Newt Run

In the dream I'm falling. Below me is a gaping hole, infinitely black. I try to scream, but the sound is stripped from my throat and sent spiraling before me into the dark. In an instant the hole is gone, covered over by a thin, blue light. I fall, and the light reaches up to welcome me.

  I awake with a shuddered gasp, sitting bolt upright in bed. I haul back on the dark air and press a hand to my head, trying to bring the room into focus. Nothing looks familiar, not this bed or anything else: I have no idea where I am. I close my eyes, and will myself to relax, but when I look again nothing's changed. This is not my room, and a low shiver descends my spine as it occurs to me that I might still be dreaming.

  I stand up, naked except for a pair of boxers. The room is small and sparsely furnished. Next to the bed is a night stand, and there is also a wooden dresser, as well as a desk before the window. Two doors stand on opposite walls, positioned in such a way that they are nearly facing one another. I scan the room for my clothes, coming up empty, but inside the dresser I find a row of shirts on hangers and a few drawers full of t-shirts and jeans. A black, leather jacket hangs on a hook on the back of the door. None of these things are mine.

  I move to the window, prying the blinds open with my fingers. I don't recognize the street, or any of the buildings. A light snow is falling, and across the road a cat is nosing around the garbage piled in front of a shuttered supermarket. I turn to the door nearest me and step into a narrow hallway. There are several other doors along the hall, each of them numbered, and at the far end, above a wooden table and a decorative, porcelain vase, is a large mirror. Returning inside, I try the second door, which opens onto a closet-sized bathroom. I grope for the light switch, and a thin, fluorescent strip lamp flickers into life above the sink. I turn on the tap, and allow the water to fall over my hands before dashing it across my face. I look at my reflection.

  A thin, yellow line cuts my face from forehead to cheek. I reach to touch it, feeling nothing except my own damp skin, and beneath that, bone. I press closer to the mirror: just beneath the surface of the line is the faint trace of movement, like coils of cigarette smoke trailing in a dim room. I run more water into my palms and splash it over my head, scrubbing until my skin is raw, but the line stays where it is, while the aimless smoke continues to drift behind it. Rubbing my eyes, I pass a hand over my scalp, realizing only now that my head has been shaved. I keep my eyes pressed together, willing the line to disappear, but when I open them again it's still there, very clear in the sharp light.

  "This feels like a dream," I say, and watch as the face in the mirror mouths the words. Again, I push my palms into my eyes, clearing the water from my face, and then I leave the room.

  I return to the dresser, grabbing clothes at random. They fit perfectly, better in fact than anything in my own closet. The leather jacket slips over my shoulders like I was born wearing it, and the boots stacked at the foot of the dresser fit as neatly as a pair of gloves. Quickly, I lace up the boots and leave the room.

  At the end of the hall I pause in front of the mirror. The line is reflected back at me, darker maybe, but still clear, and I quickly turn away, walking down a short stairwell to the ground floor and exiting onto the street. The night air is sharp and clean in my lungs. I fall into walking, turning over the events of the past few minutes in my mind. There has to be an explanation, and I like the sound of that, how solid those words are, 'an explanation', but I for the life of me I can't think of one; waking up in an empty apartment with a line on my face – maybe I was raped by a tattoo artist. I force a smile, conscious of the fact that whatever else the line might be, it's like no tattoo I've ever seen. As well, I don't feel as if I've been raped, and I imagine that's something I'd be able to feel. All things considered, I feel fine: the snow falls softly on my freshly shaved scalp, and the cold air is sharp and bracing against my face. I shove my hands into the pockets of the jacket, and watch my boots push into the unblemished snow. None of this is vague or uncertain, and the feeling of being in a dream begins to fade.

  At the end of the street I stop to get my bearings. From the look of it, I'm in the East end, somewhere around 4th or 5th Bridge, maybe even as high as sixth; the peaks of the Eastern range loom close over the tops of the houses, but judging by the state of the road, and the smooth, well-maintained asphalt, I'm not in Northside. Wherever I am, I'm far from lost: I only need to walk away from the mountains and I'll eventually come to the river. From there I can catch a bus back home, and then I can try to sleep off whatever drugs I may or may not be on. If the line is still on my face in the morning I'll go to see a doctor.

  A good plan. Very sane, which is important to me right now, because the most obvious (and likely) explanation is that I've lost my mind. Except that I don't feel crazy. I'm not confused – I know where I am and what I'm doing (I'm on a street, walking.) My thoughts are hard, definite objects, or at least they seem to be, although it's possible that a mental patient would say the same thing.

  Thinking along these lines, I come to a road with a number of cars idling at an intersection. A little further on I can make out the bridge, and then I see her, standing next to a small café with a cellphone at her ear.

  She's dressed in black leggings under a denim skirt, and a mid-length brown jacket. Her hair is different, pulled back from her face and much shorter, with loose strands drifting at her ears and around her temples, but there's no question that it's her.

  "Kelly," I say, walking closer.

  She looks at me and frowns, cupping her hand over the mouthpiece of the phone.

  "I'm sorry?" she asks.

  "What are you doing here?"

  "Do we know each other?"

  "Kelly, what – "

  "I'm sorry," she says again. "You must have me confused with someone else. My name is Hazel."