A man sits at a curb, his memory a haze. Twenty years, a successful career, had been lost and rearranged.
Something doesn’t quite fit so right, like the skin that sat under his eyes. How had he gotten here? What did he believe? Was any of this normal? What did it matter?
Twenty years passed the man by, experiences that molded him gone. The forty five year old had the majority of his life completely reshaped and sold. And so upon that curb he sat, smiling in a daze, not even cognizant of the fact that he not eaten in two days.
Disassociation overtook a once instinctual drive. Familiar faces pass him by, shoot him a glance, and perhaps a frown. They know the man that looked at them was not Casen Ford.
But the husk-thing carried his name, his body, just not the mind. He’d be useful every once and a while for an act that need be denied.
His pocket buzzes, screaming at the man who had gone blind. A woman from another life had been checking upon her kind. She’d been abandoned by the man who sat and swore - the one that still bore the name of Casen Ford.
Those that bore masks had told him once to dance, and so dance he did. To dance brought smiles back, cast attention from the sores. The thoughtless rhythm now bored his path, his actions and forms. His mind erased, his character changed, never to be like before.
. . .
And then he stops.
He looks.
He sees.
He realizes.
Casen’s heart paused. Something was wrong. Something was horribly wrong. All at once his hand began to tremble, and his pace quickened. Where was he, and why was he here?
Someone had done something. In this brief moment of lucidity, he knew it. And, to Casen’s horror, he remembered that this wasn’t the first time he realized it. He had to do something. He had to fight it, but he didn’t know how.
. . .
The man upon the curb sat there with his dumb smile having returned. The brief event passed him by, and once again, he felt safe.
Something doesn’t quite fit so right, like the skin that sat under his eyes. How had he gotten here? What did he believe? Was any of this normal? What did it matter?
Twenty years passed the man by, experiences that molded him gone. The forty five year old had the majority of his life completely reshaped and sold. And so upon that curb he sat, smiling in a daze, not even cognizant of the fact that he not eaten in two days.
Disassociation overtook a once instinctual drive. Familiar faces pass him by, shoot him a glance, and perhaps a frown. They know the man that looked at them was not Casen Ford.
But the husk-thing carried his name, his body, just not the mind. He’d be useful every once and a while for an act that need be denied.
His pocket buzzes, screaming at the man who had gone blind. A woman from another life had been checking upon her kind. She’d been abandoned by the man who sat and swore - the one that still bore the name of Casen Ford.
Those that bore masks had told him once to dance, and so dance he did. To dance brought smiles back, cast attention from the sores. The thoughtless rhythm now bored his path, his actions and forms. His mind erased, his character changed, never to be like before.
. . .
And then he stops.
He looks.
He sees.
He realizes.
Casen’s heart paused. Something was wrong. Something was horribly wrong. All at once his hand began to tremble, and his pace quickened. Where was he, and why was he here?
Someone had done something. In this brief moment of lucidity, he knew it. And, to Casen’s horror, he remembered that this wasn’t the first time he realized it. He had to do something. He had to fight it, but he didn’t know how.
. . .
The man upon the curb sat there with his dumb smile having returned. The brief event passed him by, and once again, he felt safe.
