#personal writing
Warmth washed over my face and I was suddenly aware of the brightness of my surroundings. I opened my eyes and immediately squeezed them shut again as a stream of sunlight caught me right in the pupils. I rolled over onto my stomach, rather unsure of where I was laying down, and tried to push myself onto my elbows, but my right arm groaned in pain. I opened my eyes again and saw a stretch sunlit pavement in front of me, which continued on to meet a brick wall and a chain link fence.
Taking care not to put weight on my right arm, I sat up onto my knees and had a rush of dizziness that lasted a few second. Once it had passed, I looked around. I had no idea where I was at, just that it looked like an alleyway or side street. I felt terrible; my bottom lip ached and felt like it was somewhat swollen, my right arm throbbed like it was about to fall off and when I looked down, I understood why: three oblong wounds split the skin on my forearm. They had dirt and dried blood caked against them, and I desperately hoped that they looked worse than they actually were. Besides that, my back and hips felt stiff and sore from who-knows-how-long I had been laying there on the pavement. There were minimal blood spots on the ground from my arm, so I guessed that I must have gotten the gashes before I had laid down in the alley.
The difficult thing was, though, that I really couldn’t remember how I’d gotten there. I tried to reach back in my memory banks and pull up what had happened, but I quickly found that I couldn’t remember anything. What really scared me was that I couldn’t even remember my name. I barely even had a clue as to what I looked like. /Brown hair/, I thought, /maybe black, with dark eyes to match?/ I searched around for a reflective surface, but there wasn’t one around.
Unsure of what to do next, I dug my hands into the pockets of my grimy jeans and pulled out the contents, hoping to find some clue to my identity in their midst. In my left hand was a handful of cash, but nothing else. I didn’t take the time to count it. In my right hand were a few wadded-up receipts, two quarters, and what looked like a crumpled business card. I pushed the contents back in my pockets except for the business card, which I smoothed against my knee and examined.
On the front was a fish skeleton logo, and under it in embossed letters read “Andie’s Fish Market”. Below that was a listing of hours of operation and an address. I decided to track down the store and start to piece my memory together from there.
It took me about two hours of wandering around and asking directions (and deflecting questions of, “Are you alright??”) before I finally found Andie’s Market. I pushed the door open and heard a bell chime above me. Standing behind the counter was a middle-aged, bronze-skinned Mexican man wearing a wonderfully pleasant smile. He handed his customer a bag, bid her a good day, then turned his attention to me.
“Hey! Glad you’re back! I have your order in the freezer, let me go grab it real quick,” he said, then disappeared into the back before I had a chance to react. A few moments later, he came from behind the counter and handed an oblong package wrapped in newspaper to me.
“What’s this?” I asked.
He threw his head back in what sounded like genuine laughter. “Good one, that was really quite clever,” he beamed. “If you have any issues, you just come right on back to see me.” There was a finality to his statement that clearly told me that I shouldn’t ask questions or make comments. I looked between him and the package in my hands and decided not to.
“Yeah, um, thanks,” I said awkwardly. “Um…have a good day.”
“You, too, señorita.”
I turned around without a backward glance and walked out onto the street. I caught a passer-by’s arm, asked him where the nearest, cheapest motel was, and he relayed some directions to me. I thanked him and forged on. I wanted to see what was in the package; I had a suspicion that it wasn’t just fish, or at least I hoped that it wasn’t. I found the motel, b.s.’d my way through the paperwork to get a room for the night, and paid with the cash in my pocket.
As soon as I pushed my way into the room, I locked the door and closed the shutters, then settled down to examine the package. Taped to the front was a receipt with the word “over” scribbled across the bottom. I carefully peeled receipt off and turned it over; there was a handwritten note on the back.
“Sam,
I repaired your phylactery, but it wasn’t easy. I don’t know how well it’ll work, you may have to bring it back so I can do some adjustments. Just be really careful when you open it. Thanks for trusting me.
