For those who followed me here from my "My Hostage Not Yours" saga; thanks.

The name of this story (and the basic scenario) was inspired by:

"I'm not the same kid
From your memory
Well now I can fend for myself"

-Ignorance by Paramore

Originally, I planned on writing this story in all Gaz's POV, but it has been changed, because ONLY Gaz's point of view was far too confusing and not actiony enough. And I also had no idea how to start this, but it did need to start with the hospital.

But UGH! I cannot tell you how many times I've changed and altered this chapter. Too many directions to take starting this off, but, obviously, this is my final cut. You all will have to tell me whether you liked it or not. First part is not Gaz, in any case. Second part is.

Important Note: Now that Skool-ugh, School (too much IZ writing) has started and I've seen how ridiculously hard my classes are going to be, I'm going to need to get my shit together. Meaning, weekly updates now, not every other day. Expect them Fridays.


Chapter 1
"Wake Up Call"

She couldn't . . . I mean, that imagery of her just laying there, when I hadn't . . .!

. . . She needed me and I was too busy being angry with her to give a damn and check in, to make sure she was alright! What kind of . . . What did that make me then? I was a failure, because I hadn't protected her. I hadn't even been the one to find her!

If only I knew what she needed protection from . . . If I hadn't failed at figuring out . . . Ugh, what was going on right now? She could be dying and I wouldn't know, because I was in this other room, because I wasn't allowed inside! One person for comatose patients . . . Like I cared about rules! But getting kicked out would hardly gain me entrance into the room. Quite the opposite in fact.

So, unable to control myself any longer, I began calling someone who was already inside.

They picked up second ring.


"How's she doing?" I demanded, glaring out the visitors window, eying the rest of the waiting patients with disdain.

A sigh, "Not awake yet, if that's what you're asking."

"No," I growled. Then I calmed myself, releasing a breath through gritted teeth. Losing my temper would get me nowhere. "I asked of how her condition was, not her awareness."

A pause. I picked up the slight murmuring from a question on his end, then a reply. "She's been stabilized since yesterday. But they're still not sure when she's going to wake up."

I sighed. "This is the fault of me. I have failed."

"As much as I would love to agree with you and make you feel like crap any other day, it actually isn't your fault."

"Oh?" I huffed, irritated. "Then whose is it?"

"Well I don't know! Only she does! And we've got to wait till she wakes up to know that."

My hand curled into a fist against my leg, glaring at the floor as if it was the very bane of my pitiful existence. My growl was low, too quiet to be heard besides the person who I spoke with on the phone, but filled with undisguised menace. "When I find out who hurt her-!"

"Yeah, I know. We're on the same page on this, for once, okay? Whoever it is, they're dead. If it really is someone, and she didn't just fall on accid-."

My growl silenced him, my complete disagreement with how he thought things had played out making him uncomfortable by the way he cleared his throat and continued.

"But yeah, we'll get whoever it is one way or another."

My fist tightened.

There was no doubt about that.

I want you to imagine closing your eyes and going to bed at night.

. . .

Did you do it?


Now I want you to picture yourself waking up in a hospital instead of where you fell asleep.

. . .

Did you do that too?

Well good. Now we can be on the same page here.

Any time anyone thinks of amnesia, in general, the thought 'Oh, I would remember that' comes up at some point. Most of us are under the impression that some of our memories, like our love-life (if one exists) and important, possibly scarring things that happened will be imprinted on your brain after you wake up. There's also that ever-present idea that you will consistently receive extremely detailed, helpful flashbacks that will enlighten you and allow you to remember all, if not most of what you've forgotten shortly after starting helpful therapy. You think that it'll be annoying, like forgetting your keys or the password to your phone, but it won't be too big of a problem. Easy, right?

Well then allow me to burst your ignorant little bubbles; you're wrong.

You wake up to your own living Hell. You lose yourself, or at least, what others remember you as. Not that I've ever really cared about what other people think of me, but it's unbelievably frustrating to have those around you expect you to react one way when you're attitude is completely different and results in an argument every other minute. It's surprising how much a person changes over three months. It's especially frustrating to deal with people around you, especially when you didn't like to be around them much to begin with, since now they want to be attached to you like glue.

