You have woken up and you’re in a hospital, memory gone. You find out that the whole county is in debate on putting you to death for the crime you cannot remember committing.

“You’re a son of a bitch.”

“Am I?”

The guard, Greg, snorted at my reply. He didn’t like me. Heck, it seemed no one liked me at the moment for reasons that were beyond my comprehension. But at least he didn’t actively dislike me. Well, apart from the comment. Somehow it was even worse, like when you break your mother’s heart and she doesn’t scold you, she just looks at you with tearful eyes.

I wonder what my mother was like?

“Hey glass, you hear me?”

“Sorry,” I muttered.

Greg sighed and went back to leaning against the wall. One eye on the door, one on the maniac.

“They’re gonna fry you for this Glass.”

It was one of the things Greg had picked up, after the Doc had done speaking with me. Glass. An empty glass. The Doc used it as a metaphor for my head. I could remember new things, but nothing from before. Ever since I’d been trying to fill it back up.

“Can I have a drink?”

Greg could make two sounds, like a broken clock that was only right morning and night. Snort or grunt. Stay and protect or leave and serve. He couldn’t make it more obvious which he’d rather be doing right about now. Grabbing the cup he held it to my chin.

“Maybe you should just wave hello when you see the press.”

“But I don’t have any…”

“Bad joke Glass.”

After the Doc was done with me I wanted to sleep. Wake up and know my own name. I mean, that’s a pretty simple thing right? You look in a mirror and you know who you’re gonna see. For me it’s like listening to a recording of my your voice, only you never get used to it, it’s always someone else, there’s something off. Exit Doc, enter Sheriff. This guy was pissed. I mean, I can’t remember anyone ever being this angry. I’m pretty sure he’s gonna shoot me there and then with the big silver revolver strapped to his hip, but Greg speaks up, calms the guy down until he can look at me. Hence the guard duty.

Mr Sheriff is judge, jury and as far as he’s concerned executioner. I’ve gone and done it. One prank too many. Cried wolf for the last time. Doesn’t matter I’m lying unarmed in a hospital bed unable to recall the first snog I ever got. He’s not gonna rest until I’m swinging from a tree.

“That stag was older than your grandpa.”

I really wish he’d provided some context at the time. It doesn’t work when you make references like that to an amnesiac. Greg filled me in, after. I thought it was funny. Well, except for the end. But Greg didn’t think a laugh was the “appropriate” response.

Doc, PHD in telling me I’m screwed. Sheriff, badge letting him tell me I’m screwed. Greg was the first one to actually tell me why. I’m not being stupid (well, maybe), but sometimes you’ve just gotta start at the beginning.

Seventeen. Town prankster. Takes a hacksaw to the bronze stags head in Liberty square. Head comes loose. Falls. Boy gets in the way. By the time they wheeled me in here both my arms were long since gone and I’d been caught purple-handed.

What can you do if you can’t laugh?

Prompt originally posted by catbuscar on reddit and received 3 upvotes.

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