I'm with you

Those first few weeks after Paul  - Guitar kid -  Paul. Found her were a blur. Sounds, sights, smells that fuzzed together like trying to catch a television show through static. It was just too much for her newly functional brain to process. She remembered them later as snatches of clear memory surrounded by piles of cotton candy fog.  The initial, electric clarity of that night had fizzled back as she learned how to put together all of the information she could now think about. It would take weeks for her to be anything close to a normally functioning person and parse through the barage of sights and sounds and memories.
 
 
"Uh kiddo...are you okay? You're covered in blood."
 
"I'm fine." Not really. Where am I? Who are you? 
 
"Let's get you some help." Bright green mohawk. Guitar slung on his back. Worried eyes. Kind eyes. Guitar. Guitar kid. She liked him. Did she? What was that feeling?
---"She was just wandering, Padre. I don't know if she's hurt."
 
The Temple of the Light. It did not look like a temple. How did she know what a temple was? It looked like a long hall with tables and some people quietly eating soup in the back corner.  The man in front of her was young, black hair slicked back, a simply black shirt and jeans, silver cuff bracelet, delicate fingers. Young. Her age. Padre. Father? Daddy? No. Not him. Padre. Name not title.
 
"Let's get Hasba to check you over. What's your name?"
 
"Not Renee."
"Renee?"
 
"No. I can't be Renee anymore."  Paul. Guitar Kid. Padre. Not Father. They exchanged a look and then back at her.
 "I need a new name."
 
"Hm. We can work on that. you let us know when something sounds good."
 
"Okay."
 
---
Those first days were so hazy, learning how to think at speed, how to respond like a normal person. Normal. She was suddenly normal. No more gaps, no more rushing rivers she couldn't ford.  It just took those weeks to find her feet. That's what Padre said. She trusted Padre, liked Padre. He was soft and gentle and patient. Bright blue eyes like the sky.  She stayed on a cot in the temple in a small room for those first weeks, sometimes silent for hours as she sorted through all the new input. 
 
Slowly she began to speak more, to think more clearly. The little asides of her new, magically created brain, fewer and quieter. Confusion ebbed, replaced by clarity and thoughts that went in order. Vocabulary filled itself in. Padre honored her need to sit and watch and listen until things made sense. Paul came some days to check on her.  Sometimes one or the other would take her out into the city to see something new and then another few days of processing and thinking would happen.  
 
---
"Do you want to tell me what happened?" Padre - a nickname she had learned - his real name was Armand Montilla and he was the Sofofos of the Paradise City Temple of the Light. He was a guitar player in one of the local clubs and when he wasn't there, he enjoyed his charity work in the borough. He was what was called an "old soul" - someone wise in a young body.   He had also been patiently waiting for Not Renee to tell him more since the night Paul had brought her here several months ago.
 
So she told him. About her twin, about her father, about the strange buzzing electricity in her brain, about the gun.  He listened without judgement and then nodded, giving her hand a squeeze. She liked the warmth and the calluses on his fingers.
 
"Did you find a new name yet?"
 
"Elizabeth. I like Elizabeth. It was in the book with the cross. I read that one - most of it was a little ... bloody. But I like the ideas of forgiveness and love parts."
 
"Have you read any of the rest of them?"
 
"Some of them. The words are still hard."
 
"Give it time."
 
"So Elizabeth. You need a last name too. We'll get you an ID for when you want to leave here."
 
"I can't stay?"
 
"You can stay as long as you want but I don't think you'll want to forever."
 
"That makes sense," she said finally. "I'll have to think of a last name."
 
"Hm. Martinez?"
 
"What's that mean?"
 
"nothing in particular but it's very common. It would make it easier for you to take on a new life if it's something common."
 
"Martinez. Elizabeth Martinez. Yes, that works. You're not upset?"
 
"With you? No. You were hurt. You were a victim. And you could finally defend yourself. I'm impressed, if you want my honest opinion."
 
"Impressed?"
 
"That took courage."
 
"It just felt scary."
 
"Courage is always terrifying," he said finally. "You'll sort it. And you know where I am if you need help."
 
"Thank you," she replied.
 
 
It was not, in the end, quite that simple.