Andy's Origin

Andy’s Origin

by

Kim Bair

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2022 by Kim Schubert

All rights reserved.

Cover Art By: Cristal Designs

Table of Contents

Dear Reader

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Epilogue

Thank You

Connect with Me

Dearest Reader,

I feel the need to offer a warning of sorts. This novel gets dark, and the continuation of the series is going to continue that trend.

If you’ve read my previous books, first thank you, second, it’s darker and took a few betas off guard.

With that said, I truly hope you decide to join me in this series. I’m personally in love Andy’s evolution.

Chapter 1

My head throbbed in time to my heart, with an ache that rested not in the center of my forehead, like the ones resulting from my usual overconsumption of ale. This one seared into the very fibers of matter resting underneath my skull, abusing not simply muscles. Talons had dragged against and through the organ that controlled me, potentially removing a piece.

The effort to open my crusted eyes was a pitiful display of weakness, as it drove the torment of my head to levels only … only … someone … had achieved previously. Who? The memory was slippery; shadowed figures and colors swirled in my mind’s eye, but no story arrived with them.

My sight did arrive, though, revealing blinding white lights above me. My stomach chose that moment to revolt, launching its contents onto the white speckled floor beneath the metal bed. I clung to the railing as I heaved, unable to recall what my last meal had been, or the drink that had potentially accompanied it.

Wiping my mouth on the back of my hand brought my attention to itchy fabric, grating against my skin. Surprise warred inside of me as my fingers explored the irritation at the inside of my elbow. A thin tube disappeared under the skin, and I followed it back to the clear bag hanging on a tower, also metal.

I pulled the tube out with a jerk, not trusting whatever substance was being delivered and hoping that with its removal, the pain between my ears would dissipate. Blood dripped against the metal rail before slipping down onto the white bed sheets.

My gaze snapped to the door as it opened. You aren’t supposed to be awake yet, the woman in a pink shirt and pants informed me in a whisper, her eyes round in terror, complete with the alluring smell of fear. A low growl formed inside me and forced its way out toward her.

SHE’S AWAKE! The woman jumped from whispering to a scream that would have made the banshees proud.

The shriek amplified the pain in my head to unbearable levels. I moved off the bed, finding my legs steady enough to hold my weight. I was going to remove her tongue, and possibly a lung, for causing me such anguish. The anger and irritation bubbling up through the confusion were familiar, and I found comfort in their presence.

A man appeared behind the pink banshee, what I took as his usual pallor flushed, dark locks sweat-stained and sticking to his forehead. He slowly stepped into the room, one hand holding a wooden rectangle with a metal device securing loose sheets of paper. I slapped it from his hand.

Oh, okay An-Andy, let-let’s calm down. No, no need to ca-cause a scene, he stammered, ending on a high-pitched chuckle with a pathetic attempt to smile. But it didn’t reach his eyes. I inhaled deeply, drawing in the sickly sweet smell of their commingling fear.

Who is Andy? I asked, my voice rough and novel to my ears. Where am I?! I demanded, tossing strength behind it.

His posture straightened, fear replaced by … shock? Uncertainty? I couldn’t place which, and it irritated me. I was better than that. Slowly, the sweaty man’s hands lowered. I was tempted to slit both their throats. Where was something to accomplish that end?

As I hesitated, the sweaty man was gaining confidence, slowly walking toward a circular table with a strange seat that he pulled out, gesturing to it with his hand.

You are Andy, he stated without the nervous stammering, as though repeating the name would suddenly make it ring true to me. Was it true? Was that my name?

And you are in a hospital. Please, please sit, so we can talk. He gestured to the seat again, this time patting it.

My brow stayed furrowed, my gut not trusting any of this.

Who are you? I asked, refusing to sit.

I’m Doctor Garcia, and I’ve been treating you for head trauma, he offered with a less strained smile, easing himself into the seat he had previously patted. The pink banshee inched toward the door.

I tilted my head at him. Head trauma? I repeated.

