“You awake with a start, confused by a moldy ceiling and the boarded-up window in front of you. In a flurry of movement, you get up and reach for the knife in your belt, only to discover it isn’t there. Immediately after, you collapse back onto the cot, overwhelmed by the pain in your chest and head.”

Yorick did all of those things, groaning as his head hit the pillow.

“You finally notice the voice narrating your every move, and wish desperately that it would shut up for just a few moments, but to your dismay, it continues... Until a clearly unwashed hand reaches out and-”

Yorick’s hand clamped over the mouth of the wiry man leaning over his cot.

“Enough with the narration, Garis”, he growled, although the pain from that movement tapered it into another groan. He paused, but recovered fairly quickly.

“Where are we? What happened?” He gave the man a look, doing his best to impress a lack of patience, before releasing his grip.

With a flash of annoyance, Garis brushed the hand aside and got up. Yorick watched him walk quickly to a small sink at the other side of the room. The man was wearing all black, with disheveled hair to match, and still hadn’t managed to pick up a tan despite the month they’d already spent in Mexico. With deliberate movements, he turned the faucet, and splashed the water on his face, all the while muttering to himself. Yorick couldn’t pick out the words, but he knew there was nothing nice being said about him in there.

After drying his face with a paper towel, Garis walked back over, and sat down with a deep breath.

“Of course” he said, regaining some measure of composure, “We’re in Safehouse 87, on the outskirts of Mexico City.”

“What about the penthouse suite?” Yorick interrupted, “We were all there last night. I remember that much.” Doing his best to ignore the pain, he managed to prop himself up on his elbow and lean his back against the neighboring wall.

“Well, ” continued Garis, his patience obviously being tried, “as the night wore on, you became blackout drunk, and made several of us very uncomfortable with your jokes.”

“Ah.”

“Indeed.”

“Did I tell the one about the dragon and the bartender?”

“You did.”

“How did Antonio take it?”

“Rather well, actually.”

“Huh, good on him.”

“Although it turns out that Martha’s mother is Spanish.”

Yorick grimaced, “And that’s how I got in this state?”

Garis paused in thought, “Well, I suppose that’s how you got knocked out the first time.”

Yorick’s brow furrowed. “This doesn’t have anything to do with how we ended up here, does it?”

“Only tangentially.”

“So what happened after that?”

With that question, Garis’s lips pursed, and his eyes looked off into the middle distance.

“We were attacked,” he said, speaking his words slowly, like he was having trouble processing them himself, “Assassins wearing silver hair and bright, blue eyes crashed through the windows while we were watching a movie. They killed Anna and Professor Darring before any of us could react. After that...” Garis’s shoulders slumped.

With those words, Yorick felt the world falling away. He had cared deeply about both Anna and the professor. They were like older siblings to him, to almost everyone. And because of that, he could guess what had come next.

Careful not to let his own emotions show, he watched Garis. It wasn’t often that the man was quiet. But now, he just stared down at his knees, his eyes lost in the memory.

The cot creaked as Yorick pushed himself up to sit at the edge of the cot, just to the right of Garis. The pain was just as bad as before, but he threw up a mental wall to block it out. He would deal with that later.

“How many of them did you all kill?”

“None.”

“What?”

Garis slowly shook his head in disbelief.

“Even while pouring out everything we had,” he said, “They matched us. We were breaking every code and limitation the Council had ever placed on us, but it didn’t matter. How could it not matter? You would think it should have mattered. I don’t unders-” Daris tensed up and clamped his mouth shut, but his eyes still shown with impotent fury.

Yorick nodded sympathetically, but worrying thoughts were racing through his mind. Daris was shutting himself down. He had only done that once before. Years ago. Yorick took a breath to steady himself, and got up.

“And what about me?” he asked, “What was I doing in all this? Because I know, blackout or not, I couldn’t have been out with all that magic in the air.”

Daris let out a shuddering breath and looked up at him, a tight smile on his face.

“If you hadn’t woken up, I don’t think we would have survived.”

Yorick grimaced, “Did I hurt any of you?”

The other man shrugged, “Nothing major. The ones that got in your way should have known better.”

“But...” Yorick began, but hesitated, not really knowing what to say.

Garis stood and walked to where an undershirt and a ratty windbreaker lay folded on a table in the middle of the room. Without looking, he tossed the clothes to Yorick and bent down to pry open the floorboards.

“It’s not worth beating yourself up over your usual lack of self-control, Yorick.” he said, “The worst they got were burns and bruises, and they made it out of bed just fine this morning.”

By the time Yorick had his clothes on, Daris was already rising back up, a vial of dark-blue liquid in his hand. Yorick eyed it worryingly.

“The safehouses usually have more than that, don’t they?” he asked. Garis tilted the vial back and forth in his hands as he inspected it.

“The others already took them”, he replied, “They left a few hours back, at the crack of dawn.” His gaze shifted back to Yorick.

“You needed more time to heal, and I drew the short-straw.” he said with a wry grin. Yorick chuckled, in spite of himself. No one ever volunteered to wait by his bedside. It was always the loser.

Still, with his windbreaker on, he felt marginally better than before. He walked over to where Garis stood, and gently pinched the bottom of the vial between his thumb and index finger.

“To the Light Fantastic,” he said, and sparked the potion with the small amount of power he had left. Instantly, the liquid brightened to a brilliant blue, and began to fizz slightly. Yorick looked to Garis.

“Split it?” he asked, “Fifty fifty?”

The other man nodded, and lifted the vial to his lips, draining about half of the mixture. Yorick did the same, polishing it off.

He was wholly unprepared for the surge of energy that came coursing through his system, and very nearly vaporized the building.

He caught himself at the last moment, digging his fingernails into his forearm beneath the windbreaker to ground himself. Had he really been using that much power the night before? He stared down at his arm, trying to keep everything under control.

Garis was looking at him funny, no doubt, but he did that often.

“I’m fine,” he said, trying to head off any questions, “Just… Just making sure I’ve got everything under control.”

“No doubt” came the reply.

Smart ass.

“So are we going?” Yorick asked, aiming for a change of topic.

“You don’t even know who we’re looking for” countered Garis.

“Ay, but if the bastards were as strong as you remember, then that narrows our options.”

Garis watched him warily.

“You’re about to get violent, aren’t you?” he asked.

Yorick began walking towards the apartment door, looking down at his right hand as he did. The middle finger had managed to pierce skin, and had a bit of bright red blood marking its tip. He almost imagined that he could smell the metallic tang, taste it in the back of his mouth.

With barely a thought, he let a flickering of newly-crafted energy play across the hand. Arcs of light jumping from finger to finger as it clenched and unclenched.

Anna and Darring.

They didn’t deserve to die.

They really shouldn’t have died.

It was a mistake that would have a price to pay.

Because, despite the hangover, and the pain, and the grief, he was still an archmage.

Yorick turned back to Garis, sure that his eyes probably looked wild, and not caring in the slightest.

“Let’s kick open a few hornet nests.”

I woke with a headache, the likes of which I have not felt since the days of Arthur. The last thing I remembered was drinking with Morgan le Fay, who in recent years preferred absinthe, lighting it on fire with inexhaustible enjoyment. I have always hated the drink, but drank anyway, to avoid insulting my host. Regardless of my distaste, I thought it unlikely that absinthe alone would make me pass out; still more improbable that it would transport me from London to Tijuana.

Likely Morgan's work then. I thought back to our conversation, which after a few bottles meandered to a subject I would usually avoid at all cost; namely my belief that I was cursed, for my infidelity, to wander the world until I found the Grail. She thought it more likely that I was under an enchantment, like herself. 'I can see you will not give up this idea until you find it,' she said, 'in that case, I suppose I should help you.'

I looked around. No helpful signs like "Grail, 5km" presented themselves. Still, I have not yet searched this country, nor any in South America. I felt, for the first time in decades, some anticipation. Even if the Grail wasn't in Mexico, it would be interesting to search, and the Amazon Jungle seemed a place where the old adventures might still be found. Without any particular reason, I set off towards the beach. After all, eventually I will have looked everywhere. I have all the time in the world.

Where the hell am I?

My head was splitting, I didn't dare open my eyes; the bed was as stiff as a board. If it hadn't been for the sheets around my ankles and the pillow under my head, I would have sworn I had woken up in the streets again. But no, there was no doubt about it, I was in bed. It wasn't my apartment in San Diego, that was for bloody sure, but at least it was a bed. I opened my eyes.

The light pouring through the open window crushed the back of my eyes and the middle of my head. I fell back again, I groaned.

Yes, I overdid it again, I was lost. Maybe they raped me. My ass didn't hurt, though. Maybe someone stole my kidney. I felt my stomach. No stitches. I was naked except for my underwear, it was so hot. Hotter than San Diego, that was what I thought. That scared me.

Really, where the hell am I?

I forced myself to sit up on the bed. I was nauseous, I could have puked then and there. But I was a veteran, I kept last night's Gouda cheese, ham and vodka in my stomach where it would damn well stay until I decided it was a good time for it to leave, in one direction or the other, it didn't matter.

