characters from a fairy tale and the walls are decorated with movie stills and props related to various, well-known stories from my childhood. The pretty fairy godmother had ushered me into a booth the moment I’d stepped inside wet through and shivering. Her concern was sweet, yet something made me wary enough to not blurt out my situation. My inner voice was telling me to keep quiet about my predicament and to remain calm.
That seems right, somehow. Don’t panic. Remain calm.
And I am calm. Strangely calm. Which seems highly inappropriate given my situation because I literally have no recollection about my life before a week ago. I don’t know my name, my age, where I was born, who my family are. I don’t know what my favourite colour is, whether I prefer to date women or men. Literally nothing. The only clues to who I am and where I belong are the clothes I’m wearing, the leather wallet filled with cash, and this letter addressed to someone called Goldie.
Perhaps that’s me?
I frown. That doesn’t sound like a name that I would wear well. It’s too precious, frivolous, somehow. I don’t know. It feels weird.
“G-old-ie.” I sound out the name, seeing how it feels on my lips. Still weird.
Casting my gaze downwards, I stare at the letter and read it for the thousandth time since I found it folded up in the inside pocket of this tan leather jacket I’m wearing. Which, by the way, is definitely way too big to be mine.
Goldie,
It’s time to run. Don’t look back.
Us.
That’s it. That’s all it says. So I guess it’s not really a letter, more of a note.
A… warning, perhaps, given the content?
I mean, who would tell me to run and not look back? What am I running from, and who the hell are us? Why not leave names? It makes no sense at all.
Then again, how do I even know this letter was actually meant for me? I’m certain this jacket isn’t mine given it smells so masculine and woodsy, like pine forests, sawdust, and musk.
My skin prickles as I breathe in the scent, another vague memory flutters far too quickly across my mind for me to be able to grasp it. Fuck only knows who the jacket belongs to. What I do know is that I need to eat, have a stiff drink, and find this Cabin of Axes. It’s the only logical place to start. It seems the right thing to do, even though I feel a vague sense of foreboding in the pit of my stomach. I choose to ignore it.
“Here we go. Margarita and a club sandwich,” Cassidy says, placing the items on the table before me, all whilst peering at the letter I’m hastily folding away.
“Thanks,” I respond, my stomach instantly rumbling and a sharp pain lancing through my belly reminding me that I’ve not eaten a proper meal in a while. That pain too feels familiar, and that thought gives me pause. Why is the feeling of hunger something I’m used to? Am I homeless? Did I steal this jacket and the contents out of desperation? Something about that makes my skin prickle. Just over a week ago I found myself in the middle of the woods, miles away from here. Lost, cold, afraid. I went in search of help and found myself in some crappy B&B that I stayed at deciding what I should do. I didn’t ask for help. I didn’t go to the police station or the hospital. It was weird. I just holed up in the B&B using the money in the wallet to pay for my stay until I felt the need to move on. This is where I ended up, a small village in the middle of nowhere.
I should ask for help, but I don’t.
Just like the note says, I’m on the run. It’s the only explanation.
“Oh God,” I exclaim, picking up the cocktail and knocking it back in one thirsty chug. I don’t know why, but that feels like the truth. I stole this jacket and this wallet, and yet, the letter I found folded in the pocket seems familiar, like it belongs to me.
“Another drink, perhaps?” Cassidy asks, misreading my reaction.
I nod my head, wincing slightly on the bite of alcohol. “Yep, another would be good.” Picking up the club sandwich, I take a huge bite, my mouth instantly watering at the explosion of flavour. I barely swallow before taking another bite. My stomach groans in appreciation. By