The Archaeology of Futures. Story

Morning. Dark Autumn morning.
Wake up. Shower. Wardrobe.
Coffee. Newspaper. Pen.
Dark circles on the top of smiling faces.
Scared / Shattered.
No mirrors. No looking at reflection .

Wind  plays in my hair.
I look like I am on fire.
Falling leaves.
I am grey. Grey like a winged bat.
Grey like a rat searching in the scrap-heap.
I am not here.
I am scared. Not looking at the passers by.
I am different. I am ugly.

Eyes are counting gaps between the
pavement tiles.
Wow… Said almost out loud.
Pupils have expanded after spotting a little
brown box standing by the taxi rank.
Heart is shaking. I am feeling sick.
She is in my hands.
By my ear.
There is something inside.
By my chest.
Heart is beating louder and louder.

Cannot remember.
I am at home.
I am not scared of the mirror!
He is not going to bite me.
Not any more!

Lid is opened.
Shaky hands take Sandra out.
Start / On.
Cutting, sanding, shaping and re-shaping.
My ugly face.
Measuring my body…
Stapling it.
Enlarging / reducing.
I am in control and I am pretty!

Sandra, I love you…