Excerpt: Uchronie (working title)

I do not remember my name. I recall the summer sunshine, parades on the main streets, symbols I cannot recognise, people cheering. I know what a screwdriver is and how to use it. I can name every star in a sky I can no longer see—and yet, when it comes to my memory; who I am, where I come from, why I am here, all I draw is a blank. Zilch. Zero. Nada. Nothing but white noise. Someone has taken me from my rightful place and put me here. That same someone (or people in cahoots) has (or have, depending on this conspiracy) taken my memories, and with that—they have murdered me. The original me, not this identity. This is a shell, a hollow, a shadow of who I used to be. I am not concerned with whether I was the lowliest criminal, the comely beggar, the rugged or the wealthy. At least if I had been those people, I would have known. I would be conscious. I would be alive, not in this state of half-and-half. I cannot live with not knowing who I was. Or am. So, I intend to find that bastard. And when I do, he's going to pay.