Instead of sand this morning, ash. A strikingly black, greasy pile of glossy flakes. And instead of a dry, crackling heat in the air, I felt an oily warmth, quickly dissipating. My duvet cover was ruined, and I feared that the little man with the bright blue candle in his skull would never visit me again. Something about the smell of burning meat and charred bone spoke to my memories of the life I’d left behind. Memories I thought I’d had removed. Memories I certainly did not wish to have recalled, or recounted, or recorded in a court of law. I stood a long while, indecisive as the cold crept slowly back into the room. I couldn’t leave now, for fear of discovery. Nor yet could I remain, for fear of recovery. What is lost should stay lost. But as it seemed that I had found myself, with whatever unwarranted prompting, what were my choices? Discovery, and personal destruction? Or recovery, and universal destruction. Why had the candle man forced this decision upon me? What had he recalled? And so I stood, until they came.
