Character Sketch 1

This will become a story eventually, for now just a taste.

Here I was, standing in front of a mirror staring at a face that was not my own, at least not one I recognized. The bright blue of my eyes, the long red flowing hair that stopped just at the small of my back, the freckles that lined my face from eye to eye, and the massive scar that reached from my lips to the top of my head. I am supposedly twenty three years of age but I do not look it. I look more like I am twenty at least, or I guess I did before this scar marred my face. The woman who calls herself my mother had said I had been in a car crash, and that a piece of the front windshield had sliced and embedded itself into my face before I had lost consciousness. I reached up with my hands to touch the scar. It felt jagged and harsh against the softness of the rest of my face. Three months she had said. Three months I had spent in a coma.

            I turn away at the saddened image that did not know herself and glanced at my room. I do not recognize it. Shades of deep red and purple surrounded me. My walls are purple but my bed and sheets are red. The nice wooden desk that looks as though it belongs in an office sits in a corner with a book shelf full of books leaning against it. I walk to the door to find my mom. I turn back before I head out to look at the foreign room that is mine. I turn to go when I hear her call my name from downstairs. “April get down here, food is ready if you’re hungry.” She calls. April? My name is April. That’s what the doctors and she called me. But it just doesn’t sound right. April. It just doesn’t seem to fit the face in the mirror. I descend the stairs and try to remember which doorway leads to the kitchen. I choose the door to the right and head on through. I stop inside a dining area and take a moment to let it all soak in. White clean walls, a table dominates the middle with at least four places set but could seat six or more. A piano sits just to the left of me and a china-set to the right.

            The doorway to the kitchen is next to the china set and I make my way in there. I walk in to see my mother bent over the stove stirring what smelled like chili. She glances up at my entry and smiles. “Hello dear, are you hungry? I made your favorite!” She says. I look down at what is supposed to be my favorite food. My stomach churns at the thought of eating, but I smile, “Thanks uh, mom. It looks delicious. But, um did the doctor tell you when my memory might come back? And who all lives here, or is it just you and me?” I ask in a hushed whisper. She looks up from the chili and stares at me quizzically. “You still don’t remember anything? I was hoping being home would jog something. The doctor said your memories may never come back but that happens rarely. He said it could take days, weeks, months or even years before it returns but to keep showing you things that may jog it back and to try and keep you on your daily routine before the crash had happened; and sweetheart? It is just you and me here for now. Your older brother is off at college and your father died of cancer two years ago. It is just us gals.” She says as she picks up the ladle and fills two bowls full of chili.

Author's Note

Remember just a taste and a piece that will become more.