The wave of nausea slowly subsided, I got a grip of myself and opened my eyes again. I took a look around. To my right was the godforsaken window. Outside there was a wall of brown rock and dust and shrubs. It looked like the bloody desert is what it looked like. Maybe I did have reason to fear. I painstakingly turned around and glanced at the rest of the room someone had been so kind as to let me sleep in. The walls were dark wood. There was a television screwed to the roof and wall directly above and in front of me. It looked like it must have been from 2005 or something. Everything seemed to indicate that this was a hotel room, but one of the cheapest ones I'd ever slept in. That explained the rickety ass bed.

The remote controller was on the nightstand, beside my wallet, cell phone, car keys and passport. That was a relief, but what in the hell was my passport doing there? The alarm clock: 9:05 AM. It wasn't that late. Maybe they were serving breakfast. On second thought, I couldn't have stood the sight of eggs. Coffee, that's what I needed, some coffee. And some goddamn answers.

What the hell happened last night?

I tried to remember the night before. We were at Stefan's party on the rooftop of his fancy hotel. The drinks were endless, there were hot chicks in the pool, everyone was in a good mood. Braxton was there, of all people. How many years had it been since I'd last seen Braxton? It felt like a decade, at least. It must have been more like six years. Anyways, he seemed to be the same fuckup as always. You know what, I can't be harsh on the guy, it’s been a long time. Who the hell am I to judge?

Anyways, all of that happened around 11 o'clock. It was early in the night, the party had just started. I couldn't remember a thing, really. That was it: a rooftop pool party, some near-topless bitches and Baxter. And somehow that little formula ended in me waking up in my underwear in the goddamn desert. It was enough to make you want to puke. I gagged.

Goddamn it.

That was enough. I forced myself to stand up, I dragged myself over to the chair under the TV set where my clothes were hanging, slipped my pants on, nearly fell over the concrete bed, sat down on the bed, wrestled with my pants (tight pants are Hell at a time like that), managed to get them both on, slipped into my shirt, etc., etc.. I wasn't feeling that God awful as long as I was in motion, as long as I was thinking about the next step. Okay, now that I've got my clothes on, what do I do? The obvious answer was to get to the bottom of what in the hell was going on: where was I and how did I get there? And the answers obviously weren't in that shady hotel room.

I walked out into a hallway. The door in front of me was 106. I didn't imagine that a hotel like that could have very many rooms. At the end of the hall to my right there were stairs going down. Down into Hell. I went that way. I nearly forgot to check if I had a card to get back into my hotel room. Surely enough, it was in one of my back pockets: room 114. That suited me fine.

Downstairs there was a ruckus. The first words I heard weren’t in English, the first faces I saw were brown. At least it's Saturday, I told myself. I had the whole weekend to figure out what was happening and how I was going to get back home. But my mind kept nagging me.

You’ve really done it this time, buddy, you’re fucked.

At the bottom of the stairs there was a small lobby with the same basic decorum: dark wood and mirrors. The receptionist was a cute little brown thing. I tried to ask her in English where I was, one of the most absurd questions a human can ask at any given moment other than ‘what year is it?’. For all I knew it was 2005, but I was going to take it easy, one stupid question at a time. She smiled at me and said something in Spanish. I had taken enough Spanish in high school to at least understand that it was Spanish she was speaking.

"Listen, I have no clue how in the hell I got here and I really don't have time to play Simon says, you got me? I just want to find out where this is and how it is I got here?"

I knew I was being an asshole, but I was frustrated and hungover. She answered in Spanish again. I got the gist of it, something along the lines of ‘I don't speak English, sir, please fuck off’. Fine by me, fine. I saw there was a lunchroom by the lobby and people eating beans and eggs.

I'm in Mexico… I'm in fucking Mexico.

Where in the hell else could I be? I couldn't believe it. That's when I saw that straw blonde head of hair, last table to the left, right by a door that lead out to the desert.

"Gracias," I said to the lovely little receptionist in my thick American accent just before I stormed off in Baxter's direction.

"Buenos días," said Baxter, raising his cup of coffee as a sign of greeting. I was a couple of Spanish words away from bashing his face in, but then I remembered the other Mexicans and their families at the tables around us and decided it was best not to start a scene. I sat down at the table. The smell of coffee enraptured me.

"Where's the coffee?" I said to him, naturally as you please, as if I didn't have a care in the world.

"It's over there," he said pointing at the opposite corner of the lunchroom where the eggs, beans and coffee were all set up for us wandering pilgrims.

"Goddamn, do I need a cup of coffee," I said, but I didn't move. My head was pounding. I cut to the chase: "Where in the hell are we, Baxter?"

"A little town called La Cabrita in the state of Sonora, Mexico," he said cheerfully, though I could tell he was nervous. I must have looked like a wreck, I must have looked like I was about to crack, another broken egg.

"And what in the hell are we doing in Mexico, Baxter?"

"You don't remember?" he said, apparently in earnest.

“No, I don’t fucking remember.”

“But it was your idea.”

“To come to Mexico, are you serious?”

“Yeah, I am serious. You thought it was a good idea to chase after Alba, you said it would be a good way for us to catch up. A road trip through the Mexican desert. You don’t remember any of that?”

“Goddamn it, Baxter, do you think I was in my right mind?”

“No, I know you were drunk, but drunk people are honest.”

“And stupid, Baxter! Drunk people are stupid!”

I was yelling, but I could tell the other people were listening to us and felt uneasy. I turned it down a notch. At least they probably don’t understand a word I’m saying, I thought. That was a small relief.

“Who’s this Alba character we’re chasing after?” I asked him.

The question felt ludicrous. It felt like we were acting out a scene from a mediocre Hollywood rom-com. I was surely the butt of the jokes.

“The love of my life,” he said. I laughed out loud at that, my suspicions were confirmed. “You’re much less of a dick when you’re drunk,” he said, but I couldn’t help myself. The whole scenario was too ridiculous.

“You dragged me to Mexico to chase after the love of your life? What, are you twelve?”

“Again, Dennis, it was your idea.”

I’m only such a cynical bastard when I’m sober, not drunk. I’ve been known to spread love and tenderness in every which direction once my liver is forced to process enough rum and tequila. Which is why people love me when I’m drunk. They tolerate me when I’m sober. I’ve come to terms with that. In other words, I’ve become a rampant alcoholic. But I make good money, I have a beautiful condo with an ocean view, I have tons of friends. No one complains. Only a couple of times have some of those same friends mentioned that maybe I should calm it down just a little with the drinking. Usually it’s after I end up in a situation like this one. Like the time I ended up fucking my friend Barry’s boss and his wife after a dinner party. I digress.

“Well I’m sorry to let you know that I don’t remember any of that, none of it, nada.”

That’s it, I’ll win the sweethearts over in Mexico with my fluent Spanish. Baxter was speechless, I was speechless. There was chitchat in Spanish all around us. I didn’t understand a thing. I wondered if Baxter knew much Spanish.

“I’m going to get some coffee,” I said, somewhat theatrically, then I slowly got up and walked across the lunchroom. Surprisingly I wasn’t feeling as horrible anymore. There were still lots of questions that needed answers, but at least I knew the gist of what was going on, absurd as may have been. I poured that black, oily elixir into a white mug and waltzed back over to our table. I sniffed at the coffee. The very scent of it dragged me back to life.

“How the hell did we even get here?” I said after a sip. It was lukewarm. “Just how far from the border are we?”

“My car’s outside. We’re about one hundred fifty miles from the border right now.”

“I hear it’s pretty dangerous in northern Mexico, that there’s lots of drug-related violence and such.”

“These people seem nice enough.”

“Yeah, well I bet any one of these people could get us killed on a whim if they felt like it,” I whispered to him, just in case someone knew any English.

Oh, naïve, innocent Baxter, the same as I remembered him back when, in college. He dropped out first, I’ll never forget that. I’ve got to admit that the way he gave up on higher education was a bit of an inspiration for me. But unlike Baxter, with his dreams of winning the hearts of millions with his silky voice and an acoustic guitar, I had no such illusions of grandeur. All I wanted was to make money and to make money fast. Getting into debt and not even finding a job as a chiropractor or a dentist’s assistant was of no interest to me. We both quit school and moved to California with our own ideas of success, and now here we were, south of that godforsaken border that kept these savages from plundering the Land of the Free.

“Where have you been all this time, Baxter?”

He seemed embarrassed. I know I would be if I were him.

“I told you last night. I’ve been around…”

“We’ve all been around, Baxter. Some of us just haven’t made it back.”

I thought I was being witty. Baxter didn’t seem to appreciate my sense of humor. In fact, he looked pretty damn sad. I wasn’t being very nice to him, I realize, but you have to understand the circumstances, where we were, how I was feeling. This was a real shitstorm of unprecedented magnitude.

“Listen, Dennis, I’m sorry things ended up like this. I didn’t know you were like this…”

“Like what, Baxter? Go on, like what?”

“Boy, it’s just you didn’t seem like such and asshole last night, that’s all.”

That didn’t offend me in the slightest, I knew he was right. The lukewarm coffee made me feel better, anyhow. Baxter played with the little bit of scrambled eggs left on his plate with his fork, I drank my coffee and looked outside: cacti and dust. It was going to be a very hot day, it was already pretty damn hot.

“So tell me about this Alba girl,” I said. His eyes brightened visibly.

