Prologue: Meet the Cast Through the Curtain

Prologue: Meet the Cast Through the Curtain [Part 1 of 3]

“I... I can’t remember anything...”

For a bit, there was a sort of silence. The sort of silence that ignored the hum of consistent conversations held in whispers. After that bit, though, he could hear something resembling a “pit” and a “pat” hurrying towards him and his spotty little grey & blue world. “S-Say that aga- again, please.”

“I can’t remember anything?”

“Not a thing?”

He shook his head once, tentatively. The room was mainly large, dark clouds that danced at every “beep”. Did she not see the clouds?

“Ah, here. Drink this,” the lady instructed with a kind voice, handing him a small gauntlet with cool water. “I’ll be right back.”

Well, they were less like clouds and more like... What exactly were they more like? Spots. Holes, even. Yes, he saw writhing holes in the air. They would not keep still and they kept obstructing his view. He wished them - commanded them, rather - to vanish, but it was not until he averted his eyes and blinked a few times that they began to shrivel up and shrink, letting him see everything around him for the first time. That was also when the lady returned. Now that he could see clearly, he could see that she was donning a white coat. She must have been a physician. And she was not alone. Not to say that the two people accompanying her were also physicians. They were just there and they were all - the doctor included - looking at him. Was there something the matter with him? Did he do something wrong? Perhaps he looked strange to them.

“Hi there.” One of the new people waved at him. This was another woman. She wore a smile. It was supposed to be genuine, yet it hid hesitance behind its warmth. He was not awfully sure why, but he felt that he was supposed to trust her despite her holding back - something about that warmth was so magnetic, it pulled him in maybe too easily - probably due to his lack of better judgement, and so he mirrored her gesture somewhat lazily. He would have been more enthusiastic had he not somehow felt like a threat to the other occupants of the beeping room. He remained silent, not speaking aloud to the newcomers as he was frightened that the holes would return and take far longer to leave than before.

The other person was a man. He was not smiling. He did not waste time bothering to try to hide his mistrust in the boy. The boy? Why, did you expect a grown man? No? Maybe? Well, that no longer matters. Oh geez, it seems I have lost my spot. Where was I? Oh, yes, the man did not trust the boy. Neither one of them could say why even if they knew. It was simply a matter of intuition. There was something wrong about the boy. Something completely and utterly too right. The boy was presenting himself as a blank slate. Regardless of whether it was on purpose or not, the man found it against his own nature to believe the best of a boy who could not remember a thing. This man was a man of the world. Street-smart and business smart - in his eyes, the only thing that could always be trusted was his gut. So, what did his gut have to say about this? 

"Now, sure, the kid may've been in a tragic accident, but look at him. Just look. There ain't a scratch on his skin. No cuts, no bumps, no bruises. Nada. He ain't normal. Hell, he ain't natural. Well, at least, his body isn't. But his memory? His memory is busted beyond repair. No one - and I mean no one - hits their head hard enough to wipe their whole memory without breakin' skin. That's never happened in the history of ever. It's a miracle he even said a word at all. So, yeah, sure, he may be a kid, but kids break. That? That's no kid. No memory? No broken bones? That can't be trusted. If you ask me, you'd be better off takin' him in - make an ally of whatever the hell that kid is. Learn him. Study him. We can't trust him, but he can - and will - trust anybody and everybody that treats him good."

The man stepped forward, face illegible, and offered his hand to the boy. Of course, the boy did not take it up, opting to, instead, look down at it, then back up at the man. This failed to faze the latter, though, as he proceeded to introduce himself, but not before making his position clear. He was a man made to lead. He only spoke in commands and everyone in his world was supposed to understand – if they could not, they were going to learn how. “Alright, kid, lift your hand – the other one – and grab mine. Yeah, like that. Now shake – no, not your head. Like this. Good. Squeeze my hand. Harder. It won’t break, trust me. Up. Other way. You can’t possibly be this stupid. Up, down, up, down. Like so. Not so fast. Better. That’ll do for now. D’Angelo. That’s my name. Do you have a name, kid?”

The kid uttered not a single word, mind freezing as his hand slipped from D’Angelo’s. He could not recall having a name. As far as he knew, “Kid” was his name. “Is... Is ‘Kid’ not my... my name?”

“Oh god, he is that stupid.”

“Charles!” The smiling woman had been conversing with the doctor in hushed words, trying to learn what there was to learn about the boy, which was not a lot.

Alright, so there was one person Mister D’Angelo answered to and obeyed. Who could possibly be so powerful that they would bring such a mighty businessman to his knees at their very word? Why, his beloved wife, Amelia Claire. He would never admit it to anybody, not even his darling, but he was at her beck and call. That her wish was his command – and her wish was for him to shut up. And, so, he did. He stepped back, eyes trained on the kid whose eyes were blankly studying the light taupe, no, beige hospital blanket that concealed his legs. The kid whose eyes wandered up to none other than Amelia Claire at the sound of her voice. Her voice should have been irritatingly nasal. It should have been unbearably high-pitched. But it was a stubborn voice, like the speaker, turning should-haves into lesser alternatives. So, like the speaker, the voice was sweet and lovely – it dripped with a French-Creole drawl and held a dusting of Queen Elizabeth’s accent. It should have sounded fairly odd, at the least; it sounded like a harp-strung lullaby being played for an infant on the brink of slumber.

“Never mind him, sweetheart. It’ll come to you. And, if for some reason it doesn’t, you and I can come up with one just right for your personality.”