My name is Callum McDonald, and I don’t know who I am.
I get flashes sometimes, pictures that dance through my mind, but as soon as I reach for them they vanish into a whisper. It’s been happening for almost a week now. I have to guess, because the only way to track time anymore is the rising and falling of the sun, and my almost-memories have kept me preoccupied. They demand my attention, forming faces and shapes that tease; their way of tormenting me for forgetting them. I try to put them into words, to speak them back into existence, but each time I reach for the right description, they disappear, no more than an empty wisp.