In response to the cacophony of beeps and hums emanating from a variety of complex machines, the teenager opened one bleary eye. This was closely followed by a second, allowing the cramped box room to swim in and out of focus. It was shrouded in darkness; a bright line to his right betrayed his initial thought that it was night. The curtains were drawn and the sun was trying, not unsuccessfully, to worm its way under the thick fabric. As his vision became steadily less blurry over the—what was it? Seconds? Minutes? Hours?—he had been conscious, the young man found himself slowly regaining control of his faculties.

This was a hospital room, he so swiftly deducted; there was evidence of that everywhere. From the metal monstrosities that had woken him up to the lurid lilac colour lazily splashed across the walls. The blankets he was cocooned in were of an even more hideous shade and he briefly allowed himself to wonder what on earth had possessed the decorator of his prison. From there, he realised that he had much more pressing things to wonder about: why was he here, for example? Also, where was everyone? He couldn't imagine that he was so unpopular that not a single person had arrived to wish him well; a speedy recovery, perhaps. Having said that, he couldn't imagine much at all. He didn't know exactly who it was that he expected to greet him; he didn't even know exactly who it was that lay in this bed. He tried to cast his mind back as far as he could but soon found that his line seemed to bounce to a halt on an invisible wall somewhere prior to his waking up. He envisioned a mirror before his eyes but every image that appeared there was hazy at best, changing so often that the teenager didn't know what to believe.

His eyes continued to scan the room in a futile search for clues but he soon gave up. He would just have to hope that someone would come and put him out of his misery soon. The lack of answers was driving him insane and so, in order to regain some semblance of control, he began to mentally recite a list of facts he knew about himself.

1. He was male.

2. He seemed slight of build, although that may have been an illusion under a blanket that felt as though it had been recycled from an iron curtain.

3. His hair was blonde, and currently straggling down in waves past his shoulders—a sure sign that it needed cut and perhaps also an indication of how long he had been here?

Instantly, the young man felt disheartened. Three things; that was all he could remember about himself. They weren't even true memories but observation, a skill that he was currently glad had remained intact. He considered untangling himself from the number of wires attached to him although he wasn't entirely sure how. Surely it couldn't be that difficult to unhook a heart monitor? He was immediately put off of the idea at the thought of the long, shrill beep that was bound to fill the room and call doctor after doctor to his aid—calling them away from those who needed it more. He couldn't do that. He did, however, manage to push himself up into a sitting position and carefully extricate one arm from where it was trapped at his side. For a brief moment, he held his hand in front of his face; he first examined the back, with its neatly-trimmed nails, and then twisted it to view the palm. Nothing out of the ordinary, although he didn't know why he had expected it to be so.

With a painful stretch, his hand found the small switch on the reading light situated on the cabinet to the side of his bed. A small spotlight appeared on the opposite wall, gradually moving towards him as he twisted the lamp's neck. Finally he got it to light the upper half of his body, allowing him to further examine his appearance. He had been clothed in a hospital gown at some point during his stay, and felt no need to lift the covers to look further; it was evident there was nothing more to see. Instead he began to look around for signs of his identity. A noticeboard hung above his cabinet and, with a quick adjustment of the desk light, it was now his to peruse.

He had been right; there were people who cared about him—quite a few, actually, if the number of cards were anything to go by. Several were pinned to the corkboard, depicting bandaged puppies and elaborate flower displays—the latter being a touch feminine for his tastes—and all were emblazoned with similar text: 'Get Well Soon!' It was if they thought he had a choice in the matter. He couldn't make out the messages scrawled inside from this distance and none were in arms reach. However, he imagined they had much the same sentiment as the exterior, leaving him largely nonplussed—although also a touch disappointed that they couldn't reveal his name. He was quickly learning not to get his hopes up; trapped in such a small room without even the capability to fully explore it, the boy had very few, if any, means to uncover what was going on.

Despite this, he found himself rifling through the one drawer the hospital had afforded him. A phone was the first thing he plucked out, a quick examination showing that it was an iPhone. Surprisingly, the teenager found that he knew what that was: a good sign. He pressed the circular button, ever optimistic, but as expected its battery had run dry. There was a crack running the length of the screen and its owner suspected that it was in some way related to how he had come to be here. He discarded it on the bed and turned his attention back to the rest of the drawer's contents, although there was nothing of interest: some tissues, a packet of Reece's Pieces—half eaten by someone other than himself—and a lady's watch. He wasn't entirely sure who that could have belonged to, it obviously not being his, but he speculated that the owner was probably the individual guilty of eating his candy. It seemed likely that his mother had come to visit, or perhaps a sister. A girlfriend was a possibility that he quite liked, and he even took the time to examine the cards a second time in search of one saying 'To My Boyfriend' or suchlike. No such luck.

It quickly became apparent that there were no further clues to be found, so the teenager decided to occupy his time by looking more closely at the phone. Perhaps there was enough power for him to see its contents, even for a second. The date would be nice; there was bound to be something he could work out from knowing the date. He just needed something, anything, to jog his memory. Casually, he felt around the bed in search of the small smartphone and, upon finding it, held it closely to his face.

For the first time he saw his true reflection and stared at it like a deer in headlights; then the girl staring back at him screamed.