My last thought was of sunlight—not panic, not loved ones, but of warmth. I slumped against the back of a wooden bench. Damp hair plastered to my brow, my skin swollen and gray. It might have been the stench that gave me away. Not even an orchid’s heady fragrance could mask the putrid odor of death.
My lungs, their fragile lace unable to withstand the poison’s onslaught, tightened. I wheezed, sucking in air and releasing it in the same breath as I struggled to remain whole. I lolled, heavy and limp, my body paralyzed. My stunted gasps echoed in my ears, loud and intrusive, until nothing else mattered.
Some poor janitor found me. He shrieked. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the sound. I hovered over us, watching as he regained his confidence and pressed two fingers to my neck. He stumbled back, shaking, and pulled his phone from the pocket of his green jumpsuit.
Next came the bevy of coroners and inspectors. They poked, prodded, and photographed me, recorded my death on their tablets. Speculated, searching for answers, and found none.
I watched with a morbid fascination reserved for voyeurism, not realizing I was watching myself. That this was real, not some horrible nightmare. I lifted my arms to steady myself against the shelving behind me but couldn’t grasp it. My energy fizzled and sparked as it passed through the metal. I inhaled, but instead of the deep swell of air in my chest, light filled the room, unseen but by me. Instead of a heartbeat, luminescence flickered softly like a light bulb at the end of its life. I laughed bitterly, relieved I could still hear the echo of my voice in my ears.
The coroner and a medic lifted my body onto a gurney. My light flickered faster. Colored rays fluttered around me like cards in a bike’s spokes.
NO! I screamed. Don’t go. I’m not finished yet!
But they left. The gurney’s wheels creaked as they rolled my body through the double doors, vanishing into a labyrinth of glass corridors. One by one, the police and medics ambled out of sight until I was alone in the gloom with only the flicker of my light for company.
They left police tape in their wake, banning the door with a bright yellow sash. I looked at the tiled floor, expecting to see some kind of outline or an impression of what was once my life—but there was nothing, no trace of me.
My light beamed, spotlighting the absence of my body. Purpose surged within me. There was something I was meant to do, something I needed. The urgency colored my aura red, then drained, disappearing into obscurity.
I was dead. Killed, I was sure of it. But why? And by who? I closed my eyes, probing every inch of my memory.
A shudder raced through my phantom limbs, wracking my light. Why couldn’t I remember my name? I thought of something simple, something everyone had—a favorite food.
My mind drew an image of hot mead and barley in a tankard, but I couldn’t taste it. I pulled at the tangle of images swirling around me, images of a stone building, church-like with a wide spiral staircase, and books, massive amounts of books—a man sat in a wing back chair beside a fire, he was young, his face unlined by the weariness of time. His close-cropped gray hair curled over his forehead. A small girl raced up to him, her cheeks flushed, the same gray curls tumbled down her back. The air smelled of musk and strawberries. The man smiled down at the young girl.
“What do you have for me, Fleurie girl?” he asked, his cheeks dimpling.
I pulled back, reeling. I would have stumbled if I were still made of flesh and bone.
This was not my memory.
