The Memory Sack BY SAN0052: Warning: This story contains scenes featuring physical injuries and blood. Readers will encounter descriptions of a head wound, persistent bleeding, and characters with blood on their hands. It also depicts physical symptoms of trauma, including dizziness, fainting, and memory loss. Please proceed with caution if you are sensitive to themes of medical distress or injury. This material exceeds the standard restrictions for younger users; an age limit of 9 is advised. - If this isn't enough please let me know before you report. I'll be happy to take this down. Miro: I had barely any time to react as pain exploded through my chest. I staggered up-right, looking at the person who had attacked me. But just as I turned at them another punch of pain struck through my head. Time to move, I thought. I bolted across the street, dodging people from left to right. But the foot steps thudded faster and louder. I glanced behind me. She was catching up. I took a sharp turn, trying hard to not bump into anyone. Because if I slowed down for a second, I was doomed. So instead I tripped. Instead of getting up, I braced myself. Ready for the pain. Ready for her attack. A hand grabbed the back of my shirt. Then— Nothing. Just a breathless laugh in my ear. “Got you.” I froze. Slowly, I turned my head. She stood bent over, hands on her knees, breathing hard like she’d run a marathon instead of chased me halfway across the city. Her dark hair clung to her face from the rain. One eye squinted shut where I’d elbowed her earlier. Yet somehow— She was smiling. “What?” I managed. She straightened and held something out toward me. I didn’t know what it was. It certainly wasn’t mine. I took it anyway. I stared at it blankly. “You dropped it back there,” she said. “I’ve been trying to give it back for ten minutes.” My lungs still burned. “You…” I swallowed. “You weren’t trying to hurt me?” She blinked. “Hurt you?” Another laugh escaped her lips. “You ran after I shouted at you!” “I thought you attacked me!” “What?” The “pain exploding through my chest.” The strike to my head. Not punches. From her at least. “Oh.” She smirked. “Yeah. ‘Oh.’” For a second neither of us spoke. Then she pointed at my forehead. “You’re bleeding, by the way.” I touched above my eyebrow. My fingers came back red. “Fantastic.” “You should probably sit down before you pass out.” “I’m not going to pass out.” The world tilted violently sideways. She caught me before I hit the pavement. I crawled up to my knees. “Told you-” She said holding me down to the wall, steadying me. I slumped against the wall. “W-who hit me?” I asked. Instead of answering my question, she made a call. “A taxi will pick us up.” She said, putting it away after she was done. “I’ll drop you off. Where did you live?” I opened my mouth. Closed it. Thought back. Where do I live? Where did I live? I closed my eyes. “I-I don’t know.”
Kate: “What do you mean you don’t know?” I asked, combing through his pitch black hair, my hands turning crimson. “Have you-?” I hesitated, looking away. “Have you lost your memory?” He offered a weak, pathetic excuse for a smile. "I-I don't know." I stared at him, frantically searching his features for a spark of recognition. I couldn’t. “Hang on.” I whispered the tiniest bit concerned The wound wasn't fatal, but he was badly hurt. Headlights cut through the dark as the taxi pulled up. Shoving my thoughts aside, I locked my arm around his waist, hauling him upright. Seating him down, I spoke to the driver, “How long till we may reach to the nearest hospital?” “An hour miss.” “How long till home?” “30 min miss.” The driver replied, his British accent strong. I thought for a second. “Change the root to home, will you?” The driver nods, looking back for a second. “Your lad all right?” He asked. I halfheartedly smile, shrugging. In the next few seconds nobody spoke. I stared at the boy, hoping that he his wound would disappear. Not that it was possible. The boy glanced at me, “You have to look so worried?” “A boy who lost his memory is seriously hurt?” I stare at him, “What not to be worried about?” “I have not lost my memory!” He lied. “You haven’t got any proof anyway!” "Prove it. What's your name? Where do you live?" "I live on... Baker Street!" he blurted out. "And my name is... it’s..." He spluttered for a second, then said, "Miro! Miro Keen!" "You know Baker Street is from Sherlock Holmes, right? And you definitely just made that name up." The boy went quiet, leaning his head against the window. "I like it, though," he admitted softly. "Like what? The street?" “No. Miro.” “What kind of name is Miro?” I ask. “No idea. But that’s my name from now on.” He looked so serious that the arguing stopped. I repeated the name a few times, testing how it sounded. Miro smiles, staring at me. I reach out to ruffle his hair, but quickly send my hand back. “Are you feeling dizzy?” I ask. “Sick?” He looks away, “How much longer?” “5 more minutes.” The driver replied, taking a sharp curve. Keeping his eyes on the road, the driver asked a question. “How old are you lads?” The driver asked. “Sixteen!” I reply, glancing at Miro. He shrugged, smiling. "Sixteen," was the answer provided after a quick assessment of his height and features. "Maybe a little older, maybe younger. But for now, sixteen works." “16. I like that.” He nodded, happy with is age assessment. “Not too old. Not too young.” Shared smiles followed, and even the driver seemed to share our smile. However, the atmosphere shifted as the taxi lurched, slowing to a sudden halt. My breath hitched. I was finally, truly back home at last. The end of chapter 2. I posted. >:3 I posted. >:3 I posted. >:3 I posted. >:3 I posted. >:3 I posted. >:3
