Wednesday, 28 September 2011

How am I?

I woke up today in an unfamiliar place
it felt like I had been sleeping for years
every bone in my body was aching.

The house wasn't a house.

It was a tall office block.

I panic. 

I try and run.

She pulls the gun on me and tells me. 
A bullet is the only way out for me. 
She looks at me like I'm nothing.
The day always goes like this:

I wake up,
I eat,
I run until I'm sick.

I rest for ten minutes exactly.

I run again.

I eat lunch. 

I spar with her.
She has a knife. 
I lose and get cut. 

She gives the knife to me.
I try and cut her.
She takes it back and cuts me instead. 

I learn that what she had on the day she saw me, 
was a gun.

I am not good at shooting but she says I need to practice.

Six accurate shots in four seconds. 

I eat and then 
I sleep. 

I don't know why I am doing this.
I don't think about it.
I never think about it.
It's too much effort to think about it.  

What am I?

I wake up.
I get dressed.
I find my name.
I have eggs for breakfast.

I eat.

I almost finish.

I hear a knock on the door.

I ignore it,
no one knocks on my door.
I sit down again
I finish eating.

I hear it again.
I walk toward the door. 
I reach for the doorknob.
I don't touch it.

A third knock. 
I swing the door open and see someone.
She has a metal thing, it looks dangerous.
I back up against the wall and she rounds on me.

"You're lucky." She says matter of factly.
Whatever it was pointed at my face,
it had a hole in one end and it bent into a handle.
Like a revolver but it was blocky. Two squares.

"You should be dead by now." She is older than me.
Maybe thirty, her grey-blue eyes are cold as she regards me. 
I slide down the wall.
I cry again.

"And you will be if you don't do what I tell you." 
It's not a joke.
I look up.
I speak.

Words catch in my mouth.
I have not talked in so long.
"Who are you and what do you want?" 
I stutter, my throat hurts. 

"My name is Salome, and my want is to follow Mother's orders."
I remember the name. It is in the back of my mind.


 What is it.  

 The letter. Ember said something about "Mother."  

"What orders?" 

 "To teach you who you are."   


 I don't have a choice. 


 I have to find out. 

Wednesday, 21 September 2011

When am I?

I wake up.
I look at the blog.
I remember the blog.
I don't remember anything normally.

I read through my posts.
I realize that this could have been going on for years.
I realize I could have forgotten so much time. 
I cry a little bit.

I hear a sound at the door.
I see something hit the floor.
It is an envelope.
I swing open the door.

I run outside.
I look around.
I cry again.

I know that Envelopes do not just appear out of nowhere.
I know they are delivered. 
I look at the envelope, it says "Ember Fay." 
I know that is my name. 

I see the paper is old.
The envelope falls apart in my hands.
I hold it gingerly and open the contents. 

I stare at the letter.
I read.
I look confused.
I remember my blog.

I write what it says, up onto the computer. It is dated October Sixth, 1887
August 15th, 1887


Here is the transcript of my interview with Jules Chenier, as per your orders. I must say, it is an honour to act as your messenger.

I came across Jules Chenier from across the floor of the Queen Victoria Inn, he seemed like an interesting sort, but he was sat alone, nursing a tankard of ale. When I approached him he smiled at me, like he had been expecting a young member of society like myself to join him. Do not get me wrong, Jules is by no means old, but I am simply younger.

“You are the one I am supposed to meet?”

“I am Ember Fay.” I replied quietly, it is not my real name, as you well know Mother. “All I am here to do is ask some questions and pass on a message from Mother.”

He looked at me for a second. “Y-Yes of course.” He smiled at me a little, his fingers dancing on the desk like he had been waiting for this moment for a long time.

“So what do you do?” I asked nonchalantly.

“I work for the Metropolitan Police as a Special Detective due to my nationality.” He kept his voice low, as if he were holding a secret meeting.
“That's nice, but I wasn't talking about Work, that information is what I already know. What do you do?”
“You mean in the time I am not at work?” He smiled a little. “I make friends.”

“What sort of friends?”

“Friends of whom I do not discuss with strangers.” He had a small glint in his brown eyes, something about that unnerved me. He leaned closer. “Drink with me.” He murmured, going to the bar ordering another healthy tankard for me.

“Where are you staying?” He asked me, sipping at his tankard.

“Here and there.” I replied.

“Come. Stay with me.” He cried.

“I'm afraid I cannot good sir.” I returned. “I have more work to do, other messages to deliver.”

“Oh.” He looked forlorn. “So shall we get this interview properly done?”

“Yes, of course Detective.” I straightened up, sipping at the alcohol. “What is your favourite smell?”
“That is easy. The smell of someone just after you have made love. Sweat mixed with French parfum.” I blushed at that, smiling a little, my eyes flickered downward. He noticed. “Does that offend you?” I shook my head. He's French, I am English. They are always the more passionate.

