The Peculiar Journey of Lauren Barnes, Installment Two.

[TheSpotConlon]

Thank you all for your comments on the first chapter! I've been reading here for a long time, and I'm not ashamed to say that I recieved urgings to continue from some of my favorite authors on this board. Well, anyway, here's installment two. Criticism/kind words/harsh invectives are always welcome.


Installment Two: Orientation.

I took a moment to stop and think. This became a difficult proposition when there was nothing left to think. My name was Lauren Barnes. . .and after that I had nothing. Not a single clue in my brain to jog my memories, to start any recollections of who I was. I didn't even know what I looked like.

Wait, Lauren, there's an easy way to rectify that. Find a mirror and look in it, then your problem'll be solved. Well, one of them. I got up and walked to the far corner of the room, where stood a full-length mirror. Reflected in it I saw a modest girl of fair complexion with a neatly conservative drape of blonde hair on her head. Her eyes were blue, but currently bloodshot because she forgot to take her contacts out the night before. She obviously watched what she ate, but not to excess; her body showed off a casual athleticism rather than an obsessed supermodel tone. I guess I wasn't the most spectacular girl on the block, but I wasn't a slouch, either. I just wished I hadn't left my contacts in the night before. . .

I paused on that thought for a moment. If I've got my contacts in, then somewhere here I had to have glasses. Where was here, anyway? I checked the phone on the writing desk, hoping that this hotel printed their address on everything as was the custom. On the top, printed neatly, was the following: "Hilton Los Angeles, 3387 Figueroa, Los Angeles, CA, 90009." Well, now I knew that I was in Los Angeles. Thank god for industry standardization. But there was still the matter of my aching eyes. I spun around, glancing all around the room and attempting to find every place where I may have hidden the glasses earlier. For some reason, I thought that the hugantic crate in the middle of the room might be a good place to start.

I didn’t think I’d ever get to the bottom of that crate; there seemed to be miles of packing peanuts and newspapers between me and anything substantive. Who even used newspaper to pack boxes anymore? It seemed like such a desperately retro move, as if whomever loaded this crate was eager to return to the days of cassette tapes and 808 Kaypros. It wasn’t until I had been digging for nearly a minute that I found something intriguing. At the very bottom of the crate lay a moderately-sized duffel bag, unmarked save for a luggage tag hanging off of it. I turned it over. “Lauren Barnes.” It was much less helpful than I thought it would be.

The bag hadn’t been what I was looking for, but it still piqued my interest. I appeared to be an amnesiac, or a damn near sight close to one; this bag was the only thing in the room which could explain just what the hell I was doing in California. Honestly, I was a bit frightened of what I was going to find in there. Actually, I would have been frightened no matter what. You would be too if you were buck naked with no memory, stranded in one of the most violent cities on Earth. I unzipped the duffel and expected anything from mutant spiders to the killer plague of Chumash to come flying out.

Luckily, neither did. Actually, from where I was standing, I had hit the fucking jackpot. There were clothes! And my glasses! It really didn’t matter what else was in there; I had pants! I pulled the jeans out hastily, knocking many of the contents of the bag onto the floor in the process. I noticed a wallet and a large file folder on the ground, and I promised myself that I would return to them as soon as I was less completely naked.

I figured that the t-shirt and jeans which covered my frame, not to mention the receding pain from the removal of my contacts, would provide a sort of security blanket, allowing me to think more clearly and possibly uncover more of the pertinent information from my brain. No such luck, though, as all that ever came up was my name. I was beginning to notice, though, that I could remember small details not relating to my life: a couple of old songs, geography, how to work basic household appliances. It wasn’t much, but it stopped me from being totally functionless. I turned toward the wallet, hoping that it would start some spark.

I dumped the contents of my wallet onto the bed and began to sift through them. The pieces did not fall into place, but there were definitely more of them. My full name was Lauren Amanda Barnes. I was born in a place called Lawrence, Kansas, on January 8, 1989. I carried an AmEx, an ATM card, and a pocket schedule for something called The Kansas City Royals. There was also a thousand dollars in cash and an unmarked business card with a fourteen digit phone number printed on it. I’d save that for later.

I was from Lawrence. Lawrence, Kansas. “Can anybody hear me? Anybody at all?” Wait, what was that? It was the first thought I had which wasn’t my name or some concrete world fact. I heard a voice in the back of my head, a middle-aged man with a slight tremor in his voice. I could almost see his face, too: he wore glasses and his hair was all askew, and he sat in front of an old ham radio speaking to whomever was out there. Was it my father? An old science teacher? I couldn’t place who he was, but I knew that he said he was from Lawrence. My heart rose at the prospect that I had any memory at all intact, even if it was distant and hazy. I turned my attention towards the file folder, hoping that its contents would provide another clue.

“Dear Ms. Barnes: We are pleased to accept you into the incoming class of 2010 at The State of California University — Los Angeles. Your application was quite brilliant, and we look forward to hearing many great things from you over the next four years. . .” Hey, guys, that’s great. If only I could remember what the hell I wrote on it. Strangely enough, I knew something about SCULA: their team name was The Fish. Therefore, they were the “SCULA Fish,” and hence the worst pun ever uttered. I wondered exactly why I had decided to apply there, since my brain reacted with such vitriol at their choice of mascot. Luckily, I had a chance to find out; I had cunningly stashed a copy of my own application in the back of the folder.

