"PJ!" The woman shouted. "Are you okay?"
The woman seemed genuinely concerned. It took me a few seconds to understand that what was happening was actually real. Confused and still with a headache, I replied, "Ma'am, my name is not PJ. My name is... Wait, what's my name?" I had forgotten my name. How was it possible to forget my own name? I started having trouble breathing. Not only had I forgotten my name, but Mom and Dad's names were also not there. The air felt increasingly insufficient, no matter how much air I took into my lungs, I felt like I was suffocating.
My breathing became erratic. I had to calm myself down because the agitation was making my head hurt even more. Suddenly, the woman embraced my head and calmly said, "PJ, breathe. You hit your head hard while unloading boxes from the moving truck. You're okay, you need to breathe." She reminded me while holding me in an embrace and gently stroking the back of my head, where I discovered the source of the pain.
The woman stood up and with a concerned look on her face, she asked again, "Are you okay? PJ, do you want to go to the hospital?"
I couldn't process what she was saying. Who was PJ, and why was she still calling me that? Where was I? Where was the hospital, the nurses, the doctors? Hadn't I died? What was happening? The headache only intensified as I asked myself these questions, and my expression must have shown it because the woman became even more worried when she didn't receive a response.
Determined, the woman turned on her heels and entered the house at a brisk pace, which I just realized was to my right. We were in a neighborhood nothing like what I was used to in Los Angeles or Boston. There were American flags on every porch, and in one of the houses, there was a Texan flag, so I assumed I might be in Texas. How the hell did I end up in Texas? I could hear chickens in the distance, and the parked cars nearby were old but relatively well-maintained. They looked like the cars that were in fashion before I entered medical school.
Behind me was a partially open cardboard box with photo frames protruding from the tears. I picked up one of the photos, and it showed a family – two adult figures, probably the parents, one of them being the woman who was inside the house, along with three young children, two boys, one of whom was a baby, and a girl. They were posing in front of a very different house from the nearby one. The woman looked much younger, and although the two young boys in the photograph seemed annoyed, it was evident that the family was very close-knit.
"Can I keep your comics if you die?" I heard suddenly behind me. Surprised, I quickly turned my head, causing even more pain in my neck. It was a young boy, around ten years old. Intrigued, I replied, "My comics?" I've never owned any comics. I don't know what this kid is talking about.
Clearly surprised by not receiving the response he expected, the boy furrowed his brow for a few seconds and then, as if someone had just told him great news, he smiled and said, "Never mind, it was a joke. Well, I'm going to unpack MY comics," holding a box in his hands that I hadn't noticed he had. He proceeded towards the house that the woman had entered just a few seconds ago.
Before the boy could reach the porch of the house, the door swung open with a furious teenager storming out. "Gabe, you're out here. Mom's yelling at you inside the house," said the angry teenager, marching towards the boxes that were already on the moving truck. "Moving to Texas, what a great idea! Let's ignore that Teddy was happy in Colorado. My best friend lives 800 miles away. Spencer finally talked to me, but hey! Dad got a great job in Texas, yay! No one thinks about me or my needs," she said with an obvious sarcastic tone.
"Oh, really? Try being the younger brother. They barely acknowledge my existence," shouted the boy named Gabe, standing a few inches from the house's door.
Suddenly, the door of the house swung open again, pushing Gabe a few steps back. The woman, presumably the mother of the children, rushed out searching inside her bag until she pulled out a set of keys. "Teddy, I'm taking PJ to the hospital. Take care of Gabe until your father arrives. I don't know where he is; I can't find him anywhere. When your dad comes back, tell him PJ had an accident and we had to go to the emergency room. I'll wait for you at the hospital," she said as she helped me stand and dragged me to the vehicle parked alongside the moving truck.
"I've been here the whole time! And sure, Mom, I forgive you for hitting me with the door," Gabe sarcastically said in a annoyed tone as he entered the house and slammed the door.
