White.

That's the first color I see when I open my eyes, and the first thing I'm able to put a name to. Blinking quickly, other colorful spots dance in my vision before they clear and all I can see is the ceiling above me, a fluorescent light hanging overhead to the right. Turning my head, I feel a sharp pain in my neck and find there are bandages wrapped around it, making movement hard. I manage to tilt my face to the left a little and see a machine next to me. Following one of the tubes coming out of it, I trail it until I see the clear line connect to a needle in my wrist. A heart monitor sits beside me, and I watch my heart pump steadily for a moment, mesmerized by its rhythmic security. As I try to sit up, I find I can barely move my core due to the thick bandages, tightly encasing my upper body. One of my arms is in a sling, and after examining my visible skin, I see it's peppered with small cuts and bruises.

What happened?

I struggle to remember how I ended up here, but the only memory I can recall is a blinding flash of white light and the sound of glass crunching. I rack my brains trying to remember, and I soon reach the conclusion that I was most likely in a car accident. I don't know for sure, but it's my best guess, but I am suddenly interrupted by a thought.

What is my name?

After a moment, I conjure up a memory. I think someone, maybe my mom, is calling me to come inside. There is snow falling around, and I'm busy making a snowman that's mostly made of muddy slush.

"Echo! Echo, come in!"

The little girl laughs and runs towards her mother, who stands on the front porch with hot chocolate in her hand. Halfway there, the girl's hat blows off her head and rolls down the sidewalk. As the child runs after the red cap, the wind picks up, blowing it into the street. The girl darts out into the street without looking, just as a car turns in.

"Echo no! Stop!" The mother drops her hot chocolate and runs down the front steps and the sidewalk towards the child, waving her arms frantically at the driver of the car.

"ECHO XANDER!" The mother yells. The girl snaps her head up in alarm and sees the car barreling down the street. With a fearful cry, she quickly turns and runs back, leaving her hat on the road. As the car passes, the driver honks angrily, running over the hat with its muddy tires. The girl begins to cry, and as the mother swoops down to comfort her, she curls up in her arms.

"Echo Xander, don't ever do that again. Always look and be careful around streets okay? If that car were to hit you, you would have gotten seriously hurt. Do you understand Echo?" The mother's voice is stern but it wavers a little, and her hands are shaking.

The girl nodded and wipes her red nose on her jacket sleeve.

"Yes, Mommy." She slowly stops her sniffling and the mother retrieves the cap from the road. As they walk in, Echo grabs her mother's hand, glad to have someone with her to walk her home.

Echo Xander. I frown. I don't feel like I look much like an Echo. Although, I'm not entirely sure what I look like at all, as there are no mirrors in the room. Suddenly a feeling of panic overcomes me.

Why don't I know what I look like?

I scour my brain for any memories of myself, but all I can come up with are ones of a little girl, presumably me, but after around age 13, I can't remember anything else besides the flash of white light. It's just gone.

Oh, my gods.

I try harder, forcing myself to remember my freshmen year of high school, but all I can think of is middle school and my English teacher. I try to remember how old I am, but all I can figure is I'm somewhere between 14-18. I don't know how I know I'm not older than 18, I just have a feeling. I suddenly notice my heart monitor has picked up speed, beating a little offbeat, and suddenly it's not soothing anymore. The walls are too white, the lights too bright, the bed too soft, and the bandages too tight. I see a blanket and pillow on a chair by the end of the bed, and on the floor, is a bag. I try to sit up on my own, but I can't get the bandages around my torso to move that much.

The door opens just as I'm trying to get the remote to see if it can move my bed where I can reach the bag to see what's in it. In walks a round nurse, with rich chocolate skin and one dimple on her cheek, which I notice because she immediately breaks into a wide smile when she sees me.

"Well hey there, it's nice to meet you." She chirps and smiles even wider as if she's just made a joke or something.

"What happened to me?" I ask immediately but am taken aback by my voice. It's a lot raspier and cracklier than I thought it would be as if I'm a smoker or something, which instantly makes me nervous.

