It's been several months now since his resurrection and
several more since his death. It has been a strange
adjustment. For the most part, he has spent it feigning
memory loss. At the start, it was very real, but as time went
on, things began to click together and drop back into place--
not everything, not yet, but that was the risk with trauma.
Now, it was more of a defense. There was no reason to talk
about what had happened and how he was feeling, if he had
no memory of the events leading up to his death.
It wouldn't last forever. There were only so many times he
could hear a story about what had happened without offering
corrections, or his own point of view (his new opinion on the
large crickets his mother was so fond of).
Instead, he focused on other things. Getting his (cloned) body
back into shape--at least, working on not feeling dizzy and
breathless after climbing a flight of stairs. He had not anticipated
the lack of energy reserves the cloned body would have, and
it was taking more time that he’d expected to get back to his
old self.
As close as he could get. There was no true way to get back
to himself. The experiences of the past few years, while
more-or-less intact in his mind, were wiped clean from his body.
His eyes now the same shade of blue, his fingers back in their
original positions. It was like nothing had ever happened to him;
staring at himself in the mirror almost felt like looking at a
stranger--someone that he hasn’t been in years.
He has left his brothers sleeping in his bed--them crawling into
his bed during the night happens more often than not these
days--and has made his way downstairs for some much-needed
tea and perhaps a light breakfast. It’s on his way to the kitchen
that he runs into Holly.
“Oh, Captain Short. Holly,” he says cheerfully enough (he thinks).
“Good morning.”