“Aw, you should have seen her, Dennis. It was like out of a movie, this beautiful little señorita with a denim jacket and hair cut short, you know, the kind that don’t seem to be aware of how beautiful they are? And there I was, minding my own business, looking around for a coffee shop to kill time in before the party, and there she was looking at magazines by the side of the road. I’m not usually the kind of guy that just walks up to a cute girl he’s never seen in his life, but this time was different. I was feeling pretty good yesterday, I guess. So I walked up to her and told her she didn’t need any advice from any of those tacky beauty columns, and she smiled, she actually smiled at that. Next thing you know we were talking in Spanish about Leonard Cohen and Mexico and I took her out for coffee. But I told you all of this yesterday, don’t you remember any of it?”

“I’ll be honest with you, Baxter, I really don’t remember any of that.”

“Damn it, man, I didn’t know you were that fucked up.”

“Neither did I. So what happened after that?”

“Not much. We really hit it off, anyways, but when I asked her for her number she told me she was leaving on a flight back to Mexico in a couple of hours. I insisted that I didn’t care, that I’d go see her down there. She let me know where she lived and told me I could go there whenever, that she’d show me around. I didn’t think I’d ever see her again, but I wrote that info down and looked her up on Facebook.”

“Well, show her to me,” I said. Baxter still seemed all excited about the fact that he got to talk about this girl. He showed me a picture of her on his cell phone. She was alright, not really my type.

We finished breakfast and checked out of the hotel. Baxter spoke what seemed like some pretty smooth Spanish with the receptionist. She smiled at me ironically. There I was, the butt of some cosmic joke.

The same Nissan Sentra I remembered Baxter owning six years ago was outside in the parking lot, which was basically just an open plot of pebbles and dust by the road. He asked me if I was going to go with him with no sign of conviction. I told him that I had to head back to San Diego. He didn’t seem in the least bit disappointed. That hurt me a bit, I admit it. I know that the way I acted that morning was pretty shitty, especially considering the beautiful, drunk performance I must have given him the night before. This other, Saturday morning, hungover Dennis had practically no redeeming qualities other than a beautiful face and a credit card. Which is why I was always in such a hurry to erase him again.

“I guess I’ll see you around, then,” said Baxter.

“Yeah, who knows?”

I didn’t think we would. I couldn’t tell whether I cared or not. We shook hands and he slipped into his beat up car. I stood by the side of the road and watched him pull out and zip past the shacks and the gas station at the end of town towards the desert and beyond, towards his Alba and whatever dumbfounded shenanigans awaited him in the state of Sinaloa. I watched the car for a long time until it dipped under the horizon, it was a straight road to nowhere. What a stupid, pointless scene.

Once I was certain that he was gone and that I was really on my own in northern Mexico, I walked back to the hotel. For a moment I forgot that my Spanish was practically nonexistent and that the cute receptionist was probably just going to spit me back out into the desert streets. Luckily for me there was another character there beside her, a fat middle-aged man that may or may not have been the owner of the joint, behind the counter. I asked him if there was a bus out of town back to the US of A. He told me in not-too-shabby English that there were two buses back to the border, one at six in the morning and one at six at night. They left a few blocks north of where the hotel was.

“Gracias,” I told him, flexing one of the only two or three words I knew in Spanish again. That at least made him smile.

I felt terribly vulnerable in that town walking back up the street towards where the bus station was supposed to be. I stuck out like a sore thumb. Someone could have told me they were going to cut my balls off and feed them to the coyotes straight to my face and all I could have done was smile and say that I didn’t understand Spanish.

I found the bus station with two or three colorful buses lined up under a tin roof. I found the schedule plastered on a wall in front of the buses. It confirmed what the fat guy at the hotel had said. That was good enough for me, I needed a drink.

Across the street I found a tiny, shady bar where some older fellows with straw hats were drowning their sorrows. It was almost dark in there, everything was made of wood.

“Tequila,” I said casually as you please to the bald bartender behind the counter. He smiled in a way that let me know that he found me funny, everyone was in on it. Some words were exchanged between him and one of the customers at the bar. They both laughed. I didn’t dare ask in English what it was that they found so funny. He gave me my shot of tequila with no lime and no salt. That was fine by me. Alcohol’s alcohol at the end of the day, no matter how you dress it up.

“Gracias,” I said.

I swallowed it in one scoop, nearly gagged, but kept my composure. I hoped that the next eight hours would go by in a hurry so I could forget that this had ever happened. I twirled my finger in the air in the universal sign of ‘one more please’.

“Por favor,” I said, suddenly remembering the magic words for please in Spanish. It hadn’t been pointless to take Spanish in high school after all. The bartender smiled knowingly, more words were exchanged between him and this crusty customer at the bar, they both laughed out loud. I was given my second shot of tequila and once again I gulped it down in half a second, no gag reflex this time, I was back in my zone.

Things went on like that for a few minutes. I just kept asking for shots, saying please and thank you in Spanish, watching the bartender tell stupid jokes to his clients at my expense. I must have been four or five shots of tequila in when I dared ask the bartender why they didn’t add lime and salt to the equation.

“No English,” he responded curtly. I understood I was alone in the world. At least I had something to drink. Next I asked for a whisky. My bidding was the man’s command. I sipped at it slowly, already kind of drunk, but with no one to share my joy and intoxication, I was still deflated. I lost all hope.

That’s when I started thinking about Baxter again, I couldn’t help it. First I puzzled through the memories I had of him from that morning and the night before, few as they were, this new and apparently not-so-different Baxter. But when I saw him in my mind’s eye, there did seem to be something radically different about him. He must have told me more about his life last night. Even though he had the same kind of lighthearted, careless spirit, there seemed to be some weight and sadness behind it all. He had been through some shit in these last few years, I didn’t doubt it. I, on the other hand, was the same asshole he must have remembered from college. Maybe I was angrier than I used to be, I thought in my drunkenness, maybe I wasn’t the same person. In fact, maybe I had regressed, whereas Baxter had grown kinder and more understanding. The bartender and the drunkard at the bar beside me continued laughing heartily.

The sober part of me that still lingered around the edges of the glass of whisky wanted to tell me that those thoughts were bullshit, but I was drunk enough already to recognize the truth in them and they lingered. I just kept staring at the enormous distance between Baxter and myself.

A voice on the radio sang joyfully of lost love to the tune of an acoustic guitar, not that I could understand the words. They were songs from a bygone era, I could tell. I asked for another tequila. The bartender wasn’t smiling anymore. I took out a couple of twenties to appease him. He gave me one last shot. I slammed it back and waltzed back out into the streets. The bartender muttered something to my back.

The sun was at its highest and tried its damnedest to make me crash down onto the ground. I walked aimlessly past a gas station and a liquor store and a small supermarket and the like. Looking back, I really am lucky I didn’t get raped, or that I at least didn’t get my wallet stolen.

I finally did crash under a flimsy tree in a field by the road, it was as hot as hell and I needed the shade. I dozed off, the sound of an acoustic guitar and laughter trailing in and out of my consciousness.

The doctors noted:

Time of death 14:20. Cause of death: cardaic arrest due to alcohol intoxication. Place of death: Mexico City, Mexico

I noted:

Time of freedom: 14:20. Cause of freedom: intolerance of god’s shitty games.

God noted:

Player 6892626548 entered level 2 at 14:21. No anomalies noted.

Flashes. I only remember flashes. Bonfire. Sand. Waves. Laughter. Talking. Tequila. Lots of tequila. Tecate. How about another one? Why did you start with tequila on an empty stomach?

Beer before liquor, never been sicker. Liquor before beer, you’re in the clear… I’m in the clear!

It’s a party around a giant bonfire on the beach where I know only one person: my friend who invited me. The people here all went to her high school. I’m from out of town.

“Where are you from?”

“I’m from here! I was valedictorian, class of 2012.”

“No way. For real?”

“Yes way.”

I lied. They believed me. My humor, it’s dry. Do I tell them the truth? Nah.

More flashes. There’s grass. I’m sitting on grass. I’m kissing someone. Who is it? The grass. It’s wet.

I’m not sure what to do here, so I keep drinking. The tequila’s in my purse. I opt for another Tecate. A guy, he comes up and starts talking to me. He has a kind face.

A bedroom. I’m in a bedroom. Whose bedroom? What is this place? I don’t care. I’m fine.

Sometimes when I’m drunk, I talk politics. This guy and I, we start talking politics. He leans more conservative. I lean liberal. That doesn’t matter to me. In fact, it makes me want to speak to him more.

“But you’re being exploited! Don’t you want more than that?”

“More of what? I’m happy with the way things are.”

“But don’t you just want more?”

“What do you want?”

Black. Blackness. Nothing. I don’t remember what happened next. And then there were just flashes.

I’m making out with this guy. On this bed. And I don’t know where I am. Who is he? He’s making out with me and I’m squinting, trying to look at his face. I don’t know.

Who is he?

I don’t know.

There’s two of them. They’re talking. One of them is the guy I was making out with. The other… I know him. He’s my friends brother. I met him tonight. I’m sitting on the bed. They’re talking about me. They’re arguing.

“Dude, I don’t know that she’s in the right state of mind.”

“It’s cool man… really, I think she’s fine.”

“Dude, seriously, I don’t know…”

I interject.

“I’m fine.”

I smile.

“I’m fine.”

I wasn’t fine. Why did I say I was fine?

Vomit. I was puking. I remember all of the puking. I vomited on the floor.

Cleaning. I’m cleaning myself at the bathroom sink. He tries to help.

“Get away from me. I can take care of myself.”

I look at myself in the mirror. There’s vomit in my hair.