"We'll get to that in a moment, but first, let me change out your bandages. Oh, and my name is Nurse Annabelle but you can call me Bee." She gives me another radiant smile, which I registered too late to return, so I just remain what I feel looks calm and expressionless, but judging by how friendly Bee is being, I guess I must look a lot more freaked out than I think I do.

Bee works quietly, humming absentmindedly to herself, her hands soft but swift, and I find myself calmed by her steady rhythm. I close my eyes, wincing every once in awhile when I have to move my head or torso to allow Bee to wrap me.

I return to my thoughts, trying to recall details about my life. I know I don't have a dad, I have an older sister and a cat, and my best friend's name is Rachel. I don't know if she's still my best friend, but as of my 13th birthday, she was because I have a memory of her laughing at me when I fell in the pool in my birthday dress. I smile a little, hoping she's still my friend because she seems nice.

The door opens and a woman walks in with Bee behind her.

"Hello, my name is Dr. Kirk." She states professionally. I nod. "How are you feeling? Do you know your name?" She asks rather aggressively, and I feel like I've done something wrong.

"Echo. Echo Xander." I add my last name because I feel as if I'm undergoing some sort of test, and I need to prove as much as possible.

"How old are you Echo?"

I hesitate. I know Dr. Kirk is just trying to evaluate me, but part of me doesn't want her to know I can't remember my life. I don't know if it's arrogance, embarrassment, or just the fact that I'm not sure if I like her that holds me back, but part of me wants to just guess my age and hope I get it right. I finally give in an answer somewhat meekly.

"I'm not sure." I look up and see Dr. Kirk nod and scribble some notes on her clipboard. The whole situation is so incredibly, yet impossibly, cliche that I resist the urge to laugh. I can almost feel the neurons in my brain firing, weaving their webs that make up the person I am, yet completely unaware of the giant tear down the middle of my memory.

I start thinking about paint for some reason and begin wondering how long it took to paint the walls of this room. Perhaps my mind is trying to slow me down, ground me in something tangible to make up for all the confusion around me. I begin thinking about how brains work and if my brain is self-aware, and all of a sudden I'm having an existential crisis in the middle of a hospital room, while Dr. Kirk talks to me.

I answer her questions but mostly I'm just thinking about my general existence, which makes me frustrated that I just woke up in the hospital and I'm already questioning reality, but then again, that seems like a strangely reasonable response. Just when I think I'm about to either cry, scream, or combust from all my thoughts, the door to my room opens, and a woman walks in.

I instantly recognize the woman as my mom and smile. I could describe our reunion, and the formalities that accompany the whole "your daughter almost died but she's awake now" situation, but to be honest, it was pretty standard. Just imagine what you would say or do if you were in this situation, and that's pretty much what happened. So I'll spare you the details.

After the necessary acknowledgments, Dr. Kirk begins to explain what happened. It would make sense for me to pay attention here, but I'm tired and part of me wants to go back into a coma, or whatever I was in, but then I feel bad for wishing that and I end up kind of zoning out. I paid enough attention to hear words such as "retrograde amnesia" and "self-recovery",  but mostly Dr. Kirk is just putting scientific words to what I already know. So it's pretty unnecessary for me, as long as my mom is listening. (yes, I am aware that that is an incredibly selfish and fundamentally untrue statement, but just give me a break okay?)

Since I don't have any broken bones, which I don't understand, I am able to go home the next day. This surprises me, because you would think doctors would be super strict about making sure their patients are completely well before letting them out, but Dr. Kirk said most of my injuries are bruises and the ones that aren't are brain related, meaning there's not much they can do except let me go home and see how I respond. I'm not complaining.

When I ask my mom if any of my frens are going to come see me, which I'm not sure why I ask since I don't remember who my frens are, she says I'll see them tomorrow at my house, and that Dr. Kirk said I've had enough stimuli for the day. I disagree because I've already had an existential crisis, so I've got the problem of my existence out of the way, meaning I can probably handle seeing my frens. But Dr. Kirk's word is apparently like the Word of God itself because I remain alone in my hospital room for the rest of the night.

