September 12th

It happened to me again. It was as peculiar as ever, something you understand in a second during dreams and spend hours to comprehend while awake. It was bizarre, but even more interesting was my reaction – smiling, laughing, having a good time.
I just don’t know anymore; I always figured all that knowledge from school was a foundation for new knowledge, since the ground had been firmly built already. It isn’t uncommon for man to question, but it’s not a question anymore, is it? Not just a hunch.
Come to think of it, I’ve always been like this. Back in the day, I once wondered if you could pour milk upwards. Ridiculous, isn’t it? Just popped into my head once and stayed put; the thought wouldn't go away so I had to try it - It was a scientific misadventure. But it always intrigued me; does Nature have flaws? Can it be confused and stressed? Can it fumble on the finish line and lose the game? Could you manipulate it? I wouldn’t call them theories anymore; more like nostalgia – it sure was a long time ago.
It was so long ago I can barely recall the years that have passed but for that I would have to know my own age, which oddly enough I don't. I haven't been counting, seems like a waste of time. Time moves so fast, they say, but a look in the mirror always shows the same face. Time isn't moving at all in my world, crawling forward or staying put on lazy days. It would seem that time is almost human, capable of stress and sloth. Of course, my doctor says I'm suffering from delusions, but he also goes to church and the mathematical equation for God is... Absurd.
I bet if any scientist read my journal it would bring them to tears. But then again; so did the thoughts of a geocentric universe or that the world was spherical. It’s a nice thought; a pretty illusion that, even after all this, I’m not crazy – I’m just the next great discovery…

Minus 3º C

It was terrible.
After the storm had settled and he could finally breathe and let his heart slow down there was no one left to watch his triumph and cheer. Even worse; the chips the toddlers had eaten had grown damp and moist from when the sprinkler system kicked in and there wasn’t a single alcohol free beverage in the dump they had called an apartment. So much for celebration, he thought and tipped one of his new friends to the side, letting him fall flat onto the rest of the couch before he carelessly seated himself on the boy’s back. Unlike the couch the shirt was still fairly dry and wouldn’t leave a big mark on his clothing. The boy was around 19 years old, all looking like typical 1970’s hippies with short pants or torn jeans and shirts with so many patterns that it could well be mistaken for a Rorschach test in color. Drugs and beer bottles laid spread out over the apartment floor but the air was fresh and the scent of wet wood wasn’t unappealing. Heaven thank the sprinklers, he thought, pondering on how it would smell otherwise. The thought could well enough make a skunk cringe.
He tapped his lips with that leather enveloped index finger, humming a tune to himself in commemoration of the party he had so abruptly ended. At least it went out with a bang, a big one. A finale and exeunt that had surely attracted attention; the unwanted kind, but still welcomed.
He left the apartment, fixing his tie and shifting his hat forward, but slightly to the side, only because he liked it that way. The sirens were already echoing in the cool night sky; the sound seemed to spin around the full moon that almost covered the entire heavens that night – just another perfect setting; stimulating and inspiring.
It wouldn’t be long before the cops would come knocking on the front door, running in with guns blazing and a petty petition with all the names that mattered scribbled down in loops and dots that could only be read by the same idiot who came up with it.
He fancied that thought, to see Robert Draunia storm in with a gun, ahead of his team that packed rifles and shields; like he was better then they were. A bit too anxious for his own good, much too arrogant. He would’ve loved to see Draunia’s illuminated face when he finally closed the case he had been working on since before he was even assigned detective, let alone chief of police. He would’ve loved to see those dreary eyes finally open in triumph and that trademark smirk grace his gloomy, drunk face. Alas he could not permit his old friend that victory as this criminal had many stops to make before he could call it a night and he knew that Robert Draunia, corrupted by wrath and shame – among other things – would make just as many in pursuit. The difference? The criminal would go home, drink a tall glass of ice cold milk before shagging his girlfriend and falling asleep with a smile on his face; all in a days work. Draunia, however, would stay awake all night, a cigarette in one hand, a bottle of whisky in other, upsetting his fragile mind over the disruption of his schemes and plans to rule the streets his own way; all at the hand of one puny freelancer; Ivan Westin.
It wasn’t hard to see; already the pimps and drug dealers paid monthly fees to him and in return he allowed them to continue their shady operation. It was a far better choice than the alternative, being brought in for not paying the fee to who could be considered nothing short of God almighty by the low lives of this forsaken city, only to be tortured and mutilated. Ivan had seen the victims of this treatment, all missing their middle fingers; both of them – supposedly a message from the big guy himself; an innocent hint that if you happen to flip him off, you better enjoy it and it had better be worth it because however you see it; it’ll be that last time you ever do it.
Still, Ivan didn’t know if it was ironic or intimidating to know that Draunia, powerful as he may be, was just another puppet under the same corporation that fed Ivan’s pockets with more money than he could spend for committing the exact same crimes Draunia worked so hard to repel. A touch of delicious irony in most cases, but perspective has a way to complicate a trifle. Still, it meant that if the situation arrived he could play with immunity; even get caught and still slink away. Someday he would experiments with that knowledge; find new boundaries; discover new ways to steal Draunia’s victory from between his hands. But it would mean sacrifices, too many for him to give up willingly just yet.
He was already on his way down the stairs to the subway when he estimated that the sirens had reached their destination and he could only surmise how a dictator cop would react when all he found was a big fuck you and no fingers to cut.

