I never seem to know how I get here… I just do. In the garbage can… it almost feels like home. For instance, being still alive and still female is kinda getting familiar, like when at the end of Fateless the protagonist says he’s nostalgic for the camp. I was even thinking it would be easier there. I’d have work to do, and people to motivate me with kicks and guns and stuff. I wouldn’t have to listen to people telling me I should lose weight. And I would be closer to dying, at least in theory.
The dream is back again – the girl in shock against the wall, glass falling like rain, people shouting, people running, people with the badge on. Every night I remember that, though I wasn’t even there. Sometimes through the eyes of her mother, scared and frayed, sometimes through the eyes of a militiaman, triumphant, drunk and proud, with my dick hardening at the screams.
Why those years? I was born half a century later. Still, it seems I’d be more at home there. Home… what a concept.