Memories

Memories

What am I writing about? Writing about. Write about. A kid. A kid with sneakers. They are called 'sneakers' because he once lived in America but lives in Australia. He is not quite short but not quite tall either. Greasy blond hair. Freckles. He is wearing a red T-shirt and blue denim jeans, frayed at the bottom.

He is sitting on a wooden bar stool, in a small dark room. Moonlight filters in through a greasy window in front of him. A white clock ticks noisily on the opposite wall. There is a white door to his right. It has a red handle. The boy walks towards the door and slowly reaches for the handle. The door opens. A girl stands in the door frame and says "Dean".

What now? What now? Now. Now.

Now Dean is confused. He steps back. She steps forward.
"Who are you?"
He breaks the silence.
"Luciel. Your sister."
Confusion crackles in the air.
Denial.
"What..? But I don't have a sister."
"Yes. I am your sister you never knew about."
She approaches Dean. Outstretched arm. A photo framed by her white hand. Two kids. Two greasy blond heads. Same faces. But one the face of a girl. The other a boy. The boy. Dean. Behind them a carpet of green. Above blue sky. Below gold sand. Dean recognises the boys' face but not his 'sisters'. He takes the photo from Luciel and turns it over. July 2003. Dean & Luciel, age six.

A sound. A distraction. Soft. No loud. A loud sound. Like. Like. Like a...

Outside a car horn bellows in the stiff night air. Nerves grip Luciel.
"Come. We need to get out. We need to go. Now!"
She reaches for Deans' hand. He stands staring at a memory he can't remember. Cold hands grasp the boys wrist and drag him towards the door. Through the door. An alley. A black van. The door slides open and a man leans out.
"Luciel, get him in the van now!"
Luciel pushes dean towards the vans' open door and onto the faded leather seats. The door slid closed behind him and the van sped off with a bang, leaving Luciel behind.

"Hey! What about Luciel?" Dean screams.

Dean tries to get up but a hand presses to his mouth and nose. In it a handkerchief laced with chloroform. He can smell the acrid chemicals. He struggles to break free. Black. Everything is going black. As the light fades he hears Luciels' voice in his head.

"Remember, Dean. Remember."

Memories are like smoke despite the evidence in front of you.