Over the next hour, I poured over this document quite carefully, absorbing and committing to memory as many facts as I could about the girl who used to be Lauren Barnes. I grew up on a farm; I had been riding horses since I was three; I had a celebrity crush on someone named Lyle Lovett; I worked as a projectionist in a movie theater this past summer; and I didn’t smoke, drink, or do drugs. I was going to pursue a course of study American History. I sounded kind of boring, to be perfectly honest. And the worst thing about it was that it didn’t trigger a single memory in my busted brain. All I had was my name and the sound of Joe in front of the–Joe! His name was Joe! I could have screamed; I was so happy. His name had come to me out of the blue, without having to overthink or stress myself. I was confident now that I would remember everything in time.

I was still on this high when I turned to the last page, which gave a detailed schedule for the entire orientation week. Apparently, I was living in a dorm room in Braun Hall with a girl named Carolyn from New York City, and I moved in the next day. There was no way that I would have all of my memory back by the morning, so I concocted a ruse. I decided that I would claim that a head injury while horse riding this summer had left me without my long-term memory, and that it would be several months before I would be fully recovered. Yeah, that would work.

I glanced up from the paper and at the clock on the nightstand: it was nearly one in the morning. I decided I had to call it quits now so that I could get some rest before move-in. I stuffed all of my things inside the duffel, leaving out the iPod which had fallen to the ground with the rest of my belongings. I put on the headphones and slipped into bed, cueing up a playlist entitled “Lauren’s Happy Music” to help me fall asleep. I didn’t recognize a single track. I would have cried if there had been anyone there to embrace while I did.

That night, I had nightmares. I saw myself strapped down to a table, some cold hard slab in a doctor’s office far away. Cruel metal tools floating above me, each descending in turn to pierce my flesh. I could feel anonymous hands ripping away, pulling skin from skin. My brain wanted to cry out in anguish, but I stayed serene, unable to react to unbearable pain. I could feel them mutilate my sex as they tortured me, destroying that which made pleasure and turning into a sickened pain. The ringing phone was a boon; I woke to it screaming.

“Hello?”
“Ms. Barnes? This is the seven AM wake-up call you requested. Your car will be downstairs in ten minutes.”
“Thank you.” I was apparently an early riser, or maybe I just wanted to beat my roommate to the dorm. Either way, I was paralyzed now. What was that dream? Did I live that? If so, where are my scars? I pondered these questions knowing full well I couldn’t discover the answers. I eventually gave up, grabbed my bag and headed for the door.

Figueroa was deserted this early in the morning. There were no cars on the street and no people save the Mexican delivery men. It gave me a better line of sight to the street, anyway; I stared out the window, attempting to memorize as much as possible about my neighborhood before I got to school. My car arrived at SCULA less than twenty minutes after we had left the hotel. I was easily the first student on campus, which is either really great or really terrible depending on your chosen point of view. Either way, my Resident Advisor was really stunned. “Is that all you brought with you, Lauren?”

At this ungodly hour of the morning, I hadn’t even stopped to think that my one bag of stuff wasn’t even close to substantial for a full year of study. So I lied. “Yeah, uh, I have a bunch of other stuff being shipped to me.”

“Oh, okay,” she said, buying it completely. “Um, here’s the packet with your keys and meal plan. There’s a floor meeting at about six, so don’t be late. And I guess you get to choose which side of the room you get. Welcome to SCULA!”

“Thanks, Jenn.” I opened the door onto the only home I had ever known. I was greeted by two identical sets of beds, dressers, and desks. A microwave and minifridge separated them. Spartan, but not unexpected for a college. I staked out the left side of the room and unpacked all of my junk, which naturally took all of ten minutes. I had hours to kill, so I laid down on my bed and dozed off, fully expecting my roommate to show up at any time. . .

[DollSpace]

*high five* I'm really enjoying reading this story and I hope to read more soon; great job!

Ryn

[velda2222]

WOW! This is turning into one of the better stories I have seen here. I haven’t been this into a story since The Kate Lane saga.

More, more, more!

[kb7rky]

These first two chapters rate a patented "Dude!"

Nicely done

Doug

[Korby]

Definitely a cool story. Can't wait for the next segment.

[xandimouse]

I love the suspense!

And the style is one of my favorites.

I think i check the board *hourly* for updates to this story!!!

[A.N.N.]

I particularly like the different perspective, one very rare in most ASFR stories.

[Mirage]

This is very well written! Very original! Please continue

Mirage

[DollSpace]

WOW! This is turning into one of the better stories I have seen here. I haven’t been this into a story since The Kate Lane saga.

More, more, more!

Wow..thank you The Katie Lane stories were really fun to write, and I wish I wasn't too distracted to continue the series at the moment lol...

Ryn

[33cl33]

Bravissimo! Hope to see more soon.

[velda2222]

TheSpotConlon, how close are you to the next installment? I really want to see more of this story!

[TheSpotConlon]

TheSpotConlon, how close are you to the next installment? I really want to see more of this story!

Sorry about the delay on the next installment; personal crises coupled with a wicked bout of writer's block has tripped me up. I'm working furiously on the next chapter, and hope to have it posted by Saturday morning. Thanks for the encouragement; it helps to know that someone is actually anticipating the next series of twists.