Invasion Read Online Free Page B

to make me feel half human, and it’s almost enough to put me in a good mood.
    With my senses adjusting to the new environment I stroll back to the kitchen, heating up my dinner while checking the coffee selection. The scent of lasagna burrows into my olfactory nerve, straight to my gut. My emaciated stomach growls and gurgles in anticipation while the scent of sustenance permeates the deserted kitchen.
    Carly doesn’t have instant coffee, or ground, instead she’s got one of those fancy machines you put a coffee pod into. That’s when I spot the calendar hanging next to the fridge. Lady, I don’t know you, but I could kiss you for being such a naive twit.
    Only imbeciles mark the day they’re coming home, with their flight detail and arrival time, for complete strangers to find. I’ve got a sweet three full weeks of freedom in this crib before Carly gets ‘ home from Hanover, flight 874’. It’s marked in bold red lettering, neat and slanted.
    That gives me weeks without worry of discovery.
    Using the dish towel I grab my meal from the microwave, pop the cardboard lid off, and search drawers for cutlery. Finding top of the range silverware I grab a fork and dig in, indulging in a smile. Food, bed, water, leisure, and the lady has no house plants or pets. No one is coming here for maintenance in her stead. I’m free!
    In a sense I really am free. I don’t know how old I am, who my ex is, who my folks are, if I owe anyone money, if I’m a criminal or junkie; it’s all erased. This is a fresh beginning, a haven where I can recoup, regain my strength without wasting energy on vigilance, or on maintaining body temperature under leaves and newspaper.
    I could hate my folks, they could be dead, or we could be closer than Tetris blocks, and none of it matters because you can’t miss what you don’t know, and you don’t run when you don’t know if you owe the Triad money.
    Shoveling food into my gob at an alarming rate, I hardly chew, swallowing down nutrients and protein like a bodybuilder bulking up for Mr Universe. It bothers me that in the vacuous realm where my memories hide, my thoughts keep turning to peril. Why do I assume I’m being hunted? Why do I assume the worst?
    I don’t feel like a pessimist, rather I’m a realist. I have to accept the things I can’t change, yet in my gut I know I’ve never gone looking for help because I fear discovery. My sixth sense is honed sharper than a sickle probe and it tells me to lay low until memory returns. If memory returns.
    Fuck!
    I wish I could recall the trauma that induced this situation, so I’d have a ballpark ETA on the return of my hard earned intellectual intel. Experience is stored in memory, it’s crucial background and without it I’m partially vulnerable. Like that arrival date for dear Carly, she knows exactly what day she’s coming home; I need that for my brain.
    It’s frustrating as fuck knowing zilch on how I got these tattoos, why I have dog-tags in the sole of my left boot, or why I’m ready to attack innocent pedestrians when they walk with too much purpose, when they encroach on my aura and press paranoia into my adrenal glands. Every muscle tightens and my mind races with retaliation, scenarios to defend and assault at the forefront of my mind the second someone gets too close. I haven’t even frequented places that feed the homeless because queues of strangers cut my soul so wide open I have the urge to scream and slaughter. They could be innocent people, or this impulse could be based on a memory currently off limits.
    This is like being crucified by your own body. As if life isn’t hard enough I now have my own weakness thrusting duress into my life – daily.
    There’s no way I had a desk job with these instincts.
    Did I live in isolation for me to see throngs of strangers as a threat?
    Was I in prison and just got out? Did I spend too many months in solitary confinement and now I can’t socialize? Or was I some kind of