(Part 1) Waking Up j

Pain. Intense, body-wide, mind-killing pain. Can't breathe, think, move. There is dirt beneath me. With effort, I clench my fists into it.

I black out, come to again.The pain lessens; I move my arms, push upright. Train tracks stretch out beside me. I realize I don't know my name

"Welcome back, j."I turn to the man above me. Sinister eyes, austere chin. He smiles and I shiver. "Thought we lost you for a minute there."

My legs work but I don't let him see this.He continues." There are parties very interested to know where you are. It'd be hard to keep quiet."

I inch right foot under left leg. "You're a wiley woman, j. I wouldn't've found you myself if it wasn't for... well, you know." But I don't.

"No matter. Found you in the end, eh?" In reply I launch to my feet and run. Well, I stumble rapidly. He curses. In a second I'll feel his grip.

But grasping arms don't come. I don't stop to question until I hear the scream behind me. I turn; pain erupts in my spine. The man is on fire.

I stare, gape-mouthed at the flames. He screams again and I run harder now, fast as I can. I have knives in my back, bullets in my gut.

Don't know where to go - I follow the tracks. The dirt turns to scraggled grass, weeds. I scour my brain, and find nothing but the present.

I must be someone. The man had called me j, but that didn't stir a memory. I don't even know what I look like but for thin hands, long legs.

Where the tracks dead-end there's a small pond. Not ideal, but I squint into it. A stranger's blue eyes look back, framed by a pixie's face.

My hair is short, black. Dyed? I can't tell. My cheekbones make odd angles from the corner of my mouth. I run dirt-encrusted fingers along them.

"You ok?" I jump clumsily, fall head-over-feet into mud. "Oh, god, I'm sorry!" I look up into the face of a country-boy, blond and clean-cut.

"Let me help you." He offers a calloused hand. I let him pull me to my feet. He wipes at the worst of the mud to no effect. "So sorry..."

"Don't worry about it," I say. My voice is unfamiliar; someone else's words in my mouth. "It's not the worst thing that's happened to me today."

"I was just passing," he says. "You looked a bit beat up, thought I'd stop." I shake my head. "I'm fine, just rinsing." My hands are all-over mud.

"Shoot. This is my fault--you wanna towel? Got one in my truck." For the first time I see the red pickup parked on the other side of the pond.

"I'm Cliff, by the way." He offers a hand. I hold up mine to remind him of the mud. "Cliff Bass," he says. "I'm j," I reply, and salute him.

"j... Got a last name?" He jokes as we walk to the pickup. I just smile. He digs around the bed and pulls out a damp towel. "Thanks," I say.

"You new in town? Don't reckon I've seen ya before." The towel doesn't do much, but it's better than nothing. "I'm just passing through."

He looks around us in both directions. "You drove?" "Nope." Or if I did, I wouldn't know which car was mine. "Need a ride somewhere?"

I only deliberate for an instant. "Sure." Why not? I've got no one else to ask, and don't enjoy the prospect of a night alone in these woods.

The music in his pickup is loud, country. I know the lyrics to some of the songs. I sing along, glad to recognize anything. My voice is awful.

Halfway to town, he discovers I have nowhere to stay. I insist I'm fine but he takes me to his anyway; a house that's little more than shack.

He leads me to an outdoor shower room, leaves a towel and copious amount of soap, heads inside. I'm glad for the alone time; I need to think.

The hot water takes a while to kick in, but when it does, it's heaven. I stand spread-eagled and let the mud run off. My body looks starved.

By the time I've toweled off, I don't want to put on my muddy clothes. I stand outside the shower in a towel. There's a mirror on the stall.

The scar on my right shoulder looks old, puckered like a gunshot wound. On my upper back is a black tattoo, concentric circles around a flame.

I cover my chest with a hand and lower the towel to see my lower back, where it hurts most. I scream when the towel reveals blackened skin.

The edges of the burn are livid red; the center has a greenish tinge, like rot. Bile is thick in my throat. Cliff came running at the scream.

"Were you shot?" he asks, because he can only see the front of me, the old wound in my shoulder. In response, all I can do is turn around.