The Vanishing
What? What for? I walked into this room for what?
Spenser joins himself mid-conversation, staring at the wall. He left the kitchen with a purpose and now he is staring at the bedroom wall. The wall. The window. His feet. The bed. His hands. He begins to chew at the pinkie finger of his left hand.
In his head, a hollow little rattle of desperation, a panicky spiderclutch at some gossamer that can lead him back to a place safe and recognizable. This is the feeling. He is lost in himself and needs to get back. He got up from the kitchen table to get something and now he is staring at the bedroom wall. The bed. The floor. His socks on the floor. And then he’s got it. He needs a pen. He came to get a pen.
The remembrance is strangely exhilarating. Everything seems to click back into place. He needs a pen. He walked to the bedroom to get a pen to write a grocery list. Time begins to move once more, measured in breath, neckpulse, bloodrush. Slip back into the waking world. I got up from the kitchen table and walked to my room to get a pen. My green pen. The green pen is in my hand. I am Spenser Oakheart. Nothing to be afraid of.
And yet. Kitchen to bedroom. Whole seconds of his life unaccounted for. Where did you go? Who were you?
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