January twelfth. He had lost six months of time and had no idea of what he had done. Swearing viciously, he leant back against the couch. He ran his hand over his head. The last thing he remembered was going to bed early. When he woke he was so relived, hell thankful, he hadn’t dreamed. Wesley looked down at his hands and breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank God, no blood, cuts, or markings. You’re doing okay, Wes.” Even as he said it, he knew it was a lie. It was just the beginning of summer when he went to sleep yet when he woke there was snow on the ground. He tried to remember what had happened. Black waves of pain hammered in his head. He swallowed the nausea bubbling in the back of his throat. He breathed rapidly in and out. The feeling passed. After some time, the pain lessened and he could think. Oh God, what is happening to me? I’m losing my— Wesley cut off the thought before it could form. No. There is a reasonable explanation. There has to be one. Wesley sat up and pushed the button for the answering machine on the table next to the couch.