The next morning, I wake up to sunlight shining through the window, bathing the room in a warm golden vapor. For a split second, everything feels normal, before I realize where I am and what happened.

Alrighty, Echo. Day numero uno.

I take a deep breath.

Let's go.

I lay awake for a few minutes before Bee comes in, filling the room with her energy. It's almost a little too much for me as if someone has just pressed play in the middle of a paused video game. I try to answer her questions politely and remain calm, but for some reason, I feel claustrophobic, as if I need to get up and be on my own for a while.

Soon after Bee has checked all my numbers and scientific-y stuff, Dr. Kirk comes in and walks me through basically the same conversation from yesterday, with some additional notes on a few meds I need to take and other precautions. Basically, she told me that contrary to popular belief, getting hit on the head again will not restore my memory, so don't even bother.

Darn it, I was looking forward to bashing myself in the brains the first chance I got.

She also tells me to keep a journal and record my headaches, because that is apparently a common symptom. I also am not allowed to do any physical activity until further notice, and she gives me a pamphlet on seizures to read over, as well as a bunch of medication and the number of a therapist if I need to talk. 

Geez, they really take these things seriously don't they?

I don't understand why I need to know about seizures, or why my headache activity is so important, but I'm not the one who went to school for a decade to learn about these kinds of things so I just say "yes ma'am" and keep my head down. 

Then my mom walks in and helps me walk down to the car. I don't know if it's just me, but my mom is very stiff and cautious around me, which makes me wonder if Dr. Kirk left out some information on my condition.

Actually, I probably just wasn't listening.

The car ride home is tense and awkward, and my mind is reeling with questions.

Are we supposed to be like this?

Is this just how my mom acts around me?

It's probably just in your head you moron, try to make some conversation.

"So..." I begin, tentative, my words unsure and awkward. "Uh, how's Ophelia?"

I remember I have a sister who is two years older than me, but she doesn't feel like a sister to me anymore. More like a tv character or famous actor, someone I know from afar but not personally.

My mom looks over at me in surprise and another emotion I can't place. She looks slightly freaked out, and my heart instantly picks up speed.

Oh, gods, what did I do?

She quickly regains her composure, however, and clears her throat, her eyes fixed on the road ahead.

"Uhm, well she's in college right now, but she's coming home for a little bit next week when summer starts." My mom speaks robotically as if the words feel foreign coming out of her mouth. "She wasn't planning on coming at all, but when she heard about your accident, she decided to visit for a little."

I nod, trying to look casual, while my mind tries to scavenge for information.

She's in college, which means you are either a junior in high school if she's a freshman, or a sophomore in college if she's a senior.

Why wasn't she going to come back for the summer?

Do we not like each other?

I prod my mom. "So is she a freshman in college or what?"

"Freshman at Travis & Aaron University."

TAU. Good. I know that university.

"So does that make me a junior?" I ask, waiting a moment before adding, "I remember we're two years apart right?"

My mom grips the steering wheel tighter, her knuckles turning even whiter than her already pale skin.

"Yes." Her gaze is still fixed on the road, and I finally decide to back off. We sit the rest of the ride in silence.

What is up with her?

I get out of the car and look at my house. It's a pretty standard house, just like I remember, which is a comfort. At least my home is still home.

Walking in, I tramp up the stairs like a noisy elephant and come onto a landing, seeing my familiar door at the end of the hallway. I open in and am instantly speechless.

My room is not familiar. At all.

Every spare space is covered in art and pictures, as well as models of planets and stars that hang from the ceiling. My bedspread is black with constellations of stars stitched into it and my room is littered with art supplies.

Since when was I an artist??