The woman opened the passenger door and helped me get in, fastening my seatbelt as well. She jogged to the driver's door, opened it, but without getting into the car, she yelled to the teenager, "Take care of your brother."
The ride to the hospital was anything but quiet. The woman didn't stop talking for a single moment. "This is good; I know they had their friends in Colorado, their schools, basically their lives," she began, shedding a few tears. "But here, we can start over. The opportunity your father got was too good to turn down. I spoke with the head nurse at the hospital, and I'll start working next week. It'll be like home," she continued, now genuinely crying. "I don't know what's happening to me. I've been so sentimental since we left Colorado." I didn't know how to talk to her, so I decided to stay silent. "I know you miss Emmet and that there's no replacement for your best friend, but I know the neighbors have a son your age. They even have twins Gabe's age," she continued talking, and I just listened. Everything she said made me more nervous. My dad had died years ago. Who was Emmet? I didn't have any friends since elementary school. Why would the neighbors' son be my age? Gabe, the weird kid with the comics?
After that, the rest of the journey was relatively quiet. The woman continued shedding tears and crying at times. After a few minutes, we arrived at the hospital, at the emergency room. After registering me, the woman went to speak with the nurses there, seemingly introducing herself.
The pain was diminishing, but everything that happened in the span of several minutes left me thinking deeply. I don't understand who these people are. "PJ Duncan," I heard the woman shout at me. I had spaced out and hadn't noticed her. She was next to me, taking a pill with a small glass of water. "It's medication for nausea," she told me, noticing my gaze. "I got a little dizzy on the way here," she said, putting on a serious expression. "You worry me a bit, PJ. You haven't said much since the accident. You don't seem like yourself. You haven't made a single silly joke in several minutes, only that stupid amnesia joke. 'Ma'am, my name isn't PJ,'" she said, mocking the last part.
"Actually, my name isn't PJ, and I don't know where I am," I said, a little annoyed by the situation. It wasn't a joke.
Her expression changed, becoming much more serious than before, with touches of concern. It seemed like she wanted to say something else, but "Duncan, PJ Duncan, examination room 2."
Before I could react, she dragged me into an examination room. The attending physician examined my head while the woman explained what had happened. "I don't see any superficial wounds. Nonetheless, we'll run some tests, and I'd like you to stay overnight for observation," the doctor said. The woman nodded and said, "Yes, doctor, whatever is necessary. But there's something that worries me. PJ claims to remember nothing. I thought it was a joke at first, but apparently, it's not, and PJ doesn't have the... patience for that kind of prank."
"We'll do a CT scan, and if there's anything to be concerned about, it'll show up there. It's uncommon, but it's possible for a case of head trauma like this to generate temporary amnesia. If memory loss occurred, it could return at any moment. There's nothing to worry about."
The tests happened quickly, and before I knew it, I was back in a hospital room, waiting for the results. Alone in the room with the woman, I started to feel truly anxious because she wouldn't stop asking me questions like, "Don't you remember me? I'm your mom," or questions about a life I didn't live. I had never been to Colorado, didn't know anyone named Emmet, Teddy, Gabe, or Bob. My name wasn't PJ. The overload of information caused another small panic attack, and somehow, I managed to escape from the woman claiming to be my mother by running into the bathroom in the room. And here I was, locked in the bathroom, looking at the mirror in such astonishment that I couldn't feel my body or the body of the teenager.
He was tall, skinny, with messy blonde hair. He seemed to be around fifteen or sixteen years old. Obviously, that's why he smelled so bad. Poor hygiene. He was wearing a long-sleeved shirt with a Rock band t-shirt on top. The clothes were stained with substances I wasn't sure about touching. Once again, as if I were locked in a room without oxygen, I began to struggle for breath. This wasn't me. Who is this person? Why am I controlling his body? Why is this happening? Nothing makes sense. How is it possible that something like this is happening to me? What did I do to deserve this?
