Shards

[yeshe]

 “Have you ever wondered what it means to take away a person’s memory? It’s like stealing their very life! For what use is life to someone who can’t remember it?”

That was the only thought that surfaced in my mind as I lay by the roadside, a light breeze brushing against my skin. Who said those words? And when? It feels like it was at a funeral. But how could the image of a maroon funeral wreath with ribbons help me now?

No — the wreath isn’t a memory. It’s here, in my present, lying on the tarmac. Nearby, a bicycle wheel spins idly. A pair of legs sticks out from beneath a black hearse, which has toppled onto its side and is still smoking. Petrol leaks from it, trickling towards me in a narrow stream.

At the edge of my vision, people are running about, shouting — no, shrieking. And I have no idea what I’m doing here. I can’t even remember who I am.

My legs, clad in jeans and trainers, are still there — and, by the looks of it, attached where they should be. The stream of petrol has already reached them, and for some reason I decide that meeting it would be unwise. I try to crawl away.

But then someone seizes me and hurls me into a car — not an ambulance, something else. They fling me onto the back seat, slam the door, and the vehicle shoots off at tremendous speed. Somewhere behind us, an explosion echoes…

I stare up at the car’s ceiling, through the transparent roof, where clouds drift lazily across the sky. I try to grasp who I am, but my memory offers no answers at all.

 

I must have lost consciousness.

When I come to, I’m sitting in a dark room with my hands tied behind my back. The light is blinding; my head throbs with unbearable pain. Someone strikes me across the cheek — the whole world jolts; crimson specks fly towards the blow, glinting in the torchlight. My head snaps back, and I see my jeans again — splattered thickly with blood.

“Speak! The number!” a rough voice snarls. “The address! Speak, you bastard!”

Another blow follows. The world lurches again — and then, mercifully, darkness.

 

I came to — an interesting expression, really. As though I’d simply gone out for a stroll and was now returning home.

It’s already dark. My eyes barely open; my lips are horribly swollen, though a quick inspection with my tongue confirms that my teeth are still in place. Small mercies. The taste of dried blood is revolting, so I spit several times.

Gradually, my eyes begin to make out a faint light seeping from beneath the door, and my mind reports that I’m lying on a filthy concrete floor — freezing cold. And that somewhere inside my jeans a warm stream is making its way out. Downwards. Beneath me.

A wave of blissful relief washes over me — I had desperately needed to piss. Not anymore. Still, there’s nothing I can do about it; my hands are tied behind my back, and by now they’ve gone completely numb.

I begin tugging at whatever binds them, fumbling about in the dark, when suddenly gunfire erupts outside, followed by shouts — and the door bursts open with a crack.

“Oh! You’re here!” cries a girl in black, holding an assault rifle. She turns and yells over her shoulder, “He’s here!”

Then she rushes towards me; someone else runs in behind her. They lift me up, carry me somewhere — and once again, I sink into darkness.

 

“Drink. Don’t be afraid,” says the girl — no longer dressed in black. Entirely à la nature. I can’t see her face, for my gaze is fixed on her breasts, with their taut pink nipples. She’s beside me in hot, gentle water, and firm jets from the walls of the bath caress my body below. Heavenly bliss.

“It’s a painkiller,” the girl adds.

And then I begin to feel the pain — spreading through my whole body and pounding in my wretched head.

The girl hands me a cocktail. She looks stunning in the fairy-blue water, pressing her wonderful breasts against me. I catch one in my palm, though my eyes can barely open — my eyelids are so swollen. My lips too. She slips a few pills into my mouth and pours the drink after them. Then she adds a gentle kiss, careful not to touch my sore lips.

A slow wave of bliss begins to rise — the pain ebbs away. The girl continues to caress me, her lips brushing my neck and shoulder.

“You know, you’re like a real James Bond,” she whispers, her voice sultry.

I think, Who is this? I still can’t remember a thing. And… is it too weird to ask what my name is?

Something jingles softly — she pulls back with a hint of regret and reaches for a phone at the edge of the bath. In an instant, her expression changes; she leaps to her feet, sending water splashing in all directions.

“Quick! They’re coming! Get dressed!”

I struggle up, though I’ve no idea what I’m meant to wear. My memory offers only the image of my blood-stained — and not just blood-stained — jeans, which are nowhere to be seen.

“Here,” she says, throwing me a handful of clothes from the wardrobe while dressing herself at lightning speed. Soon we’re both in black — leather trousers, black turtlenecks, and leather jackets. She tosses me a motorcycle helmet and points to a pair of boots in the corner. They fit. Then she hands me a compact sub-machine gun and a bag, strapping weapons to herself as well.

