Who am I? Think, think!

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The void around me darkens, and a presence stirs within me as I morph through a painless sequence of mutations. Limbs bulk and wither, skin ages and scars, hair thins and greys. I turn my soft, slender hands without will or desire. Knuckles stiffen, palms callous.

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Who am I? Concentrate.

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Images form and fade. A cabin in the woods. A bright light in the night sky. Snow, gloveless hands, a number etched on my wrist. Are they memories or make-believe? I shut my eyes. There are bodies and shadows, but I can’t see their faces. I reach out to touch them, to pull them into the now, but they drift through my fingers like dust.

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Lord, what will become of me? Hero or herald? Shapeshifter or shadow? Perhaps, if I’m lucky, I’ll wear rose coloured glasses or exist in a time and place where I can remember those I’ve loved and lost or those who trusted me with their secrets.

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Wait! Someone is here. She’s here!

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I call into the void, ‘Don’t stop now. Keep going!’ Can she hear me?  ‘I need a backstory, a role, just give me a purpose!’

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I breathe steady, listen and wait. Her silence sends shudders through my weary body.

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Will I be realised in time?

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‘You’ve got this!’ I cry in fear. My knees, hips, and hands are sore and tender. ‘Don’t give up on me now. I can be whoever you want me to be. I can do whatever you want me to do.’

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In the distance, a light glows, and I see her.

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She’s not in this world. She’s in yours.

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In this realm, there is no matching her abilities. Even knowing who she is and the gift she possesses doesn’t guarantee safe passage, only the possibility of a brief existence.

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‘Keep going!’ I shout into the blackness. ‘How many words do you have left?’ There has to be more–a place, a person. My heart aches for the unknown. ‘Just tell me who I am.’

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The light glows again.

 

‘A mentor! Of course.’ A wooden stool appears on my right, and I take a seat, relieved to rest my aching feet. ‘That’s perfect,’ I tell her. ‘A mentor is–’

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A blinding ball of light fills the void, a piercing scream echoes through the inky chamber, and the woman is gone.

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The only sound to be heard is the tapping of the author's fingers on the keyboard. ‘Sorry, my darling,’ she says and clears her throat. ‘There’s only room for five-hundred words.’

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The End

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© Michelle Upton

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