Human Error - Phone Unknown

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So I had this overwhelming urge to write that couldn't be quenched, so I decided to start this using an idea I wanted to flesh out. Wayward is going to take priority still, but I haven't been able to write much in a while and I think I really need it so here we go

Unknown Human

Earth


The time is 3:59am on Monday the 14th of August-- or so states the internal clock embedded in your mind's eye. The clock They embedded so you would not forget the date. So you would never forget the date. Ever.

That is to say, this is the time on Earth and you don't have any way of knowing if the message relayed to you was referring to this date and time specifically, or whatever their own method of time measurement is. Granted, it's unlikely extraterrestrial beings who live outside the boundaries of Earth use 'August' as a name for this exact month but you just never know. The clock in your mind does match today's date so it can't be incorrect. You're just a bit surprised they'd be so insistent on this and then leave you hanging.

It's not like you could have misplaced the time or anything. Unless you misplaced your brain somehow and you seriously hope this is not the case. You've grown rather fond of your brain and would hate for it to go missing.

You pat your head to be sure. Your skull is sealed, no incision, no sign of tampering and no missing hair. You're fine.

So They must be late.

You're standing in the middle of a corn field, wearing a midnight-blue business suit that you don't remember putting on. In the distance you can hear the yelping bark-howls of coyotes and some bizarre chittering noises you imagine belong to supernatural beings you have No Time to deal with at the moment. But the one thing you hear above all else are the stars.

The stars are so loud tonight. You can hear them buzzing above you. They do that. Buzzing. They know you hate it when they do and like to be pricks about it. But they also know you still think they're beautiful.

So they use that to their advantage.

Again. Pricks.

It sounds like bees. Like thousands and thousands and thousands of bees buzzing far above you in swarms, flickering a little but remaining in place. They can't catch and sting you, but they can't be muffled either.

You twiddle your thumbs idly. The air smells like sawdust and rain. They're not coming. You're out here in the middle of nowhere and They're not coming. Your eyes hurt from countless sleepless nights, and from crying. You were crying earlier. It was a whole thing. It's over now. You're never going to think about it again.

...Except for just then. But you don't remember clearly why you were crying anyway so it doesn't even matter.

You really wish more people would believe you... (maybe you were crying about that, who knows). More people opposed to, well, none. But it's not like you've had much time to adjust. They were theories one day and then, quite suddenly, not. Not at all. If you were obsessed before you're not sure you have a word for it now. The more you think about it the more cliche it all feels. The crackpot theorist no one believes is actually right? Hoo boy who'd a' thunk it?

And the thought of being a walking cliche pisses you off even more. But forgetting that, forgetting where you came from--which you've already done-- where the hell are They? The message you found tattooed on your left forearm was very clear about this. You were to arrive here, exactly here, on this exact date, and you were to await their arrival--which would come shortly. They even wrote 'LOOK AT YOUR LEFT FOREARM' across your forehead in black ink to be sure. You are, incidentally, glad they didn't tattoo that bit.

How did you even get here... Your feet hurt. You look down only to realize you're not wearing shoes. Did you walk? They look red and cut up but don't hurt. Not even a little. You don't feel surprised for some reason but you still can't recall why this is.

Everything's just a bit fuzzy... feels like static dancing behind your eyes and eardrums. God you wish those stars would shut up.

And why the hell are you wearing this suit? You never wear suits. Er. You... you think you don't, at least. Why are you so uncertain of that? Why does the thought of remembering suddenly scare you so much?

But more importantly... what's your name?

Your... gender?

Do you have any pets? Did they come with you?

And what does the note in your pocket say?

Yikes. You really don't know anything... Come to think of it, you're not even sure you know what you look like either.

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