“My god, I’m such a mess.”

He’s going down on me. I can feel him there. He keeps going. I can feel myself getting close. I push him off and then pull him on top of me and my body is rubbing against his body. And then everything goes black. I don’t know what happens next…

I jolt awake. Was it a dream?

I’m not wearing any underwear.

No, it wasn’t.

The shirt I have on. It’s not mine. There’s vomit on the sheets on the bed. And on the floor.

Where is my underwear?

My clothes. They’re in a pile on the floor. And they’re wet… ick. From vomit?

There’s my underwear. The plainest, least sexy pair of underwear I had. Because nothing was going to happen. Nothing was supposed to happen.

My phone. Where is my phone?

I panic. What if I didn’t have it? What if it had been lost in my drunken stupor?

It’s okay. It’s here. In my jacket pocket. My jacket. Which smells of vomit. There’s vomit on it.

I look at the time. It’s 12pm. I’m lightheaded. The hangover. It’s bad. Why did I start with tequila on an empty stomach?

There’s a text from my friend. She wants to know where I am. She says that I ran off with Kevin. That she didn’t see me after that.

I ask her, who’s Kevin? The guy I was talking to about politics?

No. Not him.

Kevin’s not here. I don’t remember meeting Kevin. I don’t know who Kevin is. I only remember those flashes.

I don’t know where I am.

Where am I?

I need to get out of here.

I pick up my shorts. There's no vomit on them. They’re just wet. But why?

I put them on. I rip the men’s t-shirt off of me. I don’t know who it came from. I think it was his. Kevin’s. Kevin. His name was Kevin.

I let it drop to the ground. I put on my tank top. My tank top does have some vomit on it. It’ll just have to do.

There’s a door. I need to open it. I need to get out of here.

Where am I?

I step outside. It was cool in there, it’s hot out here.

I can’t see. The sun, it’s so bright.

I’m on a balcony. There’s a street and people walking around. The street… there’s something different.

A stop sign. Alto.

A woman. She’s walking down the street. I yell.

“Dónde estoy?”

She’s startled. She looks up at me.

“Dónde estoy?”

She shakes her head disapprovingly.

“Estás en Tijuana.”

Tijuana. Tijuana, Mexico.

I’m in Mexico, and all I remember are flashes.

How did I get here?

You wake in Mexico.

That’s the first thing I noticed as I woke, the words were taped on the snowy ceiling: black, bold writing tilted and cursive, like ashen leaves on a lined page. It was amusing.

Well, that wasn’t precisely the first thing I noticed.

A dull throbbing headache.

That’s the first thing I noticed as I woke, it was the kind that shot lashes of pain radiating through your skull at even the suggestion of light and sound. I was hungover.

Well, this too was incorrect, that wasn’t the first thing I had noticed.

A hollow cavern where my memory should be.

That’s the first thing I noticed as I woke, like reaching into a jar of age worn pennies, only to have your fingers brush the icy bottom. I look up, look around, perplexed. It seemed the jar was not the largest of my concerns, there was emptiness. Still and stale emptiness. Where there should have been a yesterday and a day before and a day before; there was nothing. I was lost.

So really, there were three things I noticed as I woke.

The words on the ceiling did not seem amusing as the ramifications set in. Could I really be in Mexico? A ringing began in the back of my mind, small and incessant and trilling. I pushed myself up. My mouth was a cracked, brittle patch of desert, ravenous for rain. My temples a mocking symphony of silent agony, pulsing and thumping. Something crinkled under my fingers, I looked down, a note was taped on the thin, mint green blanket I had slept under. Lined paper: You forgot to write a note yesterday. Look at the bedside table. -- Dad

I looked. It was a small wooden thing, the top covered in post-it notes of writing, neon assuaged my sight in a violent flurry of pink and yellow and green and blue and orange; the pinned wings of exotic birds. The writing was the same as the scrawl on the ceiling. I leaned forward to read them:

This is a tldr for you, who is me tomorrow. Keep up and try not to waste the day processing, you’ll have to do this again in 26 hours.

1. You have Susac Syndrome of the encephalopathy kind.

2. It’s a rare autoimmune disease, that resets your memory every 26 hours.

3. You’re 19 years old.

4. A year into the memory loss you moved back to Mexico, which is where you live now -- I thought the ceiling note would be amusing. Was it today? You’re opinion fluctuates.

5. You have a journal log and a video log of each day in the first drawer of this side table.

6. You work at your aunt’s book store. Look for instructions on that in the journal.

7. You don’t work today. It’s Día de Muertos -- The Day of The Dead.

8. Yes. You did write these, the parents have a strict respect of privacy policy. /I’ve/ certainly never caught them snooping.

Each word was a stone hurled at my skin, I stumbled searching the silence that was my mind. The earliest memory I could recall was of a mundane winter day, where I had slept in, because of the snow outside. Only the roof tops of New York were glittering white, the ground was a slippery mess of muddied slosh that you could no longer call snow. It was the weekend. I was 16. The ringing became louder, faster, almost a monotone scream.

I was 19.

Three years had passed. Three years the world had spun, the days had dawned, people had loved and fought for three years, and I did not recall a single thing. I knew my name: Ainara, knew I had parents, knew of my life in New York, but they seemed like blurry reels of film from a past time, ineffective in the slots I had before me.

Reaching for the bronze handle of the drawer, my fingers lingered on the ridges, they swooped and dove, swirls of frozen fire, I hesitated.

My past was as indiscernible as the muddied snow and I would have to do this countless times, had done it countless. Would it really matter, if I skipped this part? Alas, my curiosity held more sway than apprehension. I couldn’t decide if it was a trait of the Ainara that was supposed to be, or of the Ainara that woke up today. Tightening my grip on the handle, I slid the drawer open. A worn, leather journal looked up at me: embossed with overlapping leaves of varying hues of green, from forest to electric binding thick cream pages. A sleek black camera, slightly larger than my palm, leaned against it.

I don’t know what I expected as I flipped through the pages, traced the curl of the inked words. Recognition, perhaps even a flicker of familiarity, but that was not the case. Each page was filled with sentences, accounts, jokes, even curses, they were wistful, raging; excited, remorseful; accepting, melancholy; hopeful, numb; determined, some pages just scribbled in black, as if words had been too agonising. Yet, the girl in these pages was a kaleidoscope of people, she was no more me, than the girl from the first day of accounts was the girl on the second day. The journal was a tomb of strangers. The videos, the pictures an eulogy, with people I once knew, acting as punctuation to the girl who was once known.

The only relevant information was the location of her --my secret stash of money, kept away from the parents to spend on things they would surely not approve off. Maybe they did snoop then. It didn’t really matter, I suppose.

Shutting away the log, I strode to the opposite side of the bed, the pepper tiled floor cool beneath my feet. Deep blue curtains brushed my bare knees, I traced the intricate designs of gold thread sewn on the thick material, little sun bursts and marigolds under my skin. Finding, no reason to linger, I opened the curtains unceremoniously.

My breath caught in my throat, an inexplicable pressure building in my chest. The sky was a pale blue marble, the sun a shard of glass; blinding, vividly white, wisps of clouds trailed the sky on a languid wind. Sunlight struck the brown and mahogany roofs of the indigenous adobes, shadows pooling onto the cobblestoned street. Gnarled roots of bright leafed trees grasped at the grey stones, fingers digging to the soil below. It was a quiet, quaint street, a weight lingered at each corner, each crevice, as if the town listened, adored the people, as much as the people listened, adored the town. History sat heavy in doorways, stories peeked out from cracks in brick, there was a tender affection in the way the sky hung over the town; it spoke of secrets, if only you would dare to look, dare to fall in love with them.

Wreathed onto each window, crafted into arches at doors were flowers, it was as if they had bloomed from the bricks of the houses themselves. Marigolds the colour of sunshine, of bursting oranges; chrysanthemums the colour of snow, of a violet sky, of crimson berries; gladioli stalks of blushing pink, of blood red curled, swayed and draped on the street. It was a riot of sight, an exclamation of life. Look, look, look they seemed to beckon, to preen.

Even if the post its had not mentioned it, I would have known it was the Day of the Dead. Never, in New York had there been anything half as elaborative, as much of a culmination of community. The pressure in my chest increased, a thin blade of longing slicing my ribs, how many such days had I missed, such untamed beauty had I forgotten. My breath blurred the window, I had not noticed I had pressed my face to the glass, my hands gripping the wooden sill, a child wishing greedily for the unattainable.

Relaxing my fingers, I stepped back, the sun cupping me in its warmth, as I stood, arms limp dust motes swirling around my frame; lazy.

I exhaled, a soft, barely there passing of air through my lips; I turned and surveyed the room.

Like the journal, it was more a coalition of entries than the continuous prose of one person. The room itself was more perfunctory than whimsical, with a sleek onyx framed bed parenthesised by black painted side tables, a desk adjacent to the bed, also black: it was the kind you could tuck your chair into, with plenty of compartments and drawers for storage, a pair of horizontal shelves lined above it. There was a larger shelving unit tucked an arm’s length away, only stopping a foot from the open door, it gleamed as the sunshine trickled over the onyx surface. The only ornamented furniture was the full bodied mirror opposite the window, acting as one of the two doors leading to the wardrobe. It’s muted gold outline complementing the swirled brass handles of the wardrobe. Everything else was plain, to the point.

