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robinblokeThe door creaked, almost in warning, as the figure opened it; stepping out through in onto an old balcony that held them precariously outside the building. The rains had not eased at all, and were rapidly soaking through their clothing to their skin. Something nagged at their mind as they began to sort through the muddled memories, a glimpse of a face, a blink of a moment, a breath of a scent. Nothing really hung together for more than a fleeting moment, and the rain that was pouring down around them really wasn't helping anything beyond a slow chilling sensation from the cold night air.
A flash of lightning lit the whole city for a moment, the merest instant where everything was visible, an ironic reflection of the figures state of mind perhaps as the universe silently laughed at their fate.
A long slow sigh then a turn and several unsteady, stumbling footsteps returned the figure to the room. The questions were there, but so many, and the answers seemed to dance like fleeting wisps before vanishing the moment they tried to focus on them.
The room too, held no more clues, a dirty stained mattress with a sheet that had once been white. A pillow carelessly cast into the corner of it, half hanging over the side into one of the slowly forming puddles that were swelling on the floor from the streams of water from above.
There were mirrors at least; the figure realised that this, at least, presented an opportunity for at least some measure of answer, as the realisation dawned on them that even where simple appearance was concerned, they had simply no idea who they were.
A flash of lightning lit the whole city for a moment, the merest instant where everything was visible, an ironic reflection of the figures state of mind perhaps as the universe silently laughed at their fate.
A long slow sigh then a turn and several unsteady, stumbling footsteps returned the figure to the room. The questions were there, but so many, and the answers seemed to dance like fleeting wisps before vanishing the moment they tried to focus on them.
The room too, held no more clues, a dirty stained mattress with a sheet that had once been white. A pillow carelessly cast into the corner of it, half hanging over the side into one of the slowly forming puddles that were swelling on the floor from the streams of water from above.
There were mirrors at least; the figure realised that this, at least, presented an opportunity for at least some measure of answer, as the realisation dawned on them that even where simple appearance was concerned, they had simply no idea who they were.