He nodded excitedly, clasping his hands together. Yes, you were found on the side of the road. Your skull had sustained substantial damage.

How? I asked.

He shrugged. We don’t know. I was hoping you could tell me.

I remember nothing, healer, I growled.

Doctor, I am a doctor.

I narrowed my gaze at him. That’s what I said.

He nodded, Of course, then patted his knees and rose. Well, since you are up and about, there is a change of clothing in the bathroom, where you can also shower. He chuckled at something he found funny. I’ll leave you to it.

I scowled at the pink banshee as she retreated from the room that held me contained. The healer—doctor—eagerly exited with her.

I stayed in the same threatening stance, searching my mind for a trace of the beating that the healer claimed I had received. Nothing. I couldn’t even say to certainty if my name was indeed this Andy. I didn’t know if I was safe here. Nothing felt real, and all of it, this hospital and whatever world it was part of, felt wrong.

The anger kept me calm, focused. It was the only thing that felt familiar.

…

The shower was refreshing, the warm water endless and pleasant, even if I found myself constantly checking the door, feeling exposed and uncertain. The clothing left much to be desired, as I tied the cloth pants as tightly as possible. Still, they refused to stay where I put them. Infuriating.

Heaving a sigh, I looked into the foggy mirror, seeing thick strands of honey blond plastered to the head I saw there. Startling green eyes looked back at me, and I averted my gaze instead to the straight nose and full pink lips. With a tentative hand, I touched my lips and the ridge of my nose, still refusing to meet my own emerald gaze, emanating from a face I didn’t recognize at all.

…

Doctor Garcia knocked on the door and entered, followed by two additional men in matching uniforms and matching metal decorating their chests. I stayed seated on my bed in my overly large pants, watching the trio intently.

Andy, these are police officers, law enforcement, here to ask you a few questions. The doctor waved a hand at the navy-blue men and turned to leave.

How do you know my name is Andy? I asked. If I was found on the side of the road, as you claim, who knew my name?

Doctor Garcia blinked at me repeatedly. I—I don’t know. One of the nurses reported it to me. I’ll go find out, he exclaimed, making a hasty exit. I didn’t believe him, and my narrowed gaze on his departing girth conveyed as much.

My gaze swung to the two in matching navy uniforms. They moved with a predator’s grace I recognized.

Who are you? I asked, turning my probing gaze to each in turn.

Police officers. I am Officer Davis, and this is Officer Brown. He made the introductions while watching me closely, pausing for a moment with his thumbs sticking into a thick belt with various items hanging from it. We need to know everything you remember before your accident.

I tiled my head, What accident?

Officer Davis nodded, looking at Officer Brown. Do you recall how you got to the highway?

How I got where? I asked.

He nodded again. How about where you work?

What is work?

Now Officer Brown tried, Do you have any family? A father? Brother? Who might be looking for you?

That question made me ask a few of my own in my head. Who would miss me? Would anyone?

I turned my gaze to him, this time offering an actual answer. I don’t remember.

The navy-clad men shared a meaningful glance before nodding and leaving the room. What did that mean? And what was a highway?

…

I waited, having no idea what I was supposed to do and no one who cared to clarify such things. The pink banshee informed me that I needed to rest. I didn’t feel particularly tired, although I did feel annoyed.

She touched a button on a black rectangle that hung from the wall. Pictures leapt to life, men and women speaking at me, various pictures of events happening. Everyone had small rectangular devices in their hands as well, laughing at them, talking into them. I had no reference for what sorcery this was, but the box hurt my head so I demanded that she end it or I would end her.

I sat in the uncomfortable, metal-framed bed and waited, knees pulled up to my chest, searching the depths of my mind for a glimmer of who I had been before. I was weak and exposed, and I enjoyed neither.

…

That was how the doctor found me, his gaze lingering on my hardly eaten food, which I had found lacking in ways I couldn’t articulate, although texture was high on the list of issues.

Doctor Garcia, I greeted him, inclining my head, noting his stiff posture and uneasy smile.

