TO BE REMEMBERED:

I don't remember much; I may have been here for a while, but I lost track of days a long time ago. I don't even know how I got here, wherever this was. I try to keep up with the happenings by looking at the leaves of the mulberry tree outside my shack. When the leaves fall, I know the cold is coming.

In all fairness, what I call a "shack" is actually an abandoned, half-built Victorian-style townhouse located outside the comfort of a big, cozy-looking town.

The weather has been kind to me for years, I think. I am only notified by children' cheery shouts whenever the calendar resets itself for a New Year or a new decade. I only hear Thanksgiving and Easter by names - and probably because everyone gets nice for a while before slipping into stark coldness, just like their weather.

The cold has been coming in snaps lately. I need to get out of the house before it potentially loses its strength and falls on me.

I share many fond memories of being sheltered from the outside elements by my sturdy overhead companion, as I like to call it. We are alike in so many ways: we're both outdated, on the outskirts of everything and have managed to stand our grounds in spite of extreme times.

We are both fighters.

But my sturdy companion is giving up. Each morning I wake up and support myself to stand by gripping a side of the central pillar. And each morning I can feel the pillar shake a little. If I had been able to gather a few of those valuable papers they call money, I would have loved to care for my companion - maybe restore it to it's former glory and even make a rose garden around it. It would look so beautiful and unique.

But who would listen to a man with a lightning-bolt shaped scar on his face?

My scar's description is in itself the story of what happened to me. I was struck by lightning when I was in my early teens. It was a dark night, one I don't like to remember.

Because that night I lost everything that made me, me. Including my memory.

How I survived till date has always been a mystery, even to me. I remember staggering around, having to beg for food and water so I could have enough strength to then beg for a menial job. By my count, it's been about thirty-seven New Year shouts since I got struck by lightning, so I am probably not fifty yet.

Maybe close.

But life had given me a fair share of the good and the bad times. Mostly the destitute, desolate times when all I had was my old diary that somehow made it from the charred melee that was my suitcase moments before the incident. It was a dark, rainy night. One I never thought I could survive.

Speaking of survival, today is like any other day. The beautiful stream near the house is enough luxury for cleanliness for a guy like me. I often get little vials of Vaseline from Todd, the town pharmacist. He's very kind - dark chocolate skin, large brown eyes. He was actually the one who showed me the first time what my face really looked like (I never owned a mirror) and was gracious enough to help me tend to my face so I looked more like a human being. Because that's actually all that I am - another statistic in a large world.

Today I would go to his house and help him chop up some wood. In return, he would give me the usual: a loaf of raisin bread, some apples, a large cask of water and some pieces of roast bird. He doesn't have much, but I am grateful he supports me as much as he can. With three small children and a pregnant wife, I never thought of asking to live with him. That would be sacrilege. Other townspeople rarely help out; they do smile on occasion, give me a bagel or two and then whisper things into their children’s' ears - things that make them stay away from me. Besides Todd, I don't really have anyone in the town who cares for me.

The day goes by. The bitter cold keeps biting my limbs as I work tirelessly over the logs of wood. Then suddenly, it happens.

I feel as if something explodes in my head and suddenly my posture begins to change sporadically as my eyes capture a vertical panoramic view of Todd's shed - while heading for the floor.

I can hear shouts, Todd and the other guys with him as they rush to me, lying on the floor in a pool of warm liquid. I know it's blood, and it's mine. I hear them say something like I burst an artery. They want to take me to the hospital and as their voices fade, I find myself surrounded by familiar settings: lush wheat fields, red tractors, bright sunshine.

The smell of a good, content life on the countryside of a temperate region. In the distance I see a couple I feel I have known all my life. They are wearing wide-brimmed hats and matching clothes. Each one stretches a tanned hand towards me.

"Come on, Dexter" they chorus twice in unison.

That must be my name. Probably it is, because I suddenly feel drawn to them and I seem to float in the air towards them. My hands touch theirs as we all float towards the light source before us.

Then everything goes blank.