We speed into the night, the city falling away behind us. She clearly knows where she’s going — something that can’t be said for me. I cling to her as headlights gain on us from behind.

“Damn!” she shouts. “Damn, damn it! We’re not going to make it! Hold on tight!”

With that, she swerves off the road. The bike jolts wildly over rough ground; I’m nearly thrown from the seat, and the headlights of our pursuers bounce up and down, showing they’re still right on our tail.

We race into a tunnel beneath the road, plunging headlong into the darkness. The light of our pursuers’ headlights sweeps after us. The girl halts the bike, leaps off, grabs my hand, and drags me into a side passage.

“This way!” the girl cries.

We run through corridors, flinging doors open and slamming them behind us with deafening crashes. Footsteps echo all around — heavy, relentless, matching our rhythm.

“This way!”

She jumps into a shaft; I follow — and bang my head against the low ceiling. We keep running, bent low. The footsteps are getting closer.

“This way!”

She stops before a void, dimly lit by the reflection of moonlight shimmering on black water below. Above us, some sort of roof looms — everything pitch-dark, the sky invisible.

The girl slings her gun over her back, grabs hold of an overhead pipe, and moves hand over hand into the darkness. I have no choice but to follow. Luckily, my arms are strong enough, and the rough, rust-scented pipe gives a decent grip.

She drops down onto a platform, rushing towards a tunnel door — but it bursts open before she can reach it. Two armed men storm out; she swings her weapon round, and they open fire simultaneously — and within seconds, all three lie sprawled on the stone floor.

I feel a pang of sorrow for the girl and her tender breasts. But more men are already storming in through the doorway. I let go, plunge into the icy water, and dive, swimming towards the faint place where I think the moonlight falls.

 

I lie on the shore. It’s still dark, though a setting moon gleams faintly, a light breeze brushing against my skin. It is so peaceful and quiet here. In the distance, a city flickers with lights, their reflections trembling across the glossy black water. My lips taste of salt — seawater, perhaps. Or the ocean. The air reeks of seaweed and decay. I still have no idea who I am, or where.

Something tightens around my throat — the strap of a gun. And a bag. I open it — bundles of cash.

Three shadows loom above me, their rifles glinting dimly in the moonlight — and once more, I lose consciousness.

 

When I come to, I see my own stomach and legs clad in orange clothing. My hands are shackled behind me; I feel the chill of metal cuffs. I’m being led across a stone courtyard. Cold drizzle slicks my face and scalp. Everything aches; every step is torture. Heavy chains are clamped to my legs, so I can only shuffle forward in tiny steps.

Suddenly, gunfire erupts — someone above unleashing a barrage from a heavy weapon. Shattered glass and bricks rain down from the guard tower and the building beside it. Someone returns fire, shooting upward — but the assault from above is relentless.

A dark figure descends swiftly on a rope ladder, catches me with a thick cable, looping it under my arms, and shouts something skyward.

We rise — soaring above the prison. Agony flares under my arms and in my leg, where the weight of the chain still drags me down. My chest feels crushed — I can hardly breathe.

We sweep past the guard tower; I glimpse a sentry raising his gun just before the weight on my leg swings and slams into him — and part of the tower collapses.

I scream in pain. My leg nearly tears free. My ribs feel as though they’ll burst. They haul me into the helicopter…

 

Silence. A blue light. Something ticking.

Above me — a girl… No — not quite a girl. Someone in a nurse’s outfit. Layers of make-up, scarlet lips, big horse-like white teeth. Enormous nails gleaming like a rainbow, a toy syringe in hand.

“Oh, you naughty boy!” it coos in a man’s voice. “Time for your little injection!”

I feel that clawed hand between my legs — and I can’t take it. I scream. A full, ragged, throat-tearing scream.

The face above me — that grotesque, painted grin — suddenly bursts into red, and something wet spatters across my own face. Gunshots. Shouts. Then nothing again — darkness swallowing me whole.

 

“Excellent! Nick, you’re a hero! Real James Bond.” Someone claps me on the shoulder — agony flares through it. “You didn’t tell them a thing! You’re the most loyal man our boss ever had. But now I’m the boss, and your loyalty belongs to me. I trust you completely — one hundred percent, no, two hundred! Now, tell me that bloody address! Hey, Nick, wake up, don’t be stupid! Inject him with something!”

The last words aren’t meant for me.

Light in my face again. Concrete floor beneath me again. My eyes are even more swollen, and I can tell I’ve lost a few front teeth.

But at least now I know my name.

Nick.