The unbearable moist heat. Engulfing my head. Can’t breathe.

“Are we all feeling brave?” she coos.

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Burning butter. I sniff again. Yes, absolutely. Sweet and rich, but with a black vein of smoke. This smell means nothing to me. I’m sure of it. Then why do I know exactly what it is, without hesitation? The burning of butter carries no significance for me, there is no connective tissue, no memory comes, immediate, borne on wings. Then why is there a horrible chill in my collarbone, in my knuckles? Continue reading