I look around the room, observing the art, and I note that it's actually pretty good. Really good. Some of them are beautiful landscapes or flowers or abstract pieces, and others are people, but there are some that are just strange. A distorted child, painted in black watercolor, and another child with wings and a charcoal hand squeezing it, with trees sprouting out of the wrist.

What the heck?

I switch to looking at the pictures, looking for familiar faces of my family, and the frens I remember. I see a few with pictures of me, my sister, and my mom, but not many that are recent, which is strange. I hardly recognize any of the other people, but I soon realize that almost all of the pictures have the same people in them, minus one or two of them. I also see that practically every single one of my pictures has a guy in them with me.

I have a boyfren???

I study his face for a little, noting that he is definitely attractive. He has cute dimples and a wide smile, and his eyes make adorable squinty half-moons when he laughs. However, in a couple shots, he isn't smiling or laughing and I see that he's cute, but also kind of rebellious-looking. There's not really a good way to describe it, other than maybe if a really cute puppy suddenly got tattoos and piercings and wore all black. There's a mischievous glint in his eyes, and I instantly know he's a daredevil.  I realize that I've been smiling softly as I look at the pictures and I suddenly really want to know who these people are, especially the guy.

Josh.

The name comes suddenly and easily as if I just happened to think of it. I think back, remembering my 13th birthday party. A shorter boy is standing next to me, smiling as I blow out the cake, his eyes in the same half-moon shape as the one in the picture. Him next to me as I open presents, Josh sitting by me on a rollercoaster, Josh and me outside in the park, passing notes in class, making cupcakes together in a kitchen that is not mine. I remember Josh getting his first skateboard, hopping his first fence, I remember him getting sent into the hallway for detention in school. None of the Joshes I remember have tattoos or piercings, but I'm sure it's the same one from the picture. 

I remember you. 

An overwhelming rush of relief floods my body. I remember someone. I have a fren that I actually know. The need to see him floods my body, and I wonder when my frens will visit. 

Feeling a little hot, I walk to my closet and pull a tank top out, followed by some shorts. I am stopped when I pull my long-sleeved jacket off because I look at my arms.

I have freaking tattoos.

What?!

I quickly run to the bathroom and take off my pants and tank top, standing there in my bra and underwear.

Oh.

My.

Gods.

I can't even recognize myself.

My entire body isn't covered in tattoos, but there are little tattoos all over. My rib cage, hip, arms, wrists, collarbones, shoulder, thighs, ankles, and when I look, the backs of my ears. I crane my neck to see my back and spine but I don't see anything.

On top of that, I have choppy shoulder-length hair that is pure white.

My hair is brown, what the hell.

ECHO.

I run my fingers through my snow-colored hair, staring at the mirror in shock. Gone is the Echo who wore floral dresses and sandals, who never stepped out of line, who would never dream of getting tattoos or dying her hair strange colors. The Echo in front of me has black nails and a nose piercing, this Echo has an alien on her pinky, she has short, choppy hair instead of long flowing waves. Panic fills me up because for the first time I realize that the one person I thought I could depend on, the one person I thought I know, is gone.  Even worse, a small part of me actually likes the girl standing in front of the mirror more than the girl sitting in my brain.

I back away from the mirror, pulling my shorts and tank top over myself and stumbling out into the hallways. I race down the stairs and almost run head-first into my mom.

"MOM." I shriek, causing her to step back, startled. I stare at her in panic, waiting for her to say something, but she just stares blankly at me.

"Mom!" I prompt again.

"What, Echo?" She almost sounds annoyed, but mostly just really confused and slightly alarmed.

I gesture to my body. "I have tattoos," I whisper the last word in shock and my mom's face relaxes.

"Echo calm down, you're the one that got them, and I tried to talk you out of it. Dinner's ready in 30 minutes, and Josh called to say he's coming over with the rest of your frens at 7" My mom brushes my newest shock off in a heartbeat, but before I can continue my freak-out, she walks away. I shake my head and walk back to my room, laying on my bed and staring at the ceiling plastered with stars.

Who the hell am I? 

HEyYyY PeOpLE

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