Charlie Dutton

CHAPTER ONE The flowers in her hair were elegant looking and added a fairytale likeness to her features. I easily imagined her dancing in an open field under the sunlight. I would never have the chance to see her in the sunlight, nor anything else. More than that thought making me sad, it created a sense of mystery and an incurable curiosity to understand the world during the day. I passed time during the dark hours very differently than others. My life was simple, quaint, easy but by no means ordinary. The most extraordinary night was the night I met the girl with the flowers in her hair. I didn't remember where I was or how I had gotten there. The air was cool. It must have been fall. The streets were dark, and shadows danced across the vacant buildings. I felt sick, as if I’d been drinking all night but couldn't recall if I had. I wasn't aware of what time it was and with my condition, it was a frightening thought. I also didn't know how I was to get home when I didn't know where I was, or where I lived. The dark had never been a factor in getting me lost, but not only did I not recognize a single physical thing, I was also lost mentally. I was stranded in a vacant alley between a boarded-up café with faded letters, impossible to read and a bookstore that probably closed about five hours ago. A western breeze blew, making me shudder. I wrapped his arms around my torso and realized I was half naked, wearing nothing more than plaid sweatpants, which I also didn't recognize. Fear started setting in and I tried to think of the last thing I remembered but everything was a blur of words and pictures that meant nothing to me. Something easier was what I knew. I knew my name was Charlie Dutton, I knew I was eighteen years old. I knew I lived in Southern California, I knew my dad left me when I was eight, came back to me seven years ago, just to disappear again and send me huge checks to make up for his abandonment. This was all I knew. I couldn't recall the date, not even the year. I couldn't remember my address or social security number. I had no recollection of what my house or apartment even looked like. I was eighteen-year-old Charlie Dutton, half naked in a dark alley. Typical. Across the empty street was a distantly familiar building shrouded in shadow. I walked over to it, realizing it was an apartment complex, quite possibly mine, but I couldn’t know for sure. I reached into my pocket, hoping to find something. No keys, no wallet, only a lighter and a pack of cigarettes. Do I smoke? I lit one up and inhaled, letting the smoke slither down into my lungs. It felt natural—it felt good. I sighed and started walking toward the complex, hoping to recognize something on the way. I shuddered again, feeling the chill of the air. What happened to my clothes? I cautiously walked up the cracked, dirty steps of the apartment complex, looking at all the doors with metal numbers nailed on them. Nothing struck me as familiar, nothing felt—fitting enough. I kept walking. Shadows skipped across the cement at my feet, a ray of light casting shades of color. I spun on my heels, facing the horizon. My breath caught in my throat and my entire body started shaking, a chill coursing through my blood. The sun was rising! I started frantically pounding on the door in front of me, chest, tight with anxiety. “Please!” I called out. “Please, let me in. Help me!” The door opened to reveal a young woman, with tired eyes. “Charlie?” I raced into the room, before even realizing she knew my name. “What are you doing out at this hour? Are you trying to kill yourself?” I tried to ask a hundred different questions, but only one came out. “Where am I?” The woman pulled her eyebrows together and stared into my eyes. “What do you mean?” My voice rose to a shout. “Where the hell am I?” “You’re in my apartment.” “City and state.” Charlie, what’s going on?” “City and state!” I yelled. “Santa Monica,” she said, “California.” I sighed and flopped onto the gray couch behind me. “How do you know my name?” “What?” she mused. She sat beside me on the couch and placed a cool hand on my forehead. I shrugged it off. “I’m not sick.” “Where have you been?” “I—don’ know,” I said. “What do you mean you don’t know?” I looked into her gold eyes, feeling a sense of familiarity. “I don’t remember,” I said. “I don’t remember anything.”