You see after losing your memories, people feel like you're going to forget them, even if you never forgot them in the first place. Now I'll admit, I thought (and still think) it was rather amusing how much your thoughts effect people around you. Well, I guess not so much as your thoughts as how you perceive things.


Why don't I just start the story, then?

My point of recollection started with, wouldn't you guess, the hospital.

Now I know what you all are thinking; wait back-up, how did this happen? You want some sort of explanation leading up into whether I was attacked, or clumsy and hit my head, or whatever, right? Yeah . . . that's too bad for you then.

Because I have about as much of a clue as to what happened as you do.

Apparently, I had suffered from a coma (which explained the rather extensive amount of technology and monitors around me) due to some sort of blunt-force trauma. Now, in case you were wondering, I was not informed of this at the time; that information was on my wrist-band thing. You know, that little white, laminated thing they tape to patients wrists so as not to get them mixed up? Come on, everyone knows that's the reason. But, at least it was coming in handy for me at the moment, explaining why I was here, at least. I held it up, wondering how exactly this had happened. Last I remembered, it was so hot from the humid summer air that I had given up and gone to bed early. So waking up here wasn't exactly what I'd expected.

Had there been some type of accident at home finally?

Seriously, with my dad -the infamous Professor Membrane- always working on inventions that could end the world with the slightest slip of a finger, it wouldn't be surprising if something had gone wrong that had ended me up here. I looked around the annoyingly white, sterile room and wondered if Dib had gotten hurt too. One might think that I should be scared to know I'd apparently been in a coma, but really; what could I do about it now?

I heard someone's voice coming towards my room and decided to wait for them instead of just going back to sleep. I tried to identify them through the walls but it didn't work. I had excellent hearing, but I didn't have super-powers.

The door opened. Apparently, they were on the phone, but they nearly dropped it upon seeing me, awake, eying them.

I waved, casually, resisting a smirk at his expression. "Hey, Dib."

Dib is my idiot of a brother; a Paranormal Investigator. He's a year older then me but I'm a thousand times smarter then he is any day of the week (speaking of which, I wondered what day it was . . .). My dad hates Dib's 'hobby' (Dib calls it a way of life; honestly, the stupidity I live with in my house-hold) and they argue a lot about it, but it's pretty clear neither of them will ever budge about that subject. Although, to credit Dib, my brother has been more efficient about his studies lately. He doesn't just run around recklessly anymore, he plans . . . sometimes.


Dib fumbled with his phone, stuttering, "Y-Yeah, I'll call you back later. She's up."

I heard a loud shout of surprise, but Dib didn't seem to notice, as he just snapped it shot, bolting over to the side of my bed.

I eyed the phone, wondering exactly who he was talking to. "Who was-?"


In case it didn't catch on, that is, indeed, my name. Gazlene Membrane, actually, but I prefer Gaz. Only my father can call me (or my brother, actually) by my full name and get away with it without injury. I'm 16, in case any of you were wondering and a Junior in Hi-Skool. Not that my education particularly matters but, eh, you never know.

Dib's shout made me want to smack him, as I noticed my head was actually killing me, and his yell had now aggravated it. But, unfortunately, I found the IV in my hand prevented me from doing so, without injuring myself. To me, self-preservation wins above all other urges, as I'm a strong believer that people should be able to control and take care of themselves; anyone who can't is just weak and is not worth anyone's (and certainly not worth my) time. And anyways, I was soon restrained in a rather unexpected bear-hug from Dib, making me freeze up at the rather bold move.

"Gaz, you're awake! How are you feeling? Are you okay? What hap-?"

I feel I should let you all know; I do not, under any circumstances, like being touched.

"Dib," I growled, severely, interrupting his obnoxious stream of questions that I couldn't have answered anyways, since he didn't give me time to. From my (I guess you could call it) 'vantage' point, I could feel him tense slightly at my tone. "You have two seconds to release me before I maim you. Let go. Now."