-Andie
P.s., good luck with the Trial, and God be with you, Angel.”I sat down on the edge of the bed, thoroughly confused, but I pushed on. I set the note down and tore open the newsprint wrapping, but to my disappointment, all that was inside was a hunk of frozen fish. I sat there for a moment, really unsure of where to go from there. That had been my only chance at finding out who I was, and it had just ran into a dead end. I supposed I could go back and talk to Andie and see if he had any other clues, but I was suddenly feeling extremely worn down and lethargic.
I tried my best to cover up the fish again so I could toss it to the side and lay down, but I stopped short when I heard something fall and clink on the floor. I leaned over and small object by my foot caught my eye. Upon closer inspection, I realized it was a necklace, and a rather pretty one at that.
I scooped it up and examined it; the chain was a simple but strong silver spiral link, hanging from the end was a small glass vial that had once been broken, but was now repaired using veins of silver, and inside the vial was a swirling green and blue, shimmering mist. The vial’s cork was held in place by an ornate silver clasp, which I carefully undid. I took a deep, steadying breath, gripped the slender cork between my forefinger and thumb, and pulled it out.
**This writing belongs to myself (Xan Overton, tumblr urls xanovertonbooks,livingbiohazard, and the-darkest-spark). Please do not repost (reblogs are welcome and appreciated <3) and do not remove these credits. Enjoy!**
Reblog from my author blog.
(AKA Letters to my Mother)
Dear Mum,
When I think about you, I think of a young woman lying in the dark in a narrow, thin-mattressed bed in the hospital psychiatric ward with a cot beside you. I think about your eyes opening in the darkness, watching a baby breathe. I think that you could have been a good mother if you had been given the chance, and I think, most days, that it’s a blessing you may not remember those nights very well.
Ever since you told me how the nurses wheedled and begged and made arrangements - they turned the world a few times so a 25-year-old woman, forcibly sectioned, could have her baby beside her while she healed - I think about you like that. I think about you and wonder what you thought about, because I can’t imagine this is what you imagined for us. Did you think your baby would grow up to be something special, or were you worried we would be the same? Did you fear I would become like him? You’ve never told me anything about your relationship with dad, never blamed him for anything, but at 28 I can read between the lines of how he treats his girlfriends, his mother… me. I can see through the gaps. I know, or think I know, what your life was like. I can take a sharp stab at what drove you deeper into the pit, and it wasn’t self-indulgence. We’ll leave it there. That’s all I can say. Read More
♛ Articles I Wrote ♛
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None, yet.
I want to lose myself to the wilds.
soiled love
restless hunger
relapses
repeated crimes
my body
bleeds red
bleeds inward
a face
an intruder
a hazy frame
a grief on my chest
heavy on my heart
an inevitable burial
SEPT. 2, 2021. Location and context: written in my hotel room, somewhere. I fear the direct reflection of words, typed words feel naked and stripped down in a force, but for now I settle for a confrontation. Tonight, I felt a sudden panic to get away from the crowdedness. It was not easy to escape into a safer state of mind where I could purge all the built up emotions inside of me in the most quiet stream of tears. After a period of psychological isolation it started to feel like a world so small and suffocating. Difficult to take a break from my own mind when the truth is, no matter where I go or run off to, I take myself with me into a ritual of escapism. I do enjoy the dimness of the halls and the dark navy of the night sky from the glass. Blocking out the quietness of the space except for the noise of my anxious footsteps. I stood at the edge of the glass window by the end of the corridor. A harsh bright light from below revealing the reflection of my face from under, an unexpected sight and an unwelcome guest to myself. Tonight I prefer to avoid my reflection on certain surfaces, like distorted glass, in a rush to a constant strive of derealization as a desperate attempt to dissociate the image of my self, so my vision becomes avoidant from the sight of me in physical form.
you stand there
far away
like the sun from the heart
I revolve around you
but if I do or if I don’t
to you it doesn’t matter
