SOREN BOWERS
xxxnever did I think I'd be coming back around
xxxdigging up old memories
xxxalways used to be the one to let it go
xxxkept my fears in a suitcase
A gasp filled the empty apartment, and a formerly still body sat bolt upright. Soren gasped for air, his heart still pounding in his chest.This had happened every single night since heād first woken up in this apartment. Every time he woke up, he woke up afraid, but the memories of the dream disappeared as soon as he tried to remember them, vanishing like smoke into the abyss of his mind. His phone was hovering a foot off the bedside table, and he snatched it from the air, checking the time. He didnāt know why he could suddenly move things without touching them or why they tended to hover in midair when he was upset about something or why he seemed to flicker in and out of sight at times. He didnāt know why his memory was so blank. He didnāt know where he was, why he was here, or what the hell he was supposed to do about it. Heād hoped he might figure it out with time, but two days later and he still had no idea. But he couldnāt shake the feeling that there was something he needed to do and that something was urgent, and every morning he found himself reaching for his phone as if the answer would be there. It never was.
It was late morning, later than heād meant to sleep. Groaning to himself, he grabbed the packet of smokes on his bedside table, pulled on a hoodie, took up his usual position, sitting on his window sill with the window open as wide as it would go, and lit up a cigarette. Even if he couldnāt remember what the dreams were about, or why he was here or what the hell was happening to him, he knew that a smoke was one of the only things that could calm the tremors in his hands and the shaking of his breath. It seemed that the things he couldnāt remember outweighed the things he did. His memory was just a gaping void, full of things that he felt he could almost remember, but the minute anything became halfway clear, it would just slip out of reach. Except for a few memories, and almost all of them were ones he would have been fine with forgetting.
And then there was the name. Markus Vasco. It had been his first thought when heād opened his eyes two days ago, and it was a name that seemed to be constantly whispered in his mind ever since. Heād done a bit of research, and it seemed he was a tattoo artist somewhere in town. Soren had the address written down on a piece of paper, but something was holding him back, stopping him from going and looking just yet. What the hell was he supposed to do? What was he supposed to say? Hi, two days ago I woke up with total amnesia and for some reason, the only name I could remember besides my own was yours. Do you have any idea about it? Because I sure as hell donāt.
He sighed, blowing out a lungful of smoke out the window into the street and watched as it twisted and curled, before fading into nothing. Somebody had once told him the cigarettes would kill him one day, and heād just laughed and shrugged. He blinked at the sudden memory, but the faces around it were gone, empty faces he just couldnāt recall no matter how much he tried. He stubbed out the cigarette and closed the window, figuring he needed to get dressed and figure out what the hell he was going to do for the day. There was a leaflet abandoned on the counter, one that had been shoved into his hand by someone on the street yesterday, advertising the townās Halloween festival. Even if the night itself was just under two weeks away, the town seemed to run events for the whole of October. Soren went over to pick up the leaflet. Something, deep inside him, told him that was where he should go tonight. Well, it wasnāt like he had any better plans.
He spent the rest of the day just in the apartment, doing a little more reading into this Markus Vasco. Heād considered googling his own name more than once, but every time he went to type his name in, a wave of panic and anxiety came over him, telling him not to do it. He figured that reaction meant that he probably wasnāt going to like whatever he found, so he just never looked. But he couldnāt find much on this Markus person either, and he knew that meant he probably just needed to get over himself and go talk to him. He promised himself heād do it the following day, but first heād decided to go to this Halloween market for whatever reason.
He pulled on his trusted silver jacket, put on some eyeliner to make him feel a little more like himself (another thing he instinctively knew and couldnāt explain), and headed out. It was cold, but it had at least stopped raining. His breath came out in a swirl of fog as he walked, pulling his jacket a little tighter around him. Torches lined the streets, giving everything an eerie and atmospheric look. Stalls lined Main Street, with local businesses all running stalls of all and every kind. There were people selling handmade masks and costumes, local artists selling art, and so much wonderful looking and smelling food. He bought a cup of hot apple cider and wandered down the street, looking at the stalls and wondering what it was exactly that had drawn him here, or if it had just been curiosity and something to do.
It was late morning, later than heād meant to sleep. Groaning to himself, he grabbed the packet of smokes on his bedside table, pulled on a hoodie, took up his usual position, sitting on his window sill with the window open as wide as it would go, and lit up a cigarette. Even if he couldnāt remember what the dreams were about, or why he was here or what the hell was happening to him, he knew that a smoke was one of the only things that could calm the tremors in his hands and the shaking of his breath. It seemed that the things he couldnāt remember outweighed the things he did. His memory was just a gaping void, full of things that he felt he could almost remember, but the minute anything became halfway clear, it would just slip out of reach. Except for a few memories, and almost all of them were ones he would have been fine with forgetting.
And then there was the name. Markus Vasco. It had been his first thought when heād opened his eyes two days ago, and it was a name that seemed to be constantly whispered in his mind ever since. Heād done a bit of research, and it seemed he was a tattoo artist somewhere in town. Soren had the address written down on a piece of paper, but something was holding him back, stopping him from going and looking just yet. What the hell was he supposed to do? What was he supposed to say? Hi, two days ago I woke up with total amnesia and for some reason, the only name I could remember besides my own was yours. Do you have any idea about it? Because I sure as hell donāt.
He sighed, blowing out a lungful of smoke out the window into the street and watched as it twisted and curled, before fading into nothing. Somebody had once told him the cigarettes would kill him one day, and heād just laughed and shrugged. He blinked at the sudden memory, but the faces around it were gone, empty faces he just couldnāt recall no matter how much he tried. He stubbed out the cigarette and closed the window, figuring he needed to get dressed and figure out what the hell he was going to do for the day. There was a leaflet abandoned on the counter, one that had been shoved into his hand by someone on the street yesterday, advertising the townās Halloween festival. Even if the night itself was just under two weeks away, the town seemed to run events for the whole of October. Soren went over to pick up the leaflet. Something, deep inside him, told him that was where he should go tonight. Well, it wasnāt like he had any better plans.
He spent the rest of the day just in the apartment, doing a little more reading into this Markus Vasco. Heād considered googling his own name more than once, but every time he went to type his name in, a wave of panic and anxiety came over him, telling him not to do it. He figured that reaction meant that he probably wasnāt going to like whatever he found, so he just never looked. But he couldnāt find much on this Markus person either, and he knew that meant he probably just needed to get over himself and go talk to him. He promised himself heād do it the following day, but first heād decided to go to this Halloween market for whatever reason.
He pulled on his trusted silver jacket, put on some eyeliner to make him feel a little more like himself (another thing he instinctively knew and couldnāt explain), and headed out. It was cold, but it had at least stopped raining. His breath came out in a swirl of fog as he walked, pulling his jacket a little tighter around him. Torches lined the streets, giving everything an eerie and atmospheric look. Stalls lined Main Street, with local businesses all running stalls of all and every kind. There were people selling handmade masks and costumes, local artists selling art, and so much wonderful looking and smelling food. He bought a cup of hot apple cider and wandered down the street, looking at the stalls and wondering what it was exactly that had drawn him here, or if it had just been curiosity and something to do.