Except it wasn’t, the clutter in the room counterintuitive, like a conversation was underway, like a sentence left off midway; convoluted. Paintings and sketches were pinned on the walls, a disarray of images all unfinished. There was a cyan river that wove between two midnight silhouettes abruptly vanishing at their cut off legs; the face of a charcoal boy peered at you with one mournful, golden eye; an apple blossom tree with pencil lined petals stood suspended in a blank void. The shelves seemed to be a hybrid of organization, books stood in neat lines, their spines facing out when a space would abruptly open up, a statue of a sinuous greyhound with a missing leg, or a tumble of chains, or a smattering of guitar picks would shatter the tidy demeanour.

There was a trio of cacti in earthen pots on the desk, a single knitting needle poked out of a pile of polaroids, of people and places I wasn’t sure were supposed to be strangers. Many a instrument was strewn across the room: guitar, flute, keyboard.

Even a bike helmet, with its visor up lay discarded, next to a web of dream catchers. It was as if someone had tried to pursue a great many things, started a great many things with no intention of mastering them, completing them. There was a hopeless abandon to it. Obscure things like tiny silver bells, marigold shaped candles and ornate knives were present in abundance, as if the objects were skewed stand ins for memories: a superficial theatre play of history. I felt a sudden claustrophobia, the ghosts of girls that that never lived pressed against me, stuffing my nose, clogging my lungs. Unable to stand it any longer, I walked out, steps brisk, nails digging into palms.

A small hall way greeted me as I emerged from the room, spying the bathroom I decided to freshened up, splashing ice water on my face, a wincing girl with bruises under her eyes stared back at me in the small, oval mirror. She look bedraggled. The fluctuating octave of two voices lead me out of my reprieve, let me out of the toilet. My parents? They had to be. Trepidation hunched on my shoulders, doubt whispered in my ears, they would know me, yet I would not know them. No, that wasn’t strictly true, they would not know me either, I was not the girl of yesterday, I was a different shard of a similar mosaic. I had been close with my parents, from what I could recall; ink stained hands, the warmth in my father’s eyes; a percussive laugh, the frown in my mother’s reprimand. I had been closer to my father, I think.

It was his voice I heard first.

″ --- I don’t think I can see her today. She wakes up a stranger Lydia, I can’t --- I just can’t ---”

The words seemed choked. My steps slowed.

“She was drunk last night. I found her on our doorstep. The doorstep for god sakes. What can I even say to her?”

A weary breath. I stopped.

“I don’t even know her Lyd... she’s a stranger.”

The sentence was a hoarse whisper. I blinked.

“I know, I know.”

A voice murmured. I blinked.

“It certainly isn’t what we expected.”

She sighed, the sound bowed with weight. I blinked.

I blinked once, twice, thrice. I thought perhaps it was not supposed to hurt so much when really I did not know them and really they had every right to be drained by my presence. Still, their drained, dull voices fell like stray embers on my skin, branding it a raw pink.

Quietly, I inched forward.

My father sat hunched, elbows on the round dinner table that lay in the kitchen -- dining room, heels of his hands pressed into his eyes, as if pushing the sentiments that rose in him back, back, back. His hair had grown longer, the onyx locks curled around his deep brown ears. He was clad in rumpled clothing -- a too long maroon sweater, beige trousers -- I wasn’t sure if it was my fault, or because he had always been a rumpled looking man. Never still, as if time ran away faster from him than others. Soft lines, blurred edges, a roving mind, that’s what my father was; a dirt road that took you to obscure towns you never wanted to leave. He was home.

My mother was the opposite, sharp lines and sharper angles, her hair was glossy black and swayed at her straight shoulders in a straight curtain. She was tall -- like me -- her features delicate, her eyes cool and still like the bottom of a lake: black, her lips thin as a blade. Never one for outward emotion. She was a piece of architecture, sleek, lovely and remote. Unchanged by these three years. Standing behind my dad, tilted towards him, away from the door, from me.

It was the hand she lay on my dad’s neck, that snagged my gaze. The gesture was strange, it cupped the top of his spine, a thumb stroking tender lines in the dip of his shoulder. They had not seen me yet, she dipped her head and spoke into his hair. It was a soft gesture, so at odds with the hard lines of her frame. Ripples of dissonance wavered through me. They were a team. The day was not the brightest, the birds did not chirp so, still they were a team. A thought rose, unbidden.

Where was my team?

It was a selfish, forlorn thing to think and I felt suddenly, distinctly alone.

Slipping back down the corridor, I bang my foot loudly to the wall. Waiting a few breaths before I made my way into the kitchen, giving them plenty of time to rearrange themselves, giving my father time to leave.

The room was brightly lit and cool, with large windows, peppered tiles and white counters. A circular table of sturdy of sat in front of a patio door, the warm, hazy air wove in. My mother stood, leaning to lay the table, nonchalant, her copper skin gleamed in the sun, her hair slid over her face. I almost did not believe I had seen the two lined with grief a moment before. Almost. She looked up, eyes running over me, as if to check I was okay, to check who I was today; they were steady, calculating.

“Morning mama.”

A glint of pain sliced her gaze, she sucked in a breath, her eye lids stuttered, she straightened, collected once again. A petal of warmth floated on the ice of her eyes, though she was as unaffectionate as ever. That I remembered.

“Ainara. Sit, eat. Olivero made sweet bread yesterday.”

I knew I had most likely heard her voice before, yesterday even, still the clipped, cool tenor made nostalgia rise. I missed her. I was missing her still.

Nodding, I sat, I ate. The conversation was one sided, she spoke, I listened. I did not mind, her words were the crisp spill of water on sun warmed stones. They were soothing, they were home. We spoke as if I had been away, neither of us mentioned my father. It seemed the lack of approaching the subject was for my benefit, as when we both finished our food, she pushed the plate back and looked at me with a piercing gaze. My mother had never been a soft woman, and at times I had resented her for it, but now there was nothing more comforting, the knowledge that even this devastating thing that lay before us could not crack her demeanour. The realisation was assuring; a relief.

“Ainara,” the r rolled and the i lengthened, I was gripped by the inexplicable urge to hear my name again and again, I felt as if no one had spoken it in an age.

“Are you feeling well today?”

“I’m fine.”, I replied, “Ask me tomorrow.” I stilled, as the words tumbled from my lips, clattering clumsily as they fell between us. My mother’s lips curled up: red vines, “Hilarious. Don’t make such jokes in front of Olivero though, he’s... not feeling well today.”

“You two should go to his family’s house.” I said, scratching a nick in the table, “For Dia De Muertos. I’ll be fine, I want to have a quiet day at home.” I looked at her then, at the smooth skin around her eyes, at odds with my father’s crow’s feet, I didn’t know why I lied, but I kept my gaze unassuming. She seemed to mull over the proposal.

“Alright golondrina.” She relented, laying a hand over my own, our fingers long and bony, the past and future entangled. Shame was a salted wave that seeped into my flesh, scraping me raw. I couldn’t remember the last time she had called me that -- pequeña golondrina: little swallow -- it was the closest she came to genteel when I was a child. My throat itched, my head ached. I felt no more a stranger than now.

------------------------------------------------------------------

The dusk pressed against the windows, the sky was blushing and light, it spilled like a iridescent web through the window, across the floor, straining for me; the drink of a forgotten goddess.

It had been a few hours since I had come back from the walk, strolling the streets that shifted under my feet; all bumps and hollows. My mother of all people had suggested it. The houses stood beside each other like close companions, reversed robins with white breasts, red bottoms, basking in the gleaming arrows the sun rained down. I had woven through the silent streets, my shadow crawling the cobblestoned walkway languidly, leaves of yellow and ochre brown twirled in the air, rasped along the ground, taunting the green ones quivering on branches. My phone pinged, a casual reminder to see off my mother, sent by my mother. I was devastated in the way small galaxies collapse, at the lack of news on my father. I would not see him today, the thought sat heavy in my bones. He did not want to see me.

It was as I made my way back, that the dress caught my eye, the hat tugged my attention. On a pale mannequin who had her plastic elbows bent in a suggestion of hands on hips, was the ensemble I would wear tonight. Where ever I was going, it would be in that.

I bought it.

Now I wore it.

I was ready.

Kohl lined eyes of obsidian, berry stained lips of red. Eyes wide; full, lips thin; sharp, jagged black bangs and wavy hair brushed my bare collarbone. I was a reflection of my mother, harsher, less delicate, a construction of long limbs and large features. An impressionist statue of her; all points and angles, a disagreeable steel piece. The girl who stared back at me in the mirror was a stranger.

Hung by two straps an inch thick a dress clung to her, it’s bodice plain and black, a pointed neck line, it dipped with her frame, the skirts flaring slightly at the hips. They were the true masterpiece: cloth fractured like shards into midnights, greens, reds and yellows, a mosaic of thin glass gleaming and glinting. A large brimmed hat of onyx sat at a jaunty angle on her head, bursting with feathers and glittering with jewels, vehement elegance casting shadows on her face, a iridescent gold veil hung from the brim, trapping her eyes behind it’s sheer facade. An amber stone winked against the brown skin of her bare throat, silver bangles tinkled on both her arms. This girl was not beautiful; she was fierce, she was alluring. A fabrication made of strands of night, crumpled petals and an aching tune.

I enjoyed the sight of her immensely, I smiled.