Yes, Andy… His facial expression faltered with renewed fear. I inhaled deeply, knowing the scent intimately. He began again with renewed vigor and a painfully stretched smile, You are healing exceptionally well and ready to be discharged.

At my lack of response, he clarified, You’ll be able to leave now.

How did you know my name? I asked him again. There wouldn’t be a third time.

Liz—uh, Liz can answer that for you. He paled considerably as he gathered the lies he spewed. Such a pathetic creature for a healer. I found it all, and especially him, to be just so much confusion.

A woman walked into the room, and Doctor Garcia’s expression blossomed fully into terror while he backed away from us both. She extended a hand to me. Andy, I’m Liz. I’m your social worker.

I looked down at her hand and back to her, uncertain why she was holding it out. Yet her midnight gaze was familiar. I squinted at her and tilted my head, as though those actions alone would bring back the memories trapped somewhere inside of me.

Liz tucked a strand of brown hair behind her ear, adjusting her red spectacles. Her gaze faltered, but unlike the doctors, she looked worried, not fearful.

How do you know what my name is? I demanded.

Liz pursed her lips, coming to stand by the circular table, where she rested her satchel and paperwork. I don’t. I picked that name for you. It was better than Jane Doe, she chuckled.

Who is Jane Doe? I questioned.

The smile on Liz’s painted red lips slipped. No one, she sighed, shaking her head. It doesn’t matter, we don’t know your real name and until you can tell us or we can find someone who knows you, Andy seemed an acceptable name.

What is a social worker? I questioned, accepting her answer on my borrowed name, for now. I didn’t trust her, either.

Giving me a stiff smile, she motioned to the small table, sitting down and pulling paperwork from her satchel.

I slipped from the bed but refused to sit, arms crossed over my chest.

I’m going to help arrange housing and a job for you, until your old memories return. She began pushing papers around in a meaningless heap.

My memories will return? I turned to her, actually feeling hopeful for a moment.

Potentially. Possibly, hopefully, she answered with noncommittal shrug.

When can we leave? I demanded, ignoring the paperwork laid in front of me. Perhaps outside of this hospital, I’d find answers.

Liz smiled, holding out a writing instrument of some kind. Once you sign the paperwork.

I had no idea how to sign a made-up name, and I was suspicious of all of it. But I was ready to do anything to escape from that room.

Chapter 2

It’s not much, Liz stated as we looked around the … apartment unit, she had called it.

Indeed, the level of cleanliness here is disturbing, I agreed.

Liz smiled, pulling out buckets of various items from beneath the sink. Well, we can at least fix that.

She filled one bucket with warm water and a strong-smelling solution before handing it to me. What do I do with this? I questioned her.

She smirked. Clean with it. Have you never cleaned before?

I looked uncertainly into the soapy bubbles popping beneath my gaze, then back at her smug smile. I don’t know.

Well, first time for everything, she responded, hoisting her own bucket of suds.

…

Several hours and one lesson in takeout ordering later, I was alone in the rundown apartment, which contained a couch, the black box called a TV, and a bed. I found it heavily lacking, although I was unable to define what was missing.

I sprawled on the uncomfortable bed, knowing something was exceptionally wrong with me, with worry eating my insides. Sleep was a long time coming.

…

Money, Liz repeated the next morning, as we sat at a table in an eating establishment. Except it only served drinks, and not ale, but a brew called coffee.

Gold? I asked, narrowing my gaze at her.

She shook her head, pulling her purse from behind her on the chair. From a folded leather pouch, she pulled out green paper.

Money, she repeated again, placing the paper on the table. You’ll need a job to earn money, so you can continue to drink coffee and buy food.

Buy food? Not hunting? I asked.

Liz laughed, a little too loud, No, not hunting.

I nodded, blowing on the coffee that Liz assured me was delicious. Taking a hesitant sip, I grunted in surprise. It’s not terrible.

She laughed again, though her shrewd gaze had me wondering exactly what she was laughing at.