Negative Amnesia

He could’ve sworn he just woke up from a slumber, even while walking down the street of the city he could no longer recall the name of. By the feeling of it, he had just dozed off; briefly but deep, leaving him with a refreshed and yet a not so tranquil feeling. He swallowed a few times to get rid of that special kind of nausea. It wasn’t uncomfortable but it wasn’t exactly enjoyable either. His eyes burned in their sockets and his eyelids continued to struggle downwards and had he been in the full use of his senses he would’ve been able to name a reason why he didn’t let them fall. But his mind wasn’t clear; traumatised and battered by an accident that was beyond him.
He had been walking for several hours now – he had been counting – and a migraine violently gnawed at his brain while a cramp squeezed in every muscle he could still feel. He had screwed up, and screwed up big time. That was all he could think about and the repeating phrase was only softened by the fact that he could not remember what he had failed with, nor could he for the sake of his life recall his name, nationality, profession or even age. It was all a blank but a rather busy picture – like a short circuit – as his mind was crowded with a hundred images and sounds, all leading to different confusions, all breaking him down separately until he couldn’t hear or see clearly. No, it was better not to think of it; not to care. Just count your steps until you’re home, he thought and tried to hear his thoughts over the gunfire and screams that filled his mind when he tried to concentrate. Stupid, he thought to himself but was once again greeted by the roar of his memories that drowned his thoughts in chaos.
This was hopeless.
The sirens were roaring somewhere in distance, it was impossible to miss them, even with the engines of cars and bikes screaming their part in a traffic themed crescendo. Another crime but it had grown so tediously common that he didn’t care. By reflex he snorted as he crossed the streets – an orange Volvo just barely missing him while punching the horn like crazy – and he thought aloud that the ring of sirens had grown as commonplace as the melody of the ice-cream truck in this part of the world. He had no idea why he said that, and spent many minutes pondering where such insight came from when he couldn’t even recall his own name. Ironic, he figured, hardly knowing if it really was or not.
His memory screamed suddenly when he entered a secluded neighbourhood. He recognized this, he knew this part of the city good; well enough to know the distances between all the buildings. Well enough know every vantage point and escape route and exactly how and from where the police would arrive if they found him.
It’s all in there, he convinced himself, just buried underneath layers of nonsense. Maybe he was too tired or too confused to realize what filled his mind, too confused to really notice how images of dead friends and partners flashed before his eyes. Or maybe he hadn’t survived the accident at all; maybe he was as dead as the rest of them, too dead to care.
The key fit perfectly. He had conveniently remembered everything he needed exactly when he had to; which building to enter, which floor he lived on, which door to open and what to expect inside. Nothing – an echoing silence was all that would greet his heavy footsteps when he stepped inside. He didn’t mind today, even though he knew that he normally hated it.
James Tawl; the sign on the door indicated as much so that must be his name. He didn’t recognize it but decided to accept it, hoping that he would recover his memory soon enough to find out. In any case, to have a name again was a remarkably relieving experience, like he was no longer just a ghost; a proof that he was worth a damn.
He opened the door, realizing that he had been standing outside in the dark stairway for over five minutes, staring at the name tag on his door. It was dark inside, not any darker than outside but he still noticed it and searched the walls for a light switch. His shoulders were dead and his hands could barely feel the rough texture of the walls so finding the damn switch proved to be more difficult than he thought it would be.
“Finally,” he grunted as the lights flickered on and he closed the door behind him. He pulled off his jacket, throwing it on a bench-like furniture nearby, a sort of drawer with a slide door – probably where he kept his tools; he didn’t know for sure. He pulled his shoes off without untying them and staggered into his apartment like a blind man with a drinking problem.
There were three doors; one leading to a bedroom, another leading to a smaller kitchen and behind the last was a medium sized bathroom, complete with a cosy looking shower and clean fresh, white tiles, a toilet with a wooden textured lid and a bunch of skincare products around the sink and in a small shelve on the wall. He had to be honest; he didn’t get it. Nothing made any sense to him for the moment; he felt like the scum of the earth, a bum, but his apartment would beg to differ – boasting a full, rich life; a life where the condition of his skin was apparently relevant.
Holy hell, he thought when he witnessed his face in the mirror, bruised and dirty with a dark trail of blood running down the side of his forehead, just missing his right eye. What had happened to him? Why couldn’t he remember? In any case, he reckoned that a shower was well over due…