He did as I said, though looked a little confused while doing so. Which made me confused. Had he really expected any other type of reaction from me? Dib knew better then anyone I just did not like being touched. It wasn't so much the affectionate aspect of touching as it was that I just didn't like my personal bubble invaded. So why did he look so surprised?

I decided to demand an explanation.

"What's gotten into you?" I snapped, sitting up a little, rubbing the last of the sleep from my eyes. "Geez, I'm fine, Dib. You don't need to get all touchy-feely just because I was in a coma."

"How did you know that you were-?"

I held up the wrist with the band around it, shaking it for emphasis. "Not too hard to figure out. So what happened? Dad finally blow the house up?" Then my smile evaporated, a brow rising. "Wait, he's not hurt or anything is he? Is everyone okay?" Then I glared at him, ignoring the fact I was doing the same rapid-fire questioning he had just done to me that I had mentally scolded him for. "And why aren't you hurt?"

Dib gave me confused look. "You mean you don't remember?"

My brow rose. "Should I? I mean, I was asleep, so-."

"Gaz," Dib interrupted, sitting on the edge of my bed. I leaned back into my pillows a bit, not only to gain some personal space, but because the serious look in his eye was unnerving. "I found you in Dad's lab, unconscious. And Dad was at work all day and couldn't have let you in. You snuck down there by yourself."

I glared at him. "That's not funny, Dib. And it's also ridiculous. I went to bed. I didn't go downstairs."

"Yes, you did!" He insisted, continuing to look at me funny. "I saw the security footage in the hallways."

"When did we put security footage in our house?" I replied back. I racked through my brain, trying to remember when that was, or if we'd just always had it. It was also possible I just hadn't noticed when it was installed, since my dad probably did it himself. Or maybe Dib had done it, since I would definitely remember if some stranger had been at my home installing things. Dib and Dad? Not so much.

"Last month." Dib placed his hand on my forehead, "Gaz, are you feeling okay?"

I smacked his hand off, "I'm fine. How long have I been out, anyways?"

"Just a few days, almost a week," He assured me, smiling. "But don't worry about Skool work or anything. Dad took care of that. It's all been excused."

"Skool work?" I snorted, giving him a look of disbelief. "I thought you said it's only been a few days."

"Yeah," Dib said slowly, eying me. "But Skool still gives works, like, daily. You should know that by now, Gaz.'

My brows furrowed. "But it's . . . wait a second, open that window."

Dib eyed me like I was insane, but did so, throwing it open and turning to look at me, probably to guage my reaction.

Snow fell outside the window, gently, piling up on top of roofs. I guessed we were on the second or third story of the hospital, as we were a ways up above the ground. All around people were in coats and winter things and Christmas decorations. Yes, some people were wearing decorations. However that was hardly my concern at the moment.

Because this was impossible.

"No," I shook my head, my hand going to my forehead as I tried to make this make sense. "No, it's still August, it can't be snowing."

I could feel Dib's eyes on me, burning onto my confused and frustrated face. Dib must've been wrong. It was just that simple. I hadn't been out for a few days, I'd been out for a few months. Yeah, that was the only explanation.

Dib's wary expression said otherwise.

"Gaz," He said, slowly again. "What's my name?"

"Idiot!" I snapped, shaking my head. "And Dad's name is Professor Membrane, before you ask me. But you're wrong, Dib, you must've meant months. Months, not weeks, right?" He stared at me. "Right?"

Dib's hand shot to his pocket, hitting redial. I watched him, indifferently, but irritation was filtering in on my expression. One might have expected me to freak out or panic instead. Let me tell you this now; if there is anything I absolutely refuse to do, it's panic. Panicking wasn't going to get me anywhere. I was going to let Dib and everyone around me freak out for me.

But that was besides the point. How could three months, if it was in fact December, just go missing? I wasn't a forgetful person; I should know this. This was wrong. For one of the first times in my life, a slightly frustrated fear began welling up in my chest as I tried to crunch three months into a few days, desperately trying to make the math work.

This was just . . . impossible!

