Our memories make us who we are. I close the book Paine bought yesterday and walk towards the window. The view from up here is breathtaking yet boring at the same time. It reminds me of a bustling ant colony. This place seems unreal.
Memories. Of course, I remember growing up, I remember the places I visited, the people I met … yet none of those memories is enough to give me a secure sense of identity. Looking down at the busy street I feel like this all is just a game, a wicked play designed to keep us separated from the source. Yet the people in this city seem so perfectly at peace. They fit in this world, all of them hold their place in it. They have families, friends. I see them fill the streets on the weekends. They do have a life, don’t they? Not that it’s perfect – I know they face struggles and feel pain. Yet the daily routine remains their first priority. These perfect citizen are built to preserve the status quo.
Nothing that I know about this place, none of the memories made here will change the feeling that there is so much more to everything than what we’re allowed to see. I feel as if the words I speak come out tainted. My mind is always busy finding the perfect pitch, will I ever be able to express myself freely, without the feeling of someone erasing my thoughts before I can speak them out loud?
My name is Erin White. And I committed suicide on a cold December night. At least that’s what the newspapers tell me. All of them. I can’t remember dying but the change of character, Paine’s appearance, all those stirred emotions and the confusion I find myself in show that something really happened. I did die on that night.
“I made you some tea.” Paine’s calm voice echoes across the room. “Come and join us, if you like.”
To be continued…
Previous: Part 1 – Paine
Next: Part 3 – Feather