"A name? I once had a name, I think. I loved the sound of it, I loved to make people say it; it was the best name, because it was mine and mine alone. What was it, though? For some reason, I cannot recall it, even if my heart aches at its loss. I need a new name, a name for myself, a name that is only mine and which others will speak, a name that will be music to my ears. I must have a name, I must take a name, I must own a name. My name. Me.
I am Perfect."

Standing 6' 1" and weighing over two hundred pounds, Perfect is a man for whom it is in the nature of which to be big, and who has a passive biological tendency to grow larger with very little effort on his part. This is supposed to be interpreted in a very general sense, though, for while Perfect is very strong and quite muscular, his belly also juts out, not obscenely large but just big enough for it to be noticeable that he is a bit on the overweight side of things. He has narrow hips and broad shoulders, and is prone to appear somewhat bulky. His skin is tanned and fair, however, and his body is remarkably void of scars, making it evident that his physical strength did not come from honest toil, but came simply by the will of genetics and Perfect himself. He is rather hairy, particularly on his forearms and shins, and has a thin mat of Titian hair on his chest that trails down his stomach, around his navel and connects into his pubic region.
Similarly to the structure of his body, Perfects skull boasts predominantly squarish and masculine properties such as a wide, strong jaw and chin, the latter of which is short and slightly flat rather than rounded. He has tall, pronounced cheekbones over healthily full cheeks, a broad, strong brow and a large, prominent forehead that serves to balance his slightly large but sharp nose. His lips are dark by nature and tends to purse slightly without Perfect meaning for them to do so, and his eyes are large, bright and display a combination of brown and green colors. His eyebrows are bushy, and he likes to wear his facial hair trimmed so that his moustache does not grow past the upper border of his lips and the rest of his beard at less than one inch's length. He wears his hair short and preferably smoothened back, and all of his hair naturally matches the same Titian color. Judging by his appearance, it would be reasonable to estimate his age in the late twenties. The skin on his throat, just on his rather pronounced Adam's apple, is oddly coarse and reddened in a broad band across it, but otherwise his skin seems (for the moment) untarnished.

For whatever reason, recently awakened as he is, Perfect finds himself with very few possessions and regrettably with rather limited options in regards to surviving on his own. His only clothes are those he awoke in, and consist of a pair of light-gray socks, a pair of brown leather loafers, loose drawers and green woolen trousers, and a brown tunic that extends to his mid-thigh over which he wears a black woolen jacket.
Aside from his clothes also has a rather large and nice hunting knife, with a polished dark-reddish wooden handle, and blade of bronze with a straight spine and softly rounded edge, being with a six-inch handle and a fourteen-inch blade, with a fitting leather sheath. Finally, he is also in possession of what appears to be an old pair of bunny-ears, tied together with a string to allow for them to function as a pendant.

"I remember the well better than anything else; a dilapidated old stone-lined well, caked with moss, found under a heavy cover of trees. There must have been an abandoned farm there or something, because there wouldn't just be a well in the middle of nowhere. I sit on the edge of the well - my well - with a white bunny beside me. I pet it, and like the feel of its ears against my hand. I break its neck and tear them off, and drop the rest of the carcass into the well. I don't remember why, but I remember feeling annoyed that I had to do it. But I wanted the ears.

Then I remember a girl crying; I'm holding the bunny's ears in my hand. She annoys me, being unnecessarily loud like that, so I hit her with my fist. She cries louder, so I hit her again. A pair of adults, a man and a woman, appear, and start yelling at me. It is mainly the woman yelling, with the man just growling occasionally from behind. They are loud, and I get irritated. Why were they being so difficult? The man hits me in my face with an open hand. Three times. It hurts. I'm angry.

I stand over the bed of the man and woman, staring, feeling pleased as my anger bleeds out of me at the same pace as the blood flows from their open throats. I smile as they lie there, staring at me, making desperate little sounds before growing still. I slap the man once he is still. Four times. I laugh. Undress the woman. Why not? They were my parents, just as it was my bunny. I feel strong. In control. Powerful.