Tonight, I would not feel the weight of lost memories, lost years. Tonight, I would bask in the loveliness that was Dia de Muertos, the beauty and joy of it. I would not be a missing person out there. I would be just another girl out celebrating. With the phone my mother had pointed out was mine, I could check the time and return before my memories reset.

The guilt of lying seemed distant, the ringing of caution disabled. Even if I forgot, I wanted this night, needed this night. This one night. I could not bear the thought of staying in, with nothing but alien walls and the echo of my parent’s words to keep me company.

I can’t --- I just can’t ---

Certainly not what I expected.

I twisted harshly, snatching up the small rectangular clasp I had found in the wardrobe, from the crinkled sheets of my bed. It had a thin gold chain I looped my arm through, long enough that the white bag banged against my waist. Running my hands over its leather-like hide, I picked at the material, wondering why I could not swallow their sentiments. It should not have been hard for a girl, who had been lost to them for so long. Pivoting my head, I regarded my bared back in the mirror, brown stretched down, down, the skirts started at the base of my spine. My stare snagging on the raised scar peeking out from under a teal shard, curved to line the flat ‘u’ of the garment. It seemed innocuous. I could not stop staring. I did not recall how it came to be. It seemed as if I should know. Had I known before?

Like turning the page of a book you had read long before, I realised, why I could not let the presence of the scar go, the presence of the weariness in my parents go. I wanted the crystalline sugared lie to be true, the one about truest love and its strongest power. Even though I had been lost to them, I did not want them to be lost to me. Did not want them dimmed. Reality was a bitter pill, more so when you gagged on it first hand.

Enough. I would not whittle away my night like so.

Pushing aside the emptiness that tried to climb up my throat, the weariness that draped itself from my limbs, I strode for the door. Leaving the letters I would soon forget behind, steps tap tap tapping as I left.

Finding the epicentre of the festivities was not a hard feat. The many people had migrated to the town plaza; Plaza Vasco de Quiroga the snatches of tourist conversations whispered. The Grande Plaza. People moved like flocks of birds cawing and scraping through the streets, faces painted white, eyes outlined black, a gaggle of skeletons in fine clothing. Tourists and town dwellers alike wore costumes with large hats, flapping cloaks and swishing dresses, it was a sight to behold, truly the day of the dead had come.

I wove through the milling crowd, but another bauble in. The plaza was brimming with life, it was a creature unto itself. Stone arches were adorned with flowers of every colour, lights were strung on the ash trees lining the place, stately mansions stood around it: watchful visitors from a colonial time. Stores overflowed with people, window displays of earthen clay pots and plaques, decadent draperies, intricate accents of dancing people and animals, straw baskets woven with bright flowers, beckoning. Music rose above the buzz of the crowd: a staccato beat, a tittering whistle, a sonorous string, clambering up my limbs, sinking into my skin, wrapping itself around my heart in a sparkling golden veil. A delighted laugh sputtered out of me. My worries, my life was dew under the sun, flimsy, easily vanished. More, I wanted more.

Moving further into the crowd, I drank the sights in with greedy eyes, there was such colour, such music, a distinct vitality thrummed in the air. Dusk bloomed like a tender bruise, the sky lilac, navy, clouds blazing pumpkin with the light of the dying sun, turning periwinkle with the arrival of the waking night. Street lamps flickered on, mellow against the cream walls of the mansions, illuminating a musician with flowing garbs playing by a fountain, grey hair slicked back, wrinkles linning his caramel skin, a violin in his stocky arms, playing almost fervently to a cluster of individuals. The fountain sat in the centre of the square, the bronze statue of a man levelled the revellers clicking pictures and throwing coins a shrewd stare

I bought myself nieve -- ice cream -- and ate de membrillo -- sweets of fruit paste, my fingers sticky, as I went back again, the store worker with long, grey flecked braids and kind eyes smiling as if to agree with my silent declaration. My cheeks hurt from the exultance they could not contain. I spied my reflection in the window of a shop: skin flushed, eyes glittering, lips tilted crooked; a red feather bowed from my hat, people streamed in the background; blurred. That girl had never known anything but exuberance.

Feet aching, I found a less crowded place to sit as the moon grinned bright and the night swept across the sky. I had been roaming for some time now; sliding onto the lip of the fountain, the gurgling of the water a song in itself. I watched a girl with neon green hair splash a boy wearing thin wire frames with water; he squawked and sputtered, before pushing the girl in wholly. Three more figures looked on and laughed, their faces alight and carefree, the only other girl rolling her eyes in good humour; a curtain of midnight hair brushing her waist. None had painted their face with skulls, but they all wore exaggerated clothing, kohl lined eyes and varying sized hats. A group of friends out from college, or taking a break from their jobs. The mundanity of their demeanour, the potentiality of their simple lives struck a painful pang in me, it snuck up like a thief, stealing the breath from my lungs, leaving behind an acute sense of want. It was a desperate asp of an emotion, seizing my very being in its striking grasp. All at once, the beauty of the night was tinged with a profound loneliness.

What am I doing here?

As if feeling the weight of my eyes, the girl of midnight hair turned, the exaggerated volume of her sea foam skirts barely moving, hem ending mid thigh. Her green eyes were frank, if not subtly inquisitive. She was pretty in an unassuming way with dark, a short stature, her mouth a black painted bud. An ocean coloured bodice hugged her form, swooping and diving dramatically. Locks of pin straight hair fell down her bared copper shoulder, settling on the asymmetric ruffles on her chest. A miniature black top hat sat on her head at an angle. She reminded me of a doll, one you were to observe, preserve and never play with. I had the distinct impression to keep the observation to myself. Stare unwavering, she made her way towards me, her steps unhurried, casual despite the strawberry red heels she wore; the thick, squared heel at last four inches tall. She halted a short distance away.

“Heading to the island?” her voice was not high and sweet as I had assumed, but of a breathy, deeper tenor.

I did not know what island she referred to, nor what had given her the impression that I would want to visit it. But perhaps that was not the point of the question.

“Want to head over with us? We need another person to split the fare for the canoe.”

I hesitated, nonplussed by the lack of caution, I was a stranger after all. Wasn’t I? Was I supposed to know her? Unease slicked my palms. She noticed my apprehension, acknowledging it with a wry smile, as if it was often a by product of the conversations she had.

“It’s a crowded island, the one with all the cemeteries?” She cocked her head, “Several boats leave together, you can still change your mind at the docks”.

A stranger then. Still wary I replied, “I don’t have much money left.”

“Your share will be four pesos.”

I did not know anything about the currency, but it didn’t sound nearly enough. Unsure, I pondered, was I going to do this? The thought a coin I twisted in the haloed light of the street lamp I sat not to far from. The girl waited, silent.

Slipping my phone from the bag I checked the time: 8:07. Even if it took an hour to travel, I’d be back home with an hour to spare. A warm breeze flicked my hair, a strand stuck to my lip as I stood. I had the peculiar urge to lay down and stare at the stars. Settling for tilting my head back, I listened, to the wind, the music, the clamour that settled in me, sinking solidly to my core. I had never felt like this in New York. It may have had something to do with being younger, but I did not think so. The wild scent of fresh grass, the heated breeze felt right, felt true, felt like home. How was it possible I would forget this? This moment under a prussian sky so wide and open. This music that rattled life into my bones.

The day of the dead. I suppose It was my day too.

It seemed I had underestimated how close the girl was; from my peripheral I saw as she too tipped her head up, hair shushing as she moved, breath hitting my throat. So we stood, two girls with the wind in our hair and stars in our eyes. I looked at her then, this creature who belonged in a dreamscape, yet stood by an alabaster fountain. She met my gaze, neck craned to look up at me, fine boned hands clutching her elbows with ruby nails, arms pressed to her abdomen. She stood poised, as if any moment she would glide into a dance. Her face impassive, her dark green eyes swimming with a quiet, buzzing energy. My name may have meant swallow, but she was the bird; light and airy. Her citric scent filled my lungs.

“What’s your name?”

She hummed; lifting a bronze skinned hand, her fingers flicked the tip of my hat, satisfied with my decision. Taking a step back she answered: “Leire”.

“Ainara.”

We did not say it was a pleasure, because neither of us knew if it was true, we simply walked side by side as the stars pinpricked above our heads. Her friends were pleasant, but uninterested in me and I in them. We made our way to the docks, the two of us walking behind the group. At one point, Leire stopped at a flower vendor’s, she bought two crowns of marigold and several twined flower bracelets: bright pink, canary yellow, pale blue. We adorned our finery with sombre faces and coruscating eyes and when I reached for her hand she did not let go. I did not truly understand what happiness was, but I thought that this could be close.

Reaching the docks, two storybook silhouettes, one with an oversized head piece on which curls a marigold crown and the other with a tiny head piece which epicentres a marigold crown, we peered out at the black, glassy expanse of water, at the canoe nearest to us. Its surface nicked, but coated in gleaming scarlet paint, its body long as the poles of the street lamps, longer, and wide enough to situate three passengers on each of the four mahogany coloured benches that cleaved the boat -- with room to spare

I watched her friends clamber into the boat, somehow separate from us; guided by the reedy boy with wireframe glasses, he the boat still, surprisingly apt at predicting when his companions will dip the canoe, righting it accordingly. I am next, I stare at the mop of churlishly curled auburn hair on his head, at the silver hoops in his ear, the assurance he exudes, pale skin translucent under the glow of the moon. He smiles, small and sturdy, I smile back and fumble on; Leire behind me. The wood digs into my tail bone, the oar a foreign object in my palm. The sky so blue it is black, occasional stars peer down from the bruised velvet, jealous of the moonlight that falls on the lake, our upturned faces; a silver slip making us all a little other. There are more than a dozen of these scarlet boats lining the mildewed docks, bobbing on water that ripples; warping the symmetry of up and down. Petals of gold, the occasional berry, snow, litter the surface around the canoes, an island of lights winking in the distance and I think it is the most beautiful thing I will see.

