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The 5th

He could not remember his own name. He sat silent in front of the mirror, staring ambitiously into his eyes, vainly attempting to match colour to name. His were an unusual muted blue colour, possibly violet in some shades, but mostly blue. He had tried so many names, had tried to slot them into his mind, but they refused to fit. He was no Henry, Peter, James or Philip. Not even a Robert, or a Bobby or simply a Bob. He was a no-name. He was vacant.

He strained ruthlessly, stretching his mind to its complete limit, until his very brain seemed to sag and droop like pastry rolled too thinly. He could remember everything else. He could remember his mother's name, his father's name, his one brother and two sister's names, his family's dog's name, even his house's name, and yet he had awoken with no name.

The 6th

After an entire day and night had lagged by, the shock of it, the scare at realising one has lost their own name during sleep was evaporating slowly. He was quietly disbelieving the entire scenario. He recalled the events leading up to the loss: the deep sleep he had wallowed in for days, for no real reason other than the simple pleasure of it. He had no occasion to awake for. He had no job, no friends, no family that cared enough to call. So he had simply slept on. And then, at 9.10am on a crisp Saturday there had been a sharp knock at the door. He had ignored it, rolled over, and then had woken so suddenly that it felt to him as if his very soul had been jabbed with a sharp implement. He had sat bolt upright in his sponge-like bed and blinked, rapidly, then slowly. The knock sounded again. He dragged himself up from the greasy depths of week-old sleep and crawled upright to the door.
written for class.

the idea was to write the beginning of a short story every other week and then pick one to finish for the final assignment.
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March 7, 2009
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