Yellow Car

The rain is falling as he makes his way through the parking lot. He is still lost, bewildered, yet calm. There's a strange sensation trying to break through to consciousness. It's as a part of his mind remembers, as if his life is just beneath the surface trying to make itself known, to be reunited with their host. But it's still vague, far away, something like deja vu but not as strong.
And so he keeps walking. It's a slow, light rain and it seems to be clearing up. The parking lot is full and he runs his fingers along auto body lines. He makes a point to scan a variety of vehicles hoping that some sense of recognition will snap him out of his stupor. Sports cars, SUVs, compacts, mini-vans. Not only do none of them appear familiar, he's not even sure what kind of car he'd like to drive if given the choice. He wonders if, behind the wheel, he'd remember how to drive at all.
The stadium parking lot is fenced off from the city. He circles the lot following arrows painted into the concrete. He continues scanning the mass of automobiles. He sees the exit now and is making his way there but something shifts, almost imperceptably. He stops and turns his head towards the sensation. More cars, but. . . He's not sure why, but he turns from the exit and starts in this new direction. The sensation is gone now, but he goes with his gut. He approaches a long line of cars. A glint of light off a chrome bumper catches his eye.
A muscle car with a custom paint job - a deep sparkle blue with a white racing stripe across the top. He looks it over but nothing seems familiar. There are no decals or markings anywhere to identify make or model. He wonders if his old self was a car buff who would know intimate details of this automobile by silhouette alone.
Fuzzy dice hanging from the rear view mirror. A click, almost audible. He furrows his brow and stares at the dice. There are hints here, this car, these dice - they are hints, pointing him towards some sort of recognition but the pieces are indistinct. It's like being spun around, blindfolded, trying to hit a party pinata.
Then, above the dice in the rear view mirror he sees a yellow Corolla. He spins around and the recognition hits him between the eyes like a wrecking ball. He swaggers a bit and steadies himself with a hand on the trunk of the muscle car. He hears the warning chirp of it's car alarm. He looks around to see if anyone noticed, but save for the cars, this lot is desolate.
He approaches the yellow Corolla. He pulls the keys out of his pocket, fingers through to the one that looks like a car key. He goes around to the passenger side first and looks in the window to see if anything else seems familiar. It's pretty clean inside although the upholstery shows signs of wear. The back seat has a large Brooks & Dunn beach towel draped across it. He doesn't remember liking Country music. He can't remember any Brooks & Dunn songs.
He circles around the back. There are no bumper stickers. The license plate is standard issue. At the passenger door now, he inserts the key into the lock. It slides past a few tumblers then gets stuck. This isn't the key for this car.
The tiny seed of frustration grows a bit more. It spears a tiny root into the soggy grey surface. He winces. Though he doesn't know it, a race has been set in motion. This seed, once full grown and fruit bearing will send him to a fit of blind rage. All constraints will be cast aside and he will hurl himself at the world, caution to the wind. He will break, destroy, kill all he can set his hands on until acted upon by some outside force, most likely a hero's knife or police officer's hollow tip bullet.
Set against this seed is a maze, a puzzle, a riddle who's solution is nothing less than the whole of his self. If he can remember who he is, the seed will disengage, disarm, dismantle, and he'll go back to the life he's recollected.