I am wrong.

Leire squeezes my hands, a hush falls the crowd, I watch her watch them, her black lips part, a shudder escaping them. In her night darkened eyes, I see them, tiny flames blinking to life. A sound scrapes our boat, quietly; a snick, a whoosh, a weak golden glow bathes her face.

I turn. My heart shutters ---

Candles like halos smatter each scarlet canoe, as far as the eye can see -- more boats then I originally spotted line the dark. The flames flicker like a multitude of resplendent stars, fallible in their fiery glow, but beautiful just the same. My heart breaks; slowly, surely. Salt tracks drip down my cheeks. I do not want to forget. Like many others, her friends pick up their oars and start rowing, murmuring conversation and the splash of water fills the air. I do not want to forget.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

“I don’t want to forget.”

She laughs, a mellifluous sound. “Silly girl,” , she says, “How can you forget?”

How can I forget? How can I possibly forget such a sight? I curse, I rage behind the glass of my gleaming eyes. I beg her to understand, to save me with silent words, but like me, she is just another girl. Fear is a scarf around my neck, sorrow the air I exhales, so I merely slip my oar into the lake and push back the waters for this one night.

The journey to the island does not take as long as I thought it would, our canoe thumps against the shore, but we do not move. The night seems to be wheeling past, a racer determined to win, I beg it to slow. It ignores me.

Her friends tie the vessel to a post, the boat tipping as they climb out; we sit side by side at the far end. The boy with auburn hair goes to blow out the candles, “Leave them.” I say, voice a rasp, as if I had been screaming all the way here. And really, hadn’t I been? He just nods, but a hasty jerk of his head, before bolting away to the dead that await.

The two of us stay. We are still. We are silent. It is almost a game of who will talk first, as the imposter stars around us extinguish and people thud off their vessels. I think of how I must look to her, tear streaks down my face, a gold veil obscuring my eyes, thin lips pressed to a blood red slash. A creature of mourning whimsy in a shattered dress.

I move first; not possessing the luxury time grants her, but as I open my mouth only silence emerges; yawning and disquiet. So, I do the next best thing: press my mouth to hers, petals fluttering from our heads, my dress sighing with soft clinks. She lifts my veil and peers at my eyes, hers are emeralds, mine obsidians and for now they are enough.

We never do make it to the island.

The rest of night we drift. We drift back across the water. Drift off the canoe. Drift from the lake. Eventually, we drift down separate ginnels, neither one of us disappointed.

Footsteps ringing in the cobblestone street. I hope to permeate the auburn bricks, the brown boughs, so that a part of the girl I am today may still survive the night. For, I have written no words and snapped no pictures. The ache of impending loss bends me double, I lay a hand on the cool wall, my hair sliding over my face. I see a woman with a face akin to mine echo the tilt of my head. It does not seem possible, that it has only been a few hours since then. My throat is razor wire, my tongue heavy in my mouth; I am so thirsty, so tired. Vague mentions of medicine clutter my mind, was I supposed to take some? Panic screeches, nails on the chalk walls of my mind. I do not know if what I am forgetting is the usual misplacement of information, or the particular brand of forgetfulness that is tailored for me. Biting my lip, I pull up a map on the phone screen -- red band marking the route -- it emits a sickly blue hue that hurts my eyes.

The red line and an automated voice lead me back. I arrive at the place that should be home, the house is quiet, cicadas chirping outside, as I make my way to the room that should be mine. Gait hurried, fingers curled, I walk up the hallway that leads to it. The night looms, shadows gather in corners of the ceiling, the floor, a thin strand of light leeks from the kitchen. It is a thread I grasp, I follow. My pulse rises, as I cross the threshold to my room. A childish fear warns me not to look back. I exhale a silent sigh, blowing it out. Bending my leg up behind me, I unstrap my shoe, letting it clatter onto the floor. Repeating the action for my left foot, the tile bites the soles of my feet with iced incisors. It feels as if I am the only one for miles.

I halt in front of my desk, sifting through the polaroids, finding my face over and over again -- my thumb tracing the dull edge of the pictures. Setting them aside, for what, I’m unsure, but an idea lingers in my peripheral, a stalk of lavender, waving; I avert my gaze for now. Tapping the surface of the desk, fingers pattering, I assess my findings.

I nod. I reach up, I tug my hat off, the feathers tickling the back of my palm. My actions a stacatto beat, off rhythm and jerking. I set it down, arranging the polaroids around its perimeter. It feels incomplete. I reconsider. I put the hat back on, moving to stand in front of the mirror and capture a picture of myself using the camera nestled in the bedside drawer. Again I pad my way to the desk. Again I rearrange the photos around the headwear, the one on the camera serving as the centre piece, the catalyst; a self portrait of sorts. Chilled air caresses my arms as I gently remove the flower bracelets littered amongst the silver circlets, careful not to snap them. I drape them over the hat, in front of the pictures, on top of the camera. It is obvious what I am doing, but I lean into denial’s embrace. I know I will not remember doing this tomorrow, but it seems immensely important to leave something behind. An indication of the sights I saw today. An indication of the girl that lived today. Would I ever be her again?

I think, I should have saved some ate de membrillo. It does not matter, I suppose.

Lifting the garland of marigolds from the hat, I pinch the damp gold and orange petals between the pads of my finger and thumb. I do not want to forget.

Please, I think. Please. Foolish, an exercise in futility. I close my eyes, a shuddering breath squeezing past my lips.

I face the lavender stalk. Finally, I listen to its hushing. Finally, I snap the crown. Finally, I lay trail of flowers from the desk to my window. After all, what is a soul, but a culmination of memories?

Moonlight pierces the gold veins of the wet petals on the sill, the crumpled canary road on the speckled tiles leading to my impromptu grave.

An alter made on the night of the dead, pictures to remind the ghost, with marigolds to lead the soul back home.

I climb into bed, knees tucked to my chin, they dig and grind the bone there. I am too tall, too old for this really, but I do not unfold, instead wrapping arms around my dress clad legs. It scratches my them, the bangles digging into skin, but I do not mind. Perhaps the scars will outlast the night, a token of the person I was today, a witness to the charm of my exhaled and inhaled breaths. I peer straight ahead, minutes skitter by, my eyes grow heavy.

A mismatched shrine.

That’s the last thing I notice as I fall asleep, it was the incomplete kind, full of want, void of meticulous arrangement. Petals and pictures were strewn around a flamboyant hat, colour of still life against the synthetic black. I am lost.

Well, that isn’t precisely the last thing I notice.

The hollow song of a faraway violin.

That’s the last thing I notice as I fall asleep, the warbling tune of grieving strings. The perfect manifestation of the ache that buds in me, it’s a siren call, luring the heart broken to a watery end. I am lost.

Well, this too was incorrect, that isn’t the last thing I notice.

You wake in Mexico.

That’s the last thing I notice as I fall asleep. Head tilted, imploring the heavens, the scrawl. The light of the moon is not enough to reveal the ashen curls, but I know they are there, not leaves at all, but cruel whips razing my flesh; a mockery. I am lost.

So really, there are three things I notice as I fall asleep.

The bottle whirled round and round with the warm So Cal air causing a light whistle every time the opening caught just the right angle. Micah and Noah were practically shaking to find out which of the three girls across from us they might get lucky with. This idea to mix a curious kid’s game with a bottle of tequila came to be after leaving the Border Bar. Gabby and Francesca huddled with the third girl they only referred to as “Lady” and came back after an exchange of giggles and muttered Spanish with a look in each of their eyes that never made one of us think twice, almost like a sort of dark spell.

The bottle finally came to a halt and Gabby got who she wanted with her spin, Micah. They left the patio for one of the rooms in the Airbnb beach house we scored for the trip. Next was Noah. Before he touched the bottle, I knew for some reason he was going to get Fran and I would finally be left with the mysterious Lady. Her and the macabre tattoos that covered every bit of her arms and legs that was visible and seemed to shine in the moonlight. The bottle started to slow again with the neck pointing at Lady, until a last little turn, as if a hand snuck out from the shadow and pushed the tip towards Fran. She took Noah by the hand to join the others’ inside and said “Buenos noches senora de las sombras.” Lady smiled and stepped in front of me to come between me and the house, turning her back on the couple as they shut the door.

Her hair looked darker than the night itself, making her brown eyes almost blend into her pupils. “What did she say?” I asked, as she reached out softly to touch my arm. Her hand touching my wrist immediately made me feel as if I was out in the ocean, freezing, drowning, gasping for life in the wet darkness. Then suddenly a crack from the house of a door breaking in caused her to lift her hand, allowing me to come back to the surface and out of the darkness. Shocked and almost sick from the feeling of going from freezing alive to uncomfortably hot, I couldn’t decide what to address first. The sound from the house where my friends were assumed to be enjoying their time or if Lady’s hand had taken me far from the original safety of this patio. Perhaps the tequila we had to finish in order to play this game was taking a heavier toll than expected.

