Call me Stormy. For today, anyway. Because tomorrow I might be someone else.
I can’t tell you my real name, because I don’t know what it is. The truth of the matter is that I don’t know who I am.
You might be wondering how that can be. Join the club.
My memories begin with overhearing two men planning my murder. You heard me, my murder. I get away from them, but just barely. The only things in my possession are a duffel bag with obscene amounts of cash and a wallet with four driver’s licenses. All with my picture. Don’t ask me how or why I have them – or even if any of them are real – because I don’t know.
I don’t know much of anything.
All I know is those men want me dead. For reasons still unknown to me. So I’ll run. And I’ll keep running until I can piece my fractured mind back together.
But how do you go about remembering the things that most people already know?
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