My favorite color is a soft orange, like the sunset.
I'm a painter. I'm a baker. I like to sleep with the windows open. I never take sugar in my tea, and I always double-knot my shoelaces. I think.
That's what she told me, but there are so many confusing things about her that I'm not sure if I should believe her. What they said about the fire being real, I believe. I wouldn't be here otherwise. But they also said it's not her fault, and that's where I started to get really uncertain.
I try to sleep here, I really do, but it's difficult knowing that at least two guns are trained on me at all times. She is forever watching me, but only today did she say anything remotely kind. (Real or not real?)
The shiny memories are threateningly close. My jaw locks and I shut my eyes tightly as if it will make them vanish. When nothing happens I bolt up and snatch the short rope that he is loaning me. My fingers are already sore and tender, but I make the knots more obsessively than ever. I must drive those memories away.
The others tell me about myself, about home, about people I think I used to know. They do their best to explain but only one person can really clarify what I need to understand: her.
She doesn't want to help. (Real or not real?) I can see it in her eyes when she looks at me that she wishes I'm not here. Or maybe just the version of myself that everyone seems to remember but that I can't recall. According to one of them, I'm the evil-mutt version of myself.
But despite everything, the shiny memories draw nearer and nearer. My finger fly faster and faster until I give up and hunch in on my body, hearing her voice again. Telling myself the facts.
I'm a painter. I'm a baker. I like to sleep with the windows open. I never take sugar in my tea, and I always double-knot my shoelaces.
My favorite color is a soft orange, like the sunset —
I think.