The well again; I am out of breath, a small and weak child, as I tip over the naked woman into the well. The man is already down there, I know. The woman is no longer entertaining, and I have started to realize that others are not like me. They are different, somehow. Don't respect my ownership, my authority. Would likely think that what I had done was wrong, so I have to hide it. I am angry, having to get rid of my toys. Then I turn, and pick up the nerveless naked little girl to add to the well. Mine. People do not understand. I do not understand them. But I will learn, because I am smart. And I have a well.

A lot of faces occupy my memory, some distinct and others diffuse; faces of women, mainly, but also a lot of smaller girls and a few men. And the well is always there, in the background. I am smart, smarter than them, stronger than them; have to put them in the well, because they won't acknowledge that I own them. They are mine.

The well again; I look down into it, and it is too deep, too dark to see very far. There are people around me, loud, frantic people. They yell at me, like the man and woman did. I hurt, and I am angry. They are touching my well; soon they will be touching the things I have hidden away down there. But they are dangerous, because they refuse to understand. I try to explain it to them; I am smarter and stronger, it all belonged to me. They were mine to do with as I pleased.
They are quiet, then loud, then very dangerous. My throat and neck hurts. They do not understand.
I am perfect."

Animating with a start, the man rolled over where he lay, from his stomach to his side, and heaved in an urgent breath, desperate to fill his lungs with air. The inhalation caused him to immediately lurch over, even lying down as he was, and cough violently, as the air he had drawn in had been hot and full of dust; his lungs hurt and his throat felt irritated, triggering the fit of coughing he found himself in now. It took almost a full minute to recover before he could breathe somewhat normally again, albeit only if he placed his hand over his mouth and nose and breathed through the fingers. It was a poor filter that did little to ease his breathing, but it was better than to drink the air straight from the source.
Still breathing heavily as he recovered from his coughing-fit, the man opened his eyes and gazed upon the terrain around him without recognition. Sand and rocks, crags and canyons... and a whole lot of nothing but faintly visible fine dust, carried upon a hot wind, dancing before his eyes like ephemeral specters before dispersing anew, fading back into the twilight. He stared, looking around, trying to recognize something, anything... but everything that came into view, even after he had looked in every direction, seemed bleak, barren and alien. What was this place? Was... this was not where he had been before. He remembered trees, and his well, and other people. He remembered... very little. But he was sure that this place, this land, this world was not right. It was not his world. Where was this? Where had he been before? Who was he? Who had he been before?

Groaning, he started rising to his knees, his breath still ragged and painful, though he began to realize that his discomfort was no longer caused by the hostile environment he found himself in. Wincing, he raised his right hand to his sore throat, but immediately withdrew his fingers as contact with the skin there stung painfully. The pain was quickly fading, however, and it was getting easier to breathe; was his pain real, or just another memory?
Where is this? Who am I?
Taking in a deep breath, he slammed his fists into the thin, soft padding of sand atop the rocky ground beneath him, barking: "Why can't I remember?!"
Those bastards, those... people, he could not remember who they were or what had happened, but they had taken his things away! All of his things! All of what he owned, even his memories and his precious, darling name. How could they do that?
I'll figure it out; I'm smart and strong. Better than all of them. I will have it, all that was mine and all that is theirs; it shall all be mine. I'll kill them.
Who were they, though? And how was he going to find them, let alone reach them from... wherever this place was?
I'll figure it out, he thought again, this time even more certain, growing bolder as he grew more aware of the fact that he had to act, or he was in trouble. He had no idea where this place was, but it was obvious that it was a hostile place. He could see far in all directions from here, where he had awoken, and despite of this he could not spot as much as a single blotch of life-affirming green or a hint of the twilight playing in water's surface. He was not hungry or thirsty now, but he would be, eventually. Soon, in this heat. He did not have time to wallow in his own misery; he would survive.
He was Perfect, after all.