i appeared beneath the night sky one evening in june when a cool wind blew past me and made me blanch. that act of cringing, the exertion of my facial muscles, and the realisation that i was digging my nails into the flesh of my arms made my limbs come alive, and it was to the rhythm of - right, left, right, left that i placed my feet, left foot in front, then my right. only when i maintained a steady walking speed did i picture an aerial view of who i thought i should be - hair parted neatly in the centre, leaving a thin line of scalp, visible from the top. jet black hair, the ends just touching my shoulders and curling outwards as a consequence. an oxford plaid coat pulled around me and a grey cashmere scarf adorns my neck, no garish trinkets for me.

noise pulls me back into time, tugs at me and demands that my attention now be drawn to the busy street around me. the angry honk of a streetcar and i feel air whipping past me, my scarf flying into my face as cold metal hits my elbow and i stagger backwards. my heel catches onto concrete raised unevenly and i fall to the ground. my hand smacks into a small puddle of water and i feel tiny droplets of water edge their way down to the tip of my nose.


a car pulls up next to me and i stare hard at the driver before noticing that he isn't stopping for me, but for a red-light. it is a honda accord in a shade of metallic blue. i file away this piece of information into my mind which feels like a blank slate, a wet wad of toilet paper. the doors of the car are not locked. reaching over, i open the car door and slide into the car, my coat catching on to the knob that is used to adjust the seat. a small wave of memory assaults me and i dig my fingernails into the side of my thighs and i wince. nails digging into flesh would not cause this much pain. ignoring the bewildered look the man gives me, i hitch up the hem of my skirt and see red scabs on the surface of my skin. there are three deep scabs and two others which look as though they were caused by a blunt object being driven repeatedly across the same area of skin. i run my fingertips over the scabs and feel the ridges of the scabs. how? the light turns green. Behind us, a car honks repeatedly. the man puts the gear into place and the car moves. there is a pizza joint ahead and the man stops near the joint. we pull up alongside a dustbin, one with the lid just dangling off the top of the bin, the bin overflowing with trash. styrofoam cups and plastic containers litter the area near the bin. a cat slinks away in the darkness and i watch its glimmering green eyes in the darkness.


the man turns to me. i feel my hands fumbling for the knob used to adjust the seat, remembering the wave of unpleasant memory that hit me as i saw what my coat had caught on to, and i remember a memory slipping away from my mind as quickly as it appeared - the car seat suddenly falling back, my head hitting the headrest of the seat .

the man is watching me closely. i watch him as he takes me in. i hardly know what he is seeing, except that i remember the way his eyes, like the rest, linger on my chin. i raise a finger to my chin and i feel a raised scar. i look into the rear view mirror and see the bodily entity i have been accousted into existing in - olive skin, blotchy cheeks, dark eye rings and what appears to be a scar on my chin. the person in the mirror spoke to me of a life waiting to be uncovered and then lived, but for then, it was - .

the man turns on the ignition suddenly, the gentle purr of the engine highlighting the fact that I was so deep in though, i didn't even know that he had turned on the engine. a sudden fear grips me, a fear that makes me taste my dry tongue in my mouth, tighten my clammy hands around my thighs. throwing the car door open, i run as fast as i can, not even slamming it shut.

when i start running, i smell the cold that whips against my face. it smells of the city and traffic, of fog late in the evening. of stale cigarette smoke. my heels hit the sidewalk in my clumsy attempt to run. i don't even think the man is even bothering to run after me now, i picture him opening his car door and looking over the roof in confusion and bewilderment, his mouth open in a rounded O. i like this memory, the first i've created for myself - a mouth open in a rounded O. the pain in my feet slowing me down now, i don't remember the last time i've run, but a stinging pain shoots its way up from my toenails. i carry on running anyway.

when i have lost all track of time, of how far i've run along the dark street with the odd glimmers of light from passing vehicles, i slow down. oddly enough, i have come to the end of the street, an end which tapers to the right. a brightly lit building beckons at the end of the dark alley i will run through if i continue running. click-clock, click-clock.

the mail hotel. the mail hotel? what kind of a name is that? what is a typical name for a hotel, really? i imagine pleasant phrases, exact phrases of which escape my mind. le - maybe it should be a le somewhat hotel. royal - maybe a royal hotel. mail brings to mind, shady underground rooms full of mailmen sorting, well, mail out. strangely enough, it is a pleasant hotel. white and bright are what come to mind when i look at it. then in front of me- in gold lettering - staff only. staff? the word conjures images of a brown table and magnets. i place my palm on the gold doorknob, relishing how warm it feels on a chilly evening. tighten my grip on the doorknob and feel the warmth of it around my fingers, then turn it and hold my breath as i pull the door open gently.