“Man that stuff was strong” I thought in my head, until I heard a man yelling “Where is she? She knows this isn’t her territory!” Then a primal scream rang out, maybe from one of the girls frightened enough to make such a sound, yet no sign of the boys. Another mans voice sternly replied to the scream. “Fine, we’ll take you down, then teach her a less..” the mans words cut off by the sound of gurgling and coughing. Then a smashing of bones and some whimpers before the first man grunted “Damn Muertes.” I snapped out of it and looked to Lady who appeared to be nervously tracing her tattoos. “Lady we need to go somewhere safe, they must be looking for the owners of this place.” I whispered, grabbing her hand to settle her. She swiftly turned her head my direction as I stopped her hand, to show her once soft and delicate face now with skin falling off to reveal two dark, deep eye sockets surrounded by bone, white as fresh snow. She proceeded to trace the long scythe tattoo on the inside of her left forearm. With each trace more skin fell to the bricks. Her midnight hair began to float and grow until fading into a shadow that took the form of a cloak wrapping around her. On her last trace as the final bit of skin fell off her arm, the very scythe tattooed on her arm appeared in front of her, levitating and almost groaning before the boney, fleshless fingers wrapped around it. Looking back at me, the snow-white skull said, “No.” “They’re here for me, the Lady of shadows, just as Francesca said.” She moved towards the house and right through the door. The man yelled and a series of flashes of lightning beamed through the windows followed by the sound of a sharp blade making contact and the pieces of flesh it met hitting the floor. An erotic laugh rang out and Lady said “Ohh you American angels, I play where I want.” Then, appearing as she was before, walked back out to the patio and handed me that bottle of hers softly saying, “lets go back to my place.” The cold wet waves of darkness crashed back over me.

I could hear water falling as I woke up on a cold floor. I could hear the water almost as much as I could hear my head splitting open from the tequila. Must have passed out in the bathroom and one of the guys got a shower going for me. “What an awful set of nightmares” I thought, struggling to stand in the bright room I couldn’t quite make out yet, hitting the glass door of the shower. “Hopefully this shower and a greasy burrito does the trick.” Fumbling for the handle I yelled “thanks guys, I’ll be done in no time.” Not finding a handle I realized it wasn’t the shower door but a wall of glass. Looking through the glass I could see myself in a mirror, terrified to see Lady holding me in her tequila bottle as if trading my soul in for the worm.

Alex rubbed her head as she slowly became aware of her surroundings. Aware, but not familiar with. As she felt consciousness flow back to her mind, she realized that she had the old but not easily forgotten dry mouth, the dull headache and the body soreness that was a sure sign she had fallen off the wagon.

She cursed herself internally and went to slowly sit up. It was then Alex noticed the weight on her stomach, and her eyes flew open as she looked down. The unfamiliar arm draped across her was another bad sign. She sighed and followed the arm up to the body to the face of a beautiful stranger. She didn't know who the woman was, but she was definitely her type.

As she eased herself out of the bed - well really off of, as it was nothing but a mattress on the floor - she sighed barely audibly. Looking around, she slowly started to realize that this was stranger than her normal relapses. The labels on cans were not in English but in Spanish. The one room house seemed to be made of adobe, and the floor was dirt.

"Uh..." Alex sighed with raised eyebrows, turning around in a circle.

"Buenos Dias sexy ¿Recuerdas algo de anoche ... en absoluto?" a delicate voice came from behind and below her. Alex slowly spun around, facing the woman lying on the mattress. The beautiful woman smiled with a bemused and sympathetic look on her face. She sat up and stretched, standing in a fluid movement.

"Uh..." Alex said again. "Solo, um solo hablo un poco - uh - de español ... lo uh, sorry, si, uh lo siento." She stumbled through the phrase struggling to the forefront of her mind.

"Si, lo dejaste claro anoche." She trilled almost songlike as she went into yoga poses.

"Uh," Alex stammered.

"I am just playing with you. I speak English. Quite well." She looked up from her downward dog pose, smiling slyly. "I at least know how to say more than uh."

"Yes. So do I, normally. I am just...confused. And really hungover." Alex stated slowly. "Can you point me in the direction of some agua?"

She stood up and gave Alex the full watt smile. "Si." she walked to the ancient looking refrigerator and got pulled out a pitcher of water. She poured a glass, and gave it to Alex. "Mi nombre es Rosa."

Alex smiled and drank almost the entire glass in one gulp. "Thanks, Rosa. I am Alex."

She set the glass down in the sink and turned around. Rosa was standing by the fridge, watching her with a weary look in her eye.

"Can you help me fill in the gaps of last night a bit? Or no?" Alex found it hard to meet her eyes. As someone who had been in and out of the system her whole life, lived on the streets from her early teen years and who found alcohol and drugs as a way to cope just as early, she was not used to having a hard time accepting who she was normally. For some reason, in this humble home, with this gentle and beautiful stranger, she was ashamed.

"I can if you want me to. At least the parts I was there for. I warn you, by the time I stumbled upon you, you were pretty far gone. I just wanted to get you away from the thugs that tend to prey on tourists and-"

"Tourists? Wait, what?"

"I assume you do not live here and speak that little Spanish." Rosa smiled indulgently.

"Rosa, where are we?" Alex choked out, feeling completely turned around.

"El Chaparral." Rosa said slowly,

"El Chaparral. As in El Chaparral, Tijuana?"

"Si." Rosa slowly walked over to Alex. "Alejandra, you know you are in Mexico, right?"

Alex reached out grabbing Rosa's arm. "Rosa, how did I get to Mexico?" Rosa grabbed her with both hands, guiding her into a chair at the table. She sat next to her and held both hands in hers.

"No lo sé. I will help you find out though. I promise. You will stay here with me, and we will figure it out."

"You don't even know me. Why?" Alex looked at her.

"I trust my insincts which tell me to I trust you." Rosa smiled gently.

Alex smiled, squeezed her hands and nodded. "Okay. Let's do this."

I recognize the taste

A mix of orange juice and regret

Grenadine interlaced

And something else that I forget

I can hear the crash of waves

Soft sounds of music through the din

And I feel the gentle spray

Of salt and sand upon my skin

As I slowly get my bearings

I’m puzzled by the warmth

The sun’s rarely so glaring

In the winter, in the North

A heatwave, I surmise

But it’s rather unconvincing

When I open up my eyes

The sunlight leaves me wincing

My apparel suits the heat

Tacky shorts, Hawaiian shirt

I stumble to my feet

Suddenly on high alert

This is not what I had on

When I left home the other day

My shoes are also gone

And my hair’s in disarray

And I may be incorrect

(It really wouldn’t be a reach)

But last time that I checked

My suburb didn’t have a beach

A group of people pass me

They appear to be Hispanic

And I regain some memories

Which send me further into panic

I had gone out to a club

I had been chatting up some guy

I should have sobered up

And turned in for the night

Instead I drank more fruity drinks

And accepted more champagne

Until he asked me what I’d think

Of a ride aboard his plane

I said yes – that’s my mistake

Because it always is the rich dudes

Who decide they’re gonna take

You to Mexico then ditch you

You don’t know how much you can miss grass until you find yourself in the desert. I knew something was missing but it would be a few hours before I realized that it was the color green. If grass embodies lushness and verdancy, then the desert lacks a fundamental symbol of resilience and growth. The desert is the landscape of the dark side of the moon: inhospitable, uninhabitable. You feel at the edge of something, maybe the world; but for me, reason.

Waking up I had the crazy feeling that I was back in the Peace Corps, where I had lived in Nicaragua for a few years. Sometimes right before waking, all of the rooms I’ve slept in, shitty apartments and easy-to-break-into-houses I’ve lived in revolve through my consciousness, and I’m not sure where exactly I’ll be when I open my eyes: which walls, which chipped furniture, which street will be outside my windows. When I lived in Nicaragua, the air was heavy and cluttered. The heat, the clanging noises of village life banging into my concrete walls, the smells of lime-flavored soap and cooking oil. Before I opened my eyes, something about the way the light and air felt on my eyelids and skin, made me think of those years back in Nicaragua, when roosters would wake me up in the morning and reggaeton music would keep me up at night.

That was three days ago. I woke up in Mexico, with no memory of how I got there (got here). With no passport, re-crossing the border is a tricky thing. It would take phone calls, friends, money. It would take at least a modicum of effort. Stepping out of your life seems impossible in the digital age. Debt can find you, banks can find you, there are no places off the map. But if you don’t have people who notice when you’re gone, you can still step sideways. Out of site, out of mind. If I still file my taxes and post “thanks for the birthday wishes” on Facebook every year, I don’t think anyone will really come looking for me.

I’ve never been to Mexico before, and I wouldn’t call myself fluent in Spanish, but maybe that’s a confidence thing. I can make friends in bars and pretty much anywhere else. That could be what got me into trouble and here in the first place, practicing my loose-lipped Spanish at an inopportune moment. I can make friends easily, but keeping them is another thing. Whatever brought me here originally faded away with my hangover, but at the edge of reason other opportunities form. When I think of my life back in the US, all I can think of to miss is the grass. The kind of thing you don't notice until it's gone.