"Don't come up." He instructed, looking at me as I tried to count the lost time on my fingers and let out an irritated scream of frustration when it didn't work. Dib flinched and I heard shouting on the other end of the phone as he headed towards the door, slowly. "No, she's fine. Physically, at least."

"Dib, who the hell are you talking to?" I shouted at him, angry he was acting so casually when he was screwing with my head. The little jerk! I was going to kill him! "Is that Dad?"

"Yeah, Gaz." Dib replied, looking out at the window, possibly debating whether he should close it or not. "It's Dad."

My eyes narrowed. "Well where is he?"

"Um, I'm not sure," He said, turning back to the person on the phone. Or, well, my Dad. "No, she's fine, Dad. She just . . . doesn't remember anything since August."

I still heard him, even if he had muttered it.

"I remember perfectly fine!" I shrieked at him, my hand slamming on the table beside the bed. "You got the time wrong. Months, not days! Months!"

"I'm gonna get a doctor, Gaz," Dib replied. "Just try to calm down, okay?"

"You calm down," I retorted, crossing my arms across my chest and scowling out at the window. "Stupid little paranormal idiot . . ."

The door shut behind Dib and I heard him speaking quickly to my father over the phone through the walls. I rolled over in bed, growling curses to myself as I blamed Dib for this. Even if deep down, I really did know this wasn't his fault, there was always the possibility that it was, since I didn't remember anything. Such was the positive thought that kept me from screaming at the doctors when they finally showed up, my brother (phone-less now) standing nervously at the door.

During the explosion (apparently whatever I had done, that I couldn't remember, had involved flames of some sort, which was good news to me; at least I hadn't just fallen like an idiot and hit my head in the dark), some debris from something or another had hit me in the head, in just the right place of my brain to screw with my memory and hard enough to give me a concussion, after which I'd slipped into a coma. The doctors told me I was incredibly lucky to be alive. I really couldn't give a damn. I just wanted my head fixed.

Which, apparently, could not be done.

That was definitely the wrong thing to say to me at the time.

In the end, Dib had been forced to restrain me from further abuse of the medical professional, and shortly after my belongings were returned to me and I was released from the hospital. I tend to have a bit of a temper when something happens that I, or someone else I'd make do it, cannot fix. As I'm sure any reader has guessed by now, I am not a weak person. Nor am is the idea of dependency appealing to me. So the fact I was probably going to have to rely on other people for information to fill me in on something I already should have known was positively the worst thing I felt could've been happening to me.

To explain that absolute suckiness of the situation I'd woken up to, completely unprepared, would take an unimaginable amount of time. Throughout this, I will admit, because of the sheer disbelief of waking up from a coma with amnesia, I couldn't help but expect this all to be some elaborate joke from Dib. On the drive home, I kept glaring at him, expecting him to burst out laughing and inform me I was right, that I had been unconscious for months thanks to an accident of Dad's, and he had just woken up before me.

But I could read people with just a glance, and I knew Dib like the back of my hand. By the contemplative, worried expression on his face as he too continued to shoot glances at me while he drove (which he was old enough to now, being 17) and the strangle-worthy grip he had on the wheel, I knew he wasn't lying. I just didn't want to admit it to myself. Refused to, really.

The very idea I, Gaz, the Terror of Humanity, the Infamous Membrane Daughter, all the many names people called to grace my frightening presence and refer to me with the hope I wouldn't realize who they were speaking about, had been subjected to dependency was so degrading, I wanted to punch something. Preferably whoevers fault it was that this had happened, even if it was only just inadvertently. Someone needed to pay. I just needed to find out who.

While at the time I didn't know it, that single, simple thought became the entire basis of discovering a very, very screwed up history that would ultimately send my world spiraling into catastrophe, confusion, and sheer unadulterated loathing of a person I never thought would have, or ever have, anything to do with my life.

And so began my adventure in discovering my own secrets.

Not bad for a first chapter, right?

Hopefully . . .

. . .

. . .

Alright, I know it's horrible! Try not to hate this! It gets better, I promise!

You just need to give me a few chapters, for the benefit of the doubt!

So, if any of you are still reading by then-.

Till next time!