Jailbird could not say why he chose to skip his stop. Neither could I. He’d always been a bullheaded bastard. I didn’t expect the ramblings of an old man to take control of him. Instead he watched the sleepy suburb wash by his window, whispering promises of lost memories, each one a lie.
Gaps in his mind he had, but Jailbird knew a security deposit box key when he saw one. He entered the bank in the fuss of a city rush hour, and after flashing his key, was pointed towards the back rooms. He felt ill, disorientated. A profound sense of deja vu had followed him the moment he entered the city. Street corners and local landmarks teemed with both an overwhelming familiarity and foreigness that left his head swimming. He took an embarassed comfort from the confines of the deposit box room, each box a tiny cell, wondering how long he could stay before having to venture out again. He shook the moment of cowardice from his mind and began to search for the lock that held his name.