War of Words

“Where am I?”

Jane awakens in a flurry. Her gun removed, her items placed neatly on the night table beside her bed. Rolling quickly towards the edge of the bed, she lands silently on the plush, carpeted floors. Gathering her items up quickly, she makes for the first and only door she sees. She explodes into a dark hallway, wood lined, ancient, the fresh scent of wood lacquer and stain wafting through the air.

“Ah, you are awake. Please, join me, Jane.”

She cautiously enters through another door, cracked and glowing from within. Sitting in the center of the room is an old man. Graying hair, taut withering skin plastered across his skeleton. His movements are smooth and elegant. He waves to a nearby chair, inviting Jane to have a seat. Jane sits, and begins.

“Who are you?”

“Ah, who are you?”

“What do you want?”

“But, what do you want?”

“Stop! I want answers.”

“I’m sure you do, but you know I don’t have them.”

“Who is the man I keep seeing, the one from my memories and dreams.”

“Now, that is the question. Who is that man? He is someone we both wish to meet.”

“Why?”

“He is the key.”

“The key?”

“To everything, and there is little time to find him.”

“Why? Is he about to die?”

“Not that I know of, no. But you are.”

Jane stands up quickly and falters away. The calmness of his voice induces panic and hysteria. She looks desperately around for a way out, but only sees the door she entered in, closed tightly. She didn’t remember closing the door.

“Please, sit. You are ok for now. You have a little time. One day, in fact. Please sit. Would like some tea?”

Jane slides back into the chair, deflating into it, desperate and confused.

“Listen, this is very important. That man is dangerous, to both of us. He is the only man who can help you remember, and he is the only man to who hurt my associates and me. We would like him gone.”

“Why would I help you? I want to know what I forgot.”

“No, you don’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Who do you like made you forgot Jane? How do you think I knew how to find you?”

Jane tried to remember, she had just gotten into a cab, to head in whatever direction she felt compelled to go. Then the sting in her neck and then nothing, shortly after she woke in the room she had only just left.

“I should kill you.”

“Now that sounds like the old Jane.”

“Who did this to me? Who took my memories?”

The old man sighed, “You did, Jane. You did it to yourself, and you asked for our help.”

“Who are you?”

A grisly smile spread across the skeletal face, a finger flicked behind him. Jane looked up and saw it then. Terror and fear flooded her senses. Her brain shut down defensively, trying to run so fast and hard when her feet and body would not, frozen in dread, too horrified to even react.

She comes to in a diner. A single note, the words crawled as if written by a corpse, is sitting in front of her. It has only two words on it.

“Kill him.”

The gun is safely fastening in a holster now strapped to her side.

As inspired by this photo by Scott James Prebble.

I hope it will suffice.