[WP]You wake up in a bar with no memory how you got there. Last thing you remember is going into work. 2 days ago. You have no. Cellphone/wallet/memory of your identity, no one else remembers who you are also.

"Send"

...

That's it. The last thing I remember seeing. I emailed someone... I don't know who, I don't know what it was about, but that's the last thing I know before I woke up here.

The disgruntled bartender doused me with a glass of water. "Jesus, get up, ya slob. Look at ya." He shook his head.

"Jesus?" I looked up at him. "Is that my name?

"No, your name is Lunatic, now get out, we're closing," he said and cleaned off the nearby table, his eyes locked on me.

I stumbled off the couch. The water had soaked into it and my back. My pockets were empty, and my head felt like it was whacked by an aluminium bat.

"You mind if I take a piss first?" I asked. The bartender grunted, aggressively wiping the table.

"Fine. But be quick!" I looked around the bar.

"Sorry, where is it?"

"Oh for Pete's... it's over there!" he pointed to the back of the room where an illuminated 'Gents' sign hung.

In the bathroom, I looked into the mirror. I had no idea who I was. The person looking back didn't feel like me. Did I always have brown eyes? Was my beard always scraggly? When did I even grow a beard? Then I noticed and ID at the edge of the sink.

Seymour Gates

He didn't look like me, or anyone I could remember. After I pissed I went back to the bartender.

"Did you see this guy last night?" I asked.

"Who are you now, the freakin' cops? You know I'm about to call them if you don't get your ass out of here." He shoved a few chairs back to their tables. "And no, I didn't."

"Thanks," I said and walked out of the bar. The night was warm and the wind blew in the direction of the dump, giving the night a sweet and pungent smell. I threw up on the sidewalk.

The streets were empty, aside from a few parked cars. I couldn't even recognize what street I was on and without any money, I couldn't call a cab. So, I sat down outside the bar, trying to figure out what to do next.

It was an hour before the bartender walked out the door and began to lock it. He caught sight of me.

"Oh, frick, you're still here," he said. "Look, buddy, go home."

"I don't know where that is," I told him. "I can't remember anything."

"Shit... You did look off," he said. "I'd never seen you here before either. You must've took one those roofied drinks those degenerates put around the bar." He kicked the door a few times. The kicks pushed the door in enough for him to lock it

"Look, you tell me where to go and I'll give you a ride."

I didn't have an answer, but I felt the ID in my pocket and took it out.

"Can you take me to 43 Chestnut Crescent?" I asked.

The bartender's face went flush. "That's across the bloody town!" He grumbled a few minutes, rubbing his hand against his bald head.

"Fine. Fine, get in," he said, beeping his car to unlock.

I hopped in and we sped off. He had on a classic-rock station. It was playing Enter Sandman by Metallica. Hey, I knew something at least.

"You don't really remember anything do you?" he asked.

"Nothing..." I said. "All I know is this is Enter Sandman by Metallica."

He laughed. "Well, you're remembering the important things, at least."

He continued to ask questions about me. Questions about me I couldn't answer because I didn't know who "me" was. Everything came up blank. Any time I tried to picture the past I saw the same "Send" button on the computer screen.

"Well if you're someone important, it'll be on the news tomorrow," said the bartender. "Seems like every day you know everything about anyone important. I miss the old days, when it was about jokes and people didn't Google every answer to a question. The death of philosophy if you ask me."

"Yeah," I said, gazing out the window. I watched the streets and homes, but still, nothing turned on any lights.

We rolled up to a war-time home with a 1980 Buick sedan in the driveway.

"Well, I hope this is it," he said.

I thanked him for the ride and apologized if I caused him trouble. He said he didn't mind and wished me luck in finding myself. He also thought he remembered seeing someone roofie drinks last night and the next time that guy was in he was going to give him a "swift fist of justice". Then he pulled away and I waved good-bye.

After he left, a black Lincoln rolled up and a man in a suit and glasses stepped out. He walked towards me and looked me over.

"Your name, sir?" he asked.

"I don't know," I said. He nodded and turned back to the car. On the way, he whispered something into his earpiece.

"Hey!" I yelled. He continued and I chased after him. He was already at the car, though, getting inside and it sped away as soon as he closed the door. At the end of the driveway, I walked it pull away—there were no license plates.

I looked back at the home. It looked empty. Maybe it was my home, so I walked towards it and heard the ring of metal as I did. I looked down and saw a key labeled "home". It worked.

The house was silent as I entered. When the lights flicked on I saw the living room, with a flat-screen TV, couch and an open bag of Lays potato chips. On the walls were photos of me with, what I assumed were m parents and friends. I looked more closely at them.

They had me in them, the me I saw in the mirror at the bar. I knew, though, somewhere deep inside me, this man was someone different. When I hit "Send" that day, I was someone different.

I crashed down on the couch and stared at the blank TV.

"What happened...?"

/r/WritingPrompts Thread