Kings Cross, Sydney — August 30th, 2008.
Night—around 1:30 AM.
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead—too bright, too white. Danny blinked against the glare, face half-shadowed by the hood of his jacket.
He sat in the back of a 24-hour convenience store, bottle of water in one hand, headache splitting his skull in two.
The cashier hadn't asked questions. That's why he came here. A small paper sign taped to the wall read: NO LOITERING. But he ignored it.
He'd woken up on someone's couch. He didn't know whose. It was made of leather, with a lot of stickers attached to it. His hoodie had smelled like sweat and someone else's cologne.
He hadn't drunk that much, had he?
But his stomach was acidic, and his knuckles were scraped again. Not bruised—just raw, like he'd tried climbing something rough. Or hitting someone.
He took a long drink from the water bottle and closed his eyes.
Flashes, laughter. Someone calling him a name—not his. A girl pulled him into a stairwell. Then sirens, again, far away. And silence.
There were rules. Not official ones, but personal ones, codes. The kind of stuff he kept in his head to survive nights like these.
Never stay in one spot too long. Don't carry anything traceable. Don't trust anyone after 2 AM.
They weren't rules for living. Just rules for lasting. Like instincts all people have.
He dug into his pocket, pulled out a crumpled receipt. In the back, a number. Scribbled messily. No name or context.
He didn't recognise the handwriting. But it was very similar to his. He crumpled it and shoved it into his pocket again.
He stood up, body aching in odd places—lower back, shoulder, ribs. He hadn't fallen. He would have remembered that if he had.
Wouldn't he?
Outside, the rain had started. Slow rain—not a storm, just a slow, drizzling mood. He pulled his hood tighter and walked.
The city at night is its own language. It speaks in locked doors, yellow-lit windows, silent black cabs sliding through puddles. Every alley has something to say.
He always felt like it was telling him.
You don't belong here.
He also thought like that sometimes. It always feels like he was wearing someone else's skin. Like that world moved around him, but he wasn't quite attached to it.
He lit a cigarette. As he watched the smoke curl like a ribbon into the wet dark. He liked that part. The simplicity.
And then—a shape in the corner of his eye. A man, across the street, staring. Danny turned to face him, but there was no one there.
Just a shop window. His own reflection. He stood still, water seeping through his shoes.
Danny stepped back, shook his head, and kept walking. With no thoughts or destination, just an aimless walk.
The Hills Clinic, Castle Hill, Sydney — August 31st, 2008.
Morning, around 11 AM.
Daniel sat at the edge of the examination table, the paper beneath him crinkling loudly with every small shift.
The room smelled sterile, faintly citrus and chemicals. Claire sat in the corner beside a fake potted plant, phone in her lap, though she hadn't looked at it once since they arrived.
She was watching him instead—not like a worried wife, but like someone trying to figure out a puzzle.
He hated doctors, not out of fear, but the sheer formality of it. He never felt like a person here. Just symptoms, results or data points. He cleared his throat, as if to prove he was still more than that.
Claire broke the silence first. "He's been…off lately."
Daniel turned to her. "Off how?"
"You've just been….distracted. Tired all the time. Forgetting small things."
He laughed a little, soft and defensive.
"That's just me being stressed."
She didn't smile.
A knock on the door came before either could talk more. Dr. Eleanor Greene entered—a woman in her early fifties, crisp blazer over her scrubs, wire-frame glasses that made her look serious even when she smiled.
She greeted them, asked the usual polite questions, then turned to Daniel with a warm but measured look.
"Claire mentioned in the intake that you've been experiencing fatigue, gaps in memory, irritability…?"
Daniel shook his head, instantly dismissing it. "I've been working long hours. That's it. Nothing to diagnose."
"Any trouble sleeping?" Dr. Eleanor asked, pen hovering.
"No. I sleep just fine."
Claire's voice was quiet now. "But when you wake up, it's like…you don't remember coming home. You're not in the clothes you left in. Sometimes you're sore, or you smell like smoke. And you don't remember where you've been."
Daniel clenched his jaw. "I don't smoke."
"I didn't say you did."
The doctor didn't react to the tension. She was watching him like she'd seen this situation before—a thousand times, always the same subtext.
She asked if he had ever had head trauma, blackouts, stress-related hallucinations.
He laughed it off, said no to everything, except that yes, he'd been tired, and yes, maybe he had been short lately, but that was just life.
At the end of the appointment, she handed him a small cognitive test. A few puzzles, some questions about dates, locations, sequences of events. It was easy at first. Then the last question stopped him.
"Can you describe your last three nights?"
He blinked. He looked up at Claire, who looked right back at him, her expression was unreadable.
He looked at the paper again. His mouth opened, then shut. He scratched behind his ear, pretending to think.
Finally, after a minute. He wrote.
{Thursday–worked late.}
{Friday—dinner at home.}
{Saturday—????}
He handed the paper in. Dr. Eleanor didn't comment. She simply took it and said someone would be in touch for further assessment. Claire thanked her. Daniel didn't.
Before going out, she asked Claire to stay for a few words. Daniel waited outside.
"Is it serious, doctor?" she asked
Dr. Eleanor folded her hands "I wouldn't call it serious–not yet. But I am concerned that some of his answers suggest the possibility of dissociation, or memory disturbance. It could be stress-related, or something neurological. We'll need further testing."
Hearing this, Claire became worried and asked. "Will he be alright?"
"That's what we will find out. In the meantime–don't press him too hard about anything. Sometimes pressure only increases confusion. Let him talk when he is comfortable. And if you notice anything unusual–keep notes."
"I understand."
Claire walked out of the room. Daniel didn't ask what the doctor said.
As they walked out of the clinic into the grey afternoon, Claire slid her hand into his.
He held it back, but it felt like he was pretending. Like this gesture belonged to someone else who looked like him.
In the car, she asked if he was alright. He nodded, but said nothing.
She drove them home, and Daniel sat quietly, looking out at the passing streets, trying to piece together a life he couldn't entirely remember living.