A lost man stumbles down a strange street where his footsteps hit the pavement of another world, and the crowds whisper that maybe its this foreigner’s first time around. They gawk at glossy, ashen tresses too authentic to be dyed and they point to his nails, bruised black from deep underneath that couldn’t be mistaken for nail polish. Perhaps he speaks their language and can make a convincing explanation, but he speaks a different dialect; his tongue can’t contort itself into the alien, guttural tones of ignorance. Andrew is a lonely face that strolls past shop windows and studies the reflection of a phantom, unable to fathom how moments ago he could babble along cluelessly like the rest.
He stopped walking and pressed a soft, crooked hand against the glass window of a toy store. There were the obvious changes staring back at him, like the trivial changes made to his hair or his newfound sturdiness compared to the coffee shop chat that was (he thought) moments ago. There were the changes in clothing as well, his uniform suits replaced by a collar around his neck and an outfit sleek, black, and designed for athleticism. But, these changes didn’t worry Andrew as much as the hardened look on his face. Andrew took a moment making faces in the mirror, relaxing his tension and warming his expression until he looked closer to his usual self. The harshness -- no, the sheer violence -- in his eyes melted away as he fully came to his senses. However, something inside him remained changed and it could tell stories through the broken look in his eyes.
He patted himself down to find his phone or wallet, but panicked when there was absolutely nothing on him. How was he going to catch a taxi home? Text Artemis that he would be late for her date? Andrew spun around, chewed on his lip, and finally gathered the nerve to ask a pedestrian for help. The woman in her frumpy sweater handed Andrew her cellphone, panda phone case and all, but he hesitated and held out the screen. “Oh, did you know that you have the wrong date?” he asked, “If you want, I can change it for you because I have the same phone model.”
Only, the woman insisted that he wasn’t simply a few days off...but a month.
Andrew texted Artemis, thanked the oddball woman, and continued down the sidewalks. He knew his way home, although it would be a long walk considering the broad daylight preventing him from donning a mask and using his speed. Andrew craned his neck to see the early morning sky framed by skyscrapers, but it easily could’ve been six o’clock in the morning. The horizon’s pale hues didn’t match the bright afternoon he remembered from moments ago, where he shyly stared out the window while having coffee with Jin. Andrew took a deep breath and hurried a little faster, breaking into a run after he saw a magazine stand whose articles couldn’t possibly have the right print date. In his desperation, he began to ask for the time and date like a madman. Andrew’s heart fluttered, his stomach flopped, the heatwaves of nervousness prickled underneath his skin, and he felt ready to vomit. Everyone else needed to be wrong -- like this was all some horrible prank on a reality show -- because he couldn’t handle not remembering a month of his own life. Some of the oddest reactions came from the ghouls: they clammed up or outright sprinted like the reaper was on their heels when he approached them.
As he panicked, his own thoughts flickered and glazed over themselves: where did he work, where did he live, and what was even his own name could sometimes flutter just beyond the reach of his fingertips. Andrew was sprinting up the stairs of an apartment complex he knew well and banged on the door, louder and louder with each passing second. He leaned against the hallway walls, breathing heavily as his eyes searched the perimeter. “Hoya?” he called, “Hoya, are you in there?”
Andrew bolted for the door again, now pounding with more desperation. “Wh-what’s my name?” he asked, ‘No, I already know what; it’s Andrew.” He slapped a palm against his forehead and groaned, turning in a tight circle before pouncing on the door again. “Today is the twenty-sixth of March, right?” he asked, “Please tell me it’s the twenty-sixth of March.”
