sorting through the wreckage and finding scraps of her previous life. at first it's slow and wholly a world of generalities. then, as the dust in the room settles, she finds herself stepping lightly:
I can tell that I've been here before. This room is familiar and full of things. Each piece has an odd glow and as I pick them up one by one their memory snaps into my mind... my things.
I am dressed in something austere and resembling midnight, and I can barely see past my nose. In the dead stale air I find my way to a nightstand. My glasses. In the closet are clothes that, although ripe with a retirement home, moth ball pungence, are recognized as my own and I put them on.
Over the next few minutes I stir up the dust in the room, rifling through every corner of my mind in the hopes of remembering why I am here. There are little boxes, tied tight with bows I disctinctly see my hand in. Carefully loosening the ribbon, the boxes all seem brittle. Inside are small stacks of papers with white borders and solid black interiors. I focus through the haze and they are not so black. They are pictures. Snapshots of moments, trips to the museum, myself reading and... friends.
One in particular flashes through my brain and I drop the photos. He is out there, because I remember him. I barely remember any of these others, but he is perfectly clear, like the type on the billboard we climbed when we were 6 and were grounded for a whole summer.
I gather up the photos and run as fast as I can to my best friend's house.
I can tell that I've been here before. This room is familiar and full of things. Each piece has an odd glow and as I pick them up one by one their memory snaps into my mind... my things.
I am dressed in something austere and resembling midnight, and I can barely see past my nose. In the dead stale air I find my way to a nightstand. My glasses. In the closet are clothes that, although ripe with a retirement home, moth ball pungence, are recognized as my own and I put them on.
Over the next few minutes I stir up the dust in the room, rifling through every corner of my mind in the hopes of remembering why I am here. There are little boxes, tied tight with bows I disctinctly see my hand in. Carefully loosening the ribbon, the boxes all seem brittle. Inside are small stacks of papers with white borders and solid black interiors. I focus through the haze and they are not so black. They are pictures. Snapshots of moments, trips to the museum, myself reading and... friends.
One in particular flashes through my brain and I drop the photos. He is out there, because I remember him. I barely remember any of these others, but he is perfectly clear, like the type on the billboard we climbed when we were 6 and were grounded for a whole summer.
I gather up the photos and run as fast as I can to my best friend's house.
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