“No. Of course not. I am just not used to such a...” I paused, looking for the word. “Detailed response.” I coughed and looked at my tankard once more, then proceeding to change the subject. “What is the most terrifying thing you've ever come across?”

He frowned. “I had a young man take me hostage once. He had a knife against my throat. I was forced to kill him.”

I assume I looked aghast if I were to consider the way he looked at me. “You have murdered?”

“In the line of duty.” He smirked. “Queen and Country and all that.”

I smiled. Neither of us truly meant that. “Yes. Yes of course.”

“What about books? Do you read anything interesting?”

“As a detective? I do not read all that much, I have read a Study in Scarlet, by Arthur Conan-Doyle, recently. I met the man and he gave me the honour of reading the introduction to his character, Sherlock Holmes. He is an excellent author, though a little raw. However I must say, I respect his methods.” He ran his teeth along his lips.

“Of course. Do you get much time away from the station? What do you do?”

“I make friends with undesirables. There is a man named Mordicai. I presume it is not his own if you understanding me.”

I smiled at that. “A nom de plume?”

“Yes, you could say that. I could tell you more, but in our current establishment, we don't know who may be eavesdropping, mon petit cheo-fleur.”

“Why, do you have somewhere you want to be?” I asked lightly. “Other than here?”

“My home is near by, I have a room, we can discuss things more privately.” It was that look again, like he's a predator. I fall quiet.

“Come, Friend. Finish your drink.”

We walked slowly. “So you must have a hobby, something to pass the time.” He looks at me for a moment and shakes his head. A small smile on his lips as he tugs out something small from his pocket. It's a little wooden swan.

“It's good to pass the time when you're waiting for something to happen.” He replies.

“Anything else?” I asked, stopping at the door, letting him open it and allow me entry.

He stopped just inside the boundary causing me to almost collide into him.

He turned and leaned in close to me.

We continued our interview in his room, I shall continue the letter in our next corrispondance, you wished for how I felt about him, his character, more than what he said. He is a capable man, devoted to two things only, other than courting people inappropriately. His work as a detective, and his work for you. He is well placed to receive orders.

Mother, I shall continue to send any messages I receive from him to you. I do not know of their relevance, nor do I wish to, it is none of my concern. If you require my other service, I am at your command.

May the empire grow.

Ember Fay"

I do not understand why.

I pull my knees to my chest.
I do not know who I am anymore.
I cry again.

Who am I? 

Sunday, 18 September 2011

Where am I?

I stare at my post for a little while.
I try and get onto news websites again.
BBC, CNN, USA Today, New York Times.
I get the same result as ever.

September 12th 2001, articles about how The Americas were ruined.
I feel disheartened.
I stand up.
I look around.

I look out of the window.
I look away from the light.
I find it too bright outside.
I look at the clock.

I sit down.
I look at the blog again.
I have an email.
I have no one to email.

I read it.
It says "Go to the door."
I go to the door.
I rest my hand on the knob.

I feel it's cool metal on my skin.
I tighten my grip. 
I open the door.
I feel a breeze on my face. 

I try step outside. 
I see a hedge, 
I feel grass under my feet. 
I see streets 

I am in some kind of suburbs.

I walk toward the old metal gate.
I can climb it.
I do climb it.
I almost go over the top.

I can't do it.
I fall back.
I scream.
I cry.
I yell. 

I am not heard.

I am alone.

I am hungry again.
I make myself another omelette. 
I eat.
I look at the clock.

I lie in bed.

I remember, tomorrow will be the same as always.

I don't question it. 

I fall asleep. 

Saturday, 17 September 2011

Who am I?

It is as if I have been sleeping for years upon years upon years. 
I awake in an unfamiliar bed.
I look in the mirror and don't recognize myself. 
Every single bone in my body aches.

I start asking myself questions. 
Where am I? I don't know.
What am I doing here? I don't know that either.
Do I have a family? I don't know at all.
When is my birthday? I can't remember.

Who am I? And staring right back at me, I read a note taped to the door. 
It says "Ember Fay."

It says "Tell me who you are."

I go down stairs. I look around.
I see eggs, another note. "Omelette."
I recognize that, I know how to make an Omelette. 

I see tin of something.
I see a note on it, that says "Coffee."
I can make coffee.

I eat.
I drink. 
I explore some more.
I see a door with a note on it that says "Do not open." 
I do anyway. 

I see a computer. 
I see a note that gives an address and a password.
I log in.
I see this blog. 
I see a previous post.
It says "Tell me who you are." 

Music playing makes me jump.
I enjoy it.

I look, 
I write, 
I ask "Who am I?" 
I doubt if I will get an answer. 
I can't press "publish."
I can never press "publish."

I stand up. 
I look around. 
I see a note.
It says "Press publish."

I sit back down.
I stare at the screen.
I hope I don't make a mistake.
I press publish.