eyesore.

BUT WHEN I TRY TO GET AWAY TO BETTER MYSELF ITS YOU WERE MISSING FOR TWO...

but when i try to get away to better myself it's "you were missing for two weeks!" and "we thought we'd never see you again!" and "the police declared you dead!" yeah i see how it is.

_

It's twelve-AM and you don't know your own name.

Sometimes, you wonder if you wanted to remember in the first place.

_

You wanted to live on a desolate planet when you were younger. You wanted to be alone, and you got to be alone, until you didn't. You were angry at the sun back then, at the way it hurt you, at the way it licked away at your skin, at the way it reminded you of fire. The way you can feel yourself ache at the very core at the idea, so you shut up and you shut down and you smile at Nedzu when he asks you if you want more tea.

You don't know why.

"Sure," you say, a dry smirk on your face. "got any ginger?"

"Of course," he says your name enthusiastically, rambling about how something goes with something and the benefits of one thing or another. "here you are."

"Thanks." You say and you smile and you don't mean any of it. You wonder if Nedzu knows he's a means to an end with you, just as you are to him. He probably does. He knows everything, you remember.

"For the tea," you lie. "thanks."

He smiles, chipper. "No problem!"

"Okay," you say, and the words sound muffled. "okay." Like your mouth is full of cotton. Like you aren't in control, like you don't know what to say and―you don't, is the truth. You don't know everything, you can barely keep yourself whole in memory and even that is slipping. It feels like you're always slipping, nowadays.

"And thanks," you say. "for everything else."

Nedzu hums like he didn't quite catch what you said, but you don't care to repeat yourself.

_

There's someone following you, you know. It makes your skin crawl.

You can barely remember your name very well, or your face, or the color of your eyes or―anything, really, but you know there's someone following you. You can hear the pitter-patter the rain can't cover up, the creaking of bones and the shutter of breath. Someone is following you.

You don't know why.

So you climb up the fire escape of the nearest apartment. You try and jump off―something catches you, which is a downside; counterpoint: it caught you but the throat. You can feel your neck snap swiftly, though you can't hear it. It's a smooth feeling; the way you reset; the way you're choking. You grin at this stranger, you've seen him in the hallway.

You crack your neck on the way up.

"Hero." You croon, rasped, he's a hero because of the look in his eyes. He's a hero because he tried to pull you back. "Gonna save me, are ya?"

"Yes." The stranger from the hallway says. He's not like the other one―though you can't imagine anyone there despite knowing you saw something, so you'll wonder what's made the black stain under his eyes like they do yours, instead―does he clean the mirrors the same way you do? you wonder. Until they show you what you want to see? you wonder. You wonder until your head hurts sometimes. Until you can't really think with the way it pounds and pulses awkwardly. With the way your eyes get dizzy in your mirrors.

Crack the glass and sweep it up. You've replaced your reflection so many times, the smell of bleach is like nostalgia in summer. Pinked up fingers sour like dish soap and nightmares.