And suddenly, it hit me. I knew it. Before I died, I had wished for a second chance. Is it possible that I've stolen the body of a teenager? My wish caused a teenage boy to lose his life. This couldn't be happening to me. I didn't want someone to lose their life so that I could live it. What should I do? How can I return the body to its rightful owner? Maybe, if I were to die again, I could return the body.
Scared but determined, I controlled my breathing and stepped out of the bathroom. As soon as I did, a big man pulled me into his arms tightly. "Take it easy, son. I know you're scared. Your mom and I will be here to help you. You're not alone," he said. Then, more arms joined the embrace—one pair after another—and they all offered comforting words simultaneously.
I couldn't remember the last time I had been hugged like this. I started crying, and even if it was just for this moment, I let myself go and hugged them all back. The mother of this body, upon noticing my tears, cried loudly alongside me. "I love you so much, PJ. I love you all. I don't know what I would do without you. I'm so happy that we're all hugging, but I'm sorry for PJ, and even sadder that we had to move. I'm sorry, kids. I know you didn't want to leave Colorado. It's my fault. Everything is my fault."
"Haha, honey, don't say that. It's not your fault. If anyone is to blame, it should be me," said Bob, or the father of this body, dismissing the guilt of the mother of his children.
"You're right. It's all your fault! If you hadn't found this great opportunity, we would still be in Colorado, happy," the mother of this body suddenly exploded, pushing Bob. Everyone was surprised by the sudden change in her attitude, including me. The room fell completely silent. No one wanted to say anything, until...
"You might need to learn how to read again. Anyway, you didn't do it enough, so I can share my comic books with you if you want," Gabe said, causing the suddenly furious woman to let out a small laugh that turned into laughter, which spread to the other people in the room.
The laughter was interrupted by the entrance of the attending physician, holding what were possibly the CT scan results in his hand. The room fell silent as the doctor reviewed the papers in his hand. With a nod, the doctor spoke, "Everything looks fine. There doesn't seem to be any major problem. Memory loss can be caused by shock, so it's possible for it to return at any moment. We need to stay positive. Nevertheless, I'd like you to stay here tonight for observation, just in case. If all goes well, you could be ready for discharge tomorrow morning." After delivering the good news, the doctor bid farewell, accepting the family's gratitude, and left the room.
With the news given, the parents breathed a sigh of relief and hugged me again. "I'm so glad you're okay, son," said Bob, who was hugging me the tightest. "Well, now that everything's fine, I have to go. We still have to unpack the boxes from the truck. Let's go, kids."
Bob and the children said their goodbyes and left the mother and me alone in the room, still embracing.
"I'm so relieved that nothing serious happened. Let's hope you regain your memory. If not, it's okay, PJ. We still love you. I don't know what I would have done if something bad had happened to you or any of your siblings. I love you all so much, and..." She suddenly cut off, "Ugh," she said with disgust as she pushed me away and ran to the bathroom in the room, presumably to vomit.
Do I deserve the love of this family? I can't take my own life. What will happen if I don't return the body to the original PJ? It would devastate this beautiful family. I'm not the one to take their son away from them.
"PJ, if it was truly my fault to obtain your body, your life, I apologize to you. I don't know how to give it back, but if I knew, I would do it in an instant. I promise you, I will live your life as I promised I would. Your family will be my family, and I will love them as such. I will fulfill my dream in honor of any dream you had, and I will be happy. I will experience, feel, and confront my fears. I'm sorry. And thank you," I said quietly with my eyes closed.
"Ugh!" I heard again from the bathroom, so I hurried in to help. I stood behind her to hold her hair. "Thanks, PJ. I think all the stress of this day made me vomit."
"You're welcome, Mom, you're welcome," I said as I stroked her back.
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Author's thoughts
Again, I'm not a doctor. If I continue with the word count per chapter I have so far, the story won't appear on the ranked list for another 8 chapters. I understand now why they use filler chapters with words. Anyway, I'm not going to use a filler chapter with 15k words. So hello, future readers! At the moment, I think only one person has found the story, so thank you, Victor, for the power stones.