reflective

I wake knowing not where I am or what I am doing here, I don't quite remember how I got here. I live in fear of this happening again, I pray each time was the last, but it never is, I have come to despise waking like this. The feeling of memories gone astray in my mind, never to return, wreak havoc within the loyal thoughts almost as if they were being encouraged to abandon me to. I slowly rise from the low, unyielding bed I sleep on, and look around the bedroom, cramped, despite my few belongings, that is how this squalid room will always feel, but at least I am at home, I have woken from my 'episodes'; as Dr Longmire calls them; in worse places.

I suppose I will have to call that spiteful psychiatrist, he likes to know when I have an 'episode' as he insists I call the lapses in memory that have ruined my life. I pick up the ancient, spiral corded landline that came with this dingy home, the phone rings for an unreasonable length of my salient time, I visualize my old psychiatrist, no superior to the one I have now, what with her perpetual smirk and oversized beak.

The call ended in a curtailed voice message summarizing my 'episode' one of which I haven't had in a triad of months. But still I know the standard procedure- 'stay home for a week to prevent repeat, alert family or friends, relax'- the words reverberate around my mind in Dr Longmire's bothersome squawk.

I punctually dress and walk down my rickety, clapboard staircase, I glance in the mirror with its harshly industrial, metal frame, in it I see a man with messy, slept on, drab bay hair, falling into his bleak, blue-gray eyes with pupils ringed in gold. His too-big nose counters the gaunt face it resides on, and his thin lips are pulled earthward into a ceaseless frown. I turn and his motions are a facsimile of mine but as I pace on it's as if he's watching me warily.

I turn on my T.V as if today was like any other, uniform day, it tells me the news, as always, and I only watch the headlines, as always, but unlike yesterday one of them snares my swift attention,

" the Latest news reports confirm the perpetrator of yesterday's murder in the psychiatric ward of Liverpool is still at large, and may be looking for his next victim, last seen at 9 45 wearing black in Liverpool area , if you see anyone of this description acting suspiciously please alert the police immediately and-" I turn it off, as the screen gives its last protesting flicker I begin to worry, that's the second slaughter in three months, they never caught the antagonist, let alone got a description. Anyway, it is time for breakfast, I walk close to the wall, through this long room avoiding the large, reflective glass sliding door on the far side of the expanse. I turn to assess whether snow had fallen last night I am startled, my mouth agape and a pulse hammering in my ears, indeed snow had fallen, it has that pearly glow of crisp snowfall bathed in moonlight, but that's not what catches my wide eyes, it's the man standing in it, his eyes focused on mine, moon light reflecting of his brown hair, he looks as shocked as me, and although it's hard tell at this distance, I'm certain he's the one they are so desperately searching for, I'm also certain I've seen him before, I get that itching feeling of a memory so close I can almost touch it.

I make a decision, I will turn and calmly walk into the kitchen, call the police and wait there for them to come and ensnare this menace. So I do, with my heart scratching at my throat, I stride a little too quickly away, resisting the afflictive urge to glance astern to see what he's doing, probably watching me with unnerving blue star eyes, but I've made it to the kitchen where I'm convinced I've left my outdated, push button phone, there it is, on the relatively new wooden countertop, next to my chain of unnecessary, glinting keys, the kitchen is effortlessly the nicest room in this odd house with its cluttered rooms of differing ages it seems it doesn't want to let go of any of them.

The police were quick to answer, eager to service any 999 calls, they instructed me to wait here and to not provoke him, although I'm unsure if they fully believed my deviant report, they undoubtedly expected the elusive killer to hide himself. Again; I get the feeling of a loose memory I can't quite grasp, he felt so familiar, as if I see him daily but at that distance, across the field his features blurred. It dawns on me. I thought I was safe in my house but I'm not, how could I be so stupid, it's a simple but ludicrous mistake. My heart leaps back to my throat, where its been spending a lot of time lately, and my stomach seems eager to join it. One million thoughts rush through my head, but one sticks, I have to fix it.

My heart is pounding as I prepare to exit the supposed safety of my orderly kitchen. I am about to walk onto an unblemished battle field, I take a step forward, and then another, then another, I concentrate on the rhythm of my feet as my vision blurs in fear of what I might see. I resist the urge to look up, at anything but the slate gray; never used; open lock, it's a classic, up down motion lock, all I have to do is flick it down and I will be safe, I concentrate on that fact as I sense the motion to my left. I speed up, never glancing towards the killer, I walk faster; my pace uneven; but so does he so I break into a run, diagonally across the now gaping room both of us towards the lock. I reach it at the same time as him, and my stomach gurgles in my throat and my eyes bulge as I look up through my own eyes at the unmarked snow glistening in the moonlight.