Vox Mentis

Locate girlfriend!

Orange buses. Parking bays. The two-minute spaces are just a little further. You almost collide with a trolley-laden family and the man tries to grab your jacket but you keep running and it's starting to make sense, now, running; you're starting to remember how to coordinate the various pieces of your body, and you throw a glance over your shoulder and a pole runs into you.

You taste blood. Someone asks if you're okay, some kid pulling earbuds out of his hair. You stare. You don't understand the question. Your thoughts have fallen out. You grope for them and find Melinda. You raise your body like a wreck from the deep and shove the kid aside and ride forward on a crest of the kid's abuse. You finally see it, Melinda's car, a white fortress on wheels with VIRGINIA IS FOR LOVERS on the rear window. Joy drives your steps. You wrench open the handle and fall inside. You've never been so proud. "Made it," you gasp. You close your eyes.

"Nick?"

You look at Melinda. "What?" You begin to feel unsure, because her face is strange. And then it comes to you, in a fountain of dread that begins somewhere unidentifiable and ends in your testicles: you should not be here. You should not have led men with guns to your girlfriend. That was the wrong thing to do.

"Nick, what's wrong?" Her fingers come at you. "Your nose is bleeding." There's a tiny furrow in her brow, one you know so well.