Feb. 5th, 2017

hextraterrestrial: Hextraterrestrial (Default)
The rains kept coming. There seemed no end. Weeks and weeks of rain. The yards, the halls and even the basement were all becoming flooded. The air seemed thick and moist. But he kept driving on.

He. Who was he? All these hours and somehow this question had slipped his mind? He knew he knew himself, he just didn't remember his name. He struggled for his wallet before flipping it open, producing a licence. Referencing his face in the rearview mirror, he compared it to the Oregon issued license. That was him all right. Eyes moving from the picture to the text, he read aloud:

Fredrick Mudi
535 Morningstar Way.
Salem OR.

Fred. Yes; the name Fred rang a bell. With one hand on the wheel, he put his wallet in his lap rummaging with the other. Business cards, a debit card, a little over one hundred dollars, an arcade ticket stub and a guitar pick. He scattered the cards in his lap, checking his speed and his lane. He found a card belonging to a tattoo parlor, the veteran's hospital, a c.p.r. certification, the local gun store, an automobile insurance card, a grocery store card and a card to some nightclub in Portland called "The Weeping Willow". Turning the cards over, "he" (he means: Fred) recognized his own hand writing on the back of the tattoo shop's card. There was a local number written in red pen with a name scribbled below:

"Angela Fray"

Fingers flashing, he thumbed the digits in and hit call.

ONE HOUR LATER

"So wait, let me get this straight..." Fred scowled "you say I'm some military experiment gone bad?"

Angela snapped her retort "They say! I didn't!"

"Who is THEY?" Fred blurted, trying not to yell.

"I don't know." she exasperated.

The scowl now morphing into a frown, Fred replied, "Then who does?"

Her state of mind was bad. It was obvious within the first few moments of coming through her door. Her face was wrapped tight with stress, her emotions teetering on the verge of a violent explosion or bursting into tears. Fred remembered her from some lost memory. He remembered that spark of fire in her eyes when she was pissed, that fire he knew he should never play with. It was dangerous, it was beautiful, it was lovely. It didn't help that her locks of auburn hair, contrasting across those cold blue eyes, bit into his soul. He longed for her, he desired her but he was also very wary of her. In her current condition, he knew she was a pressure pot boiling. Her mind wasn't right (as of now) and neither was his for a matter of fact. He knew Angela needed help and it seemed as if no one was around to help her. He couldn't just leave her... that would be just... inhumane. Besides, at this point, not only was she his only friend, she was his only link to reality. His only link to his life. But her mind... her mind was not well. Fred decided that he would not abandon her. He also decided that he could not fully open up to her - despite his spotty memories. He needed another contact, he needed someone else who could tell him what the hell was going on.

Angela didn't reply. She ignored answering the question preferring on letting it ring out into silence. She lay on the bed and closed her eyes. She was tired... too tired. Such complicated talking seemed to shut her down.

Fred stepped out to the deck to light a cigarette. He thought to himself,

"If she can't explain, who can?"

The rain was still falling hard. Water had collected around the decks foundations, the base of the building and was pooling up in the yard; spilling ceaselessly through the lowlands of the property. Damn rain. A lyric by Kurt Cobain from the band "Nirvana" came to him:

"Weather effects moods"

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