I could sit here and tell you that I know who I am, where I’ve been and where I’m gonna go, but anything I said would be a lie. Truth is, I don’t know where I came from. I’m pretty sure I have military training and a little brother somewhere, and that I love sushi, but I’d never eat tuna.
Sometimes, in my dreams, I can see children hiding from me -- from other men like me, men with guns in army fatigues -- and I wonder if I was the good guy or the bad guy. G says it doesn’t really make a difference. She hasn’t seen what I’ve seen.
To be honest, I’m not so sure it’s that black and white.I mean, the good guys sometimes do bad things. The doctors make fatal decisions, the senators take bribes, the guy who swears to protect and serve kills innocent people in the name of liberty… So maybe she’s right-- what’s the difference, really? Maybe we’re all a little of both.
I don’t know if I’ll ever know if I’m the good guy who does bad things, or the bad guy who does good things. I know my name. Alex. That’s about it. When I met G, she told me I’d wake up one day and remember everything; my birthday, my hometown, how I got here, all of it. It’s been three years.
I’m still waiting.