Pieces [ONC 2020 LONGLIST]

Perhaps the better claim

The clothing rack groaned as I shoved another t-shirt on a hanger and stuffed it in. I can't remember the last time all my clothes were put away. I can't remember a lot of things lately. My night became a crappy home makeover show. Floor? Spotless. Bed? Would pass military standards, and I could probably eat off the counter in the kitchen.

Despite getting the most thorough cleaning since this complex was built there was still no sign of a little, red Collection card from Thursday night. The only place I hadn't touched was my computer desk. Call it intuition or stupidity, but afraid of what I might or might not find, I saved the most obvious spot for last.

With a half-full trash bag in one hand I stuffed empty cans and forgotten to-do lists inside. I pulled open my desk drawer and dug through the papers until my hands brushed a small, glossy envelope. Pulling it out I slumped into my chair.

If I were of sane mind and able body I would have put the new card with the others, right? I held my breath and pulled out the slips of paper stuffed inside. Embossed in thick, white ink the first card read:

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THIS IS A TOKEN OF A MEMORY COLLECTED
on July 5, 1992. Side effects may include dizziness, shortness of breath, and occasional episodes of distress.
Felix culpa | Carry on with happiness

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The standard script. I tossed the cards onto the desk and dropped my face in my hands. There were only two. One I'd had since I was 4, the other I got at 16. They were old. They were annoying. They weren't what I was looking for. I didn't get a new card, but something—someone important—was undeniably collected. Thursday. Thursday. It all came back to Thursday, the one day I couldn't remember. My years spent watching crimes shows echoed a familiar sentiment: Follow the money.

My computer hummed as a I woke it from a deep slumber. Logging into my bank account I searched my transaction history for anything on March 12. Sure enough, one payment of $21.07 to Knots and Letters, a bookstore I always pass by but never go into, except that Thursday apparently. No. There are more purchases from that store. $13 here. $17 there. I dug farther into my history. I'd gone there at least once a week for the past month. Then I saw it.

If I was a character in a show I would have been drinking something, and at that moment sprayed said drink all over the monitor. A $40,000 payment to ALLE REAL. My legs twitched. Have my eyes blurred over? Was my account hacked? Ha. Ha. Ha. But what kind of person buys something for $40k and forgets? 

My hands clenched into fists. That golden ghost girl really pisses me off. Whatever happened, whatever I paid for, must be tied to her. Where the hell did she go?

I crossed my arms and leaned back. Breathe. Just breathe. Every problem has a solution. This girl is a BIG problem, but there's a solution somewhere. There's always another step. I'll visit the bank, as soon as they open...

A quick glance around I noticed, now that the rest of my apartment is clean, my messy desk looked absurd. And what else can I do to fill the next 3 hours? I picked up a book I'd left on the desk. It's spine was barley worn and I didn't recognize the title. I'd never read it, or didn't remember reading it. I flipped it over and checked the price. $19.99. With tax it could equal $21.07.

I should've been happy that, for once, one piece of the puzzle that has become my life fit together, but I scowled.

Laying in the spot I just picked up this book was another book. A book of poetry, specifically poems that "make grown men cry." I don't even like poetry—it's a mess of cluttered descriptions and encrypted meanings. I get my fill of that from my job. Not only did I apparently own a book of poetry, but this book's pages were stained with a muddy brown.

As soon as my fingers touched the cover I saw her. A warm yellow light. Crowded bookshelves. Purple beanie. That book in her hands. My hand jerked away. Could be sleep deprivation or I'm insane now but my gut took on a voice of its own.

That's her book and that's her blood.

She's dead.

Is it my fault? Could I have saved her?

Lost in my thoughts, I caressed the book until sleep overtook my weary mind.