Chapter 3: The Body Remembers
915 Words
I don't sleep.
I spend the entire night sitting in the corner of the living room, watching the slow creep of moonlight across the floorboards. The man—Ronan, the name feels strange but right—retires to the bedroom. I hear the springs creak, but I don't hear the steady, rhythmic breathing of someone asleep. I hear him shifting, turning, sighing heavily into the dark.
When morning finally arrives, washing the apartment in pale gray light, I stand up. My legs don't ache from sitting on the hardwood floor all night. I don't feel hungry, or thirsty, or tired. I just feel... light. Unanchored.
The apartment is silent. Ronan is still in the bedroom, the door closed.
I start to wander. I don't consciously decide where to go; I just let my feet carry me. It's a strange sensation. My mind is a complete void, but my body seems to have a mind of its own. I walk past the kitchen, my hand reaching out to brush against the corner of the counter—exactly where the edge juts out a little too far. I dodge the slight unevenness of the rug near the sofa without looking down.
I reach the glass balcony doors. My hand finds the latch, pressing the small button and sliding the heavy glass open in one fluid, practiced motion. I step out into the crisp morning air.
There are two wicker chairs on the small balcony, separated by a tiny wrought-iron table. Without thinking, I walk past the left chair and sink into the right one.
I lean back. The cushions conform perfectly to my shape. It feels comfortable. So incredibly comfortable. I close my eyes and let out a breath, realizing that this is my spot. I know it in the marrow of my bones. I have sat in this exact chair hundreds of times. I have watched the sunrise from this angle, tracing the skyline of the city.
How do I know this? How does my body remember what my brain has discarded?
I open my eyes and look down at my hands resting on my lap. The morning sun has crested over the neighboring building, casting bright, clear rays onto the balcony.
The light falls directly across my fingers.
I stare. I blink, leaning forward, my breath catching in my throat.
The sunlight isn't just falling on my hand. It is passing through it.
My skin looks milky, almost opalescent. The edges of my fingers are blurred, bleeding into the ambient light. When I lift my hand, the sunlight continues to hit the fabric of my jeans beneath it, uninterrupted. I look down at the floor of the balcony. The wicker chair casts a sharp, intricate shadow on the concrete. The small table casts a shadow.
I do not.
I wave my hand. The light ripples through my palm. I am translucent. Like glass. Like smoke.
Panic, cold and sharp, paralyzes my chest. I open my mouth to scream, but no sound comes out. I scramble to my feet, stumbling backward, hitting the glass door with my shoulder. But there is no impact. I don't feel the hard surface of the glass; I just slide against it, weightless and terrified.
"The mornings are getting colder."
The voice makes me jump. I whip my head around.
Ronan is standing in the doorway, dressed in a grey sweater and sweatpants. His dark hair is a mess, and his eyes look even more hollow than yesterday. He steps out onto the balcony, holding two steaming mugs.
He doesn't look at my transparent hand. He doesn't look at the missing shadow. He just walks over, sets one mug on the table next to the chair I was just sitting in, and takes a seat in the left chair. He wraps both hands around his own mug, staring out at the city skyline.
I stand frozen against the glass, my chest heaving with phantom breaths. Does he not see it? How can he look at me and not see that the light is slicing straight through me?
Or... does he see it, and he just doesn't care?
Slowly, carefully, I move back to the right chair. I sit down. The mug beside me sends a thin spiral of steam into the air. It smells like earl grey tea with a hint of vanilla. My favorite, a distant instinct whispers.
I look at Ronan. He is staring straight ahead, his profile sharp against the morning light. The dark bloodstain from last night is gone, replaced by clean clothes, but the exhaustion in his posture remains.
I gather every ounce of courage I have. I need an anchor. I need a truth, any truth, before I completely lose my mind.
"The photograph," I say, my voice trembling, breaking the quiet air. "On the shelf in the bedroom."
Ronan doesn't flinch, but I see his grip tighten on the mug. His knuckles turn white.
"The woman in that picture," I continue, my voice barely above a whisper. I look down at my hands, which look slightly more solid now that they are out of the direct sun. "Is that me?"
The silence that follows is agonizing. It stretches on for so long I think he isn't going to answer. He just stares out at the buildings, the steam curling around his face. A muscle works in his jaw.
Finally, he closes his eyes. A single, ragged breath escapes his lips.
"Yes," he says softly.
- Writer
