Archive for February, 2016


She became aware of herself in bits, in pieces.

Recollection fluttered like a moth in a jar, beating itself against a barrier it could not comprehend. She had only the vaguest impression, a shape of what had once been her self; the smell of lavendar and rot, silk so so tattered that it was no more than stained cobwebs. The feel of her tongue touching the back of her teeth. A hand, warm, brushing hair from her forehead. Stone. A dog barking. A trigger against her finger. She felt power and powerlessness; she felt regret. Anger.

But it was the places in which she felt nothing that were the worst of all. There should have been — but there wasn’t.

It was different from forgetting. It was as if it had never been.


There was no resisting that command; there was no question of struggle. It simply was, and so she did.

Her eyes opened, and the world was grey. The things she saw she couldn’t understand, didn’t try to understand, it was too much work to make sense of it. She should have recognized these things, she knew she ought to know what they were, what they meant. But the connection couldn’t be made, was impossible to be made – if there was meaning to be seen, she could not see it.

Dimly, she felt herself close her eyes, felt her thoughts organize in such a way that she didn’t have to know what some part of her knew. She focused, instead, on the command she had been given; it felt good to obey. She knew that good was not something she felt often, though she didn’t know why.

It took a while before she realized that her tongue was moving, that her lips were cupped in such a way as to form words – one word, again and again. How strange a thing, yet once she noticed, she had no power to stop it. Some part of her knew that there should be a sound coming from her as she did so, but there was nothing, no vibration in her chest to indicate noise…

The silence was deafening.

Shouldn’t there be

It had felt good to obey. She focused on what she had been told to do. Awaken, she’d been told. Was she sleeping?

Her eyes were closed. She opened them so as to be sure. Her lips kept doing the same thing, again and again, like a metronome, like the tick-tick-ticking of a watch’s gears, like a heartbe

Something moved beside her. It took effort to shift her eyes, which seemed strange; hadn’t they always moved of their own accord before? Hadn’t they always tracked motion without conscious thought?

There was a length of dessicated green, and hands were trying to stitch something on to it – it looked like a spider, grey and sickly. With some effort, she moved the – arm, it was her arm, yes that was right, her arm

It was important. There shouldn’t be a hand on it, and she resisted the efforts to stitch one there. It didn’t belong. Why didn’t it belong?


No – the word! That was what she kept mouthing, but it was silent, it wouldn’t ‘say’. Why wouldn’t it say?

Focusing, she tried again, then again. The needle-wielding hands seized her arm, attempting to stitch the foreign fingers to her wrist


She had forgotten to breathe, of course.

…. wait.


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