to put it on until Keenan caught my arm.

“How did you...” I sputtered. “You were just on the bed a second ago—”

“Shh,” Keenan said softly, looking down at my chest. His finger touched one of the scars lightly and I immediately felt a surge of powerful heat. My skin began to pulsate and tingle at the fire that emanated from Keenan’s touch, the scars turning more red than black. I wasn’t imagining it, I swear. I can still feel his goddamn fingers on me as we speak. When the scars looked like they would burst, Keenan looked up at me and smiled.

“What are you?” I would like to believe that my voice was high and mighty, but I sounded smaller than a church mouse. Keenan shrugged, his eyes dancing with wild excitement.

“Get your hands off of him,” a loud voice boomed, scaring the crap out of me. Keenan quickly stole his fingers and moved back, hanging onto his mischievous smile as he watched the mark of his fingerprint scorched on my skin.

His footsteps were heavy and quick as the man walked over to me. He grabbed my shoulders, turning me to face him before taking the sweater and pulling it over my head. He ruffled my wet hair here and there until he was satisfied, taking a step back to get a good look at me.

“It really is you,” he said, his voice alarmingly soft. “I didn’t want to believe it when I saw you in the yard. I thought it was a trick; a way to get me out of the house so they could catch me. I thought you were dead, Jack!”

I blinked. “J-Jack?”

“Don’t you remember me? It’s me, Cillian. Your brother.”

I didn't understand what the man—Cillian—was talking about. Despite my confused and awfully surprised face, Cillian pulled me into a bear hug and squeezed the life out of me. He muttered things that never made sense over and over until I could recite them in my sleep.

And that, my friend, was also the day I learned my name is Jack.

Edited with the help of PeterMa8 and GoneOverWolf.