A plate of food is forced in front of her, but she refuses to touch it, even though the spices fill the air in her lungs. It probably smells better than it tastes too, there’s only so much a tex mex restaurant on a side street of Paris can replicate. She looks down at the bowl of rice and beans in front of her and it stares back as though it were daring her to look away first. A tremble rises in her chest, like a sob unable to find its way to the surface and it forces her to go back to the ever present question in her mind.

She began to replay the series of events in her head that led her down this dark alleyway into the lone restaurant. She closed her eyes as everything came flooding back in great detail. The rain on hot June streets, around 9 pm on a Thursday night, packed Metro stations as she made her way to Anya’s hotel. The feeling lingers over her heart and rests heavy on her lungs. 18 months of longing, missing, praying for a safe return finally culminated in Anya’s welcome to this hotel as she arrived off the train from London, brimming with stories from her trip around Europe.

A blush colored dream with silver streaks of memory. She doubts her recollection of Anya’s return was cataloged well in her brain at the time. Blushes of gifts and champagne blending a bit too easily with happy tears and dancing all accompanied by pop music drowned out with bursts of chatter. The smell of perfume and roses and wine lulled her into a hazy state, not bad, just serene, until she was snapped back into a harsh reality by the clatter of pots in the kitchen and burning rice. The silver streaks subsequently resided into the depths of her mind. 

The pain then creeps back into her chest, chaining her down, forcing her to continue through the moments of her life just hours before. Anya grabs her hand, and leads her down the hall into her room, turning to look at her with pure relief. Each of the girls takes the other in and once content, meets eyes again. They pull away from each other once again as Anya pulls off her sweater. Once again, her eyes run over Anya’s arms up to her shoulders to her neck, but this time, her eyes stay there. Her brow begins to furrow, although from anyone else’s perspective, it appears that she is looking at nothing but Anya’s collarbone. She reaches up and grasps a chain hanging around her neck while still pushing her hand harder into Anya’s chest.

That necklace, such an insignificant little piece of gold, and yet the only thing that connected their power, their minds, their lives...

She opens her eyes back to the untouched bowl in front of her. Steam has stopped rising up from the dish and the air now feels cool and sticky in her throat, clogged, like her brain. She takes a deep breath trying to work her way back into the horror movie that was her life, her obligation, to watch. But only static buzzed on her internal screen, paused on this moment like a skipping CD or as if the WiFi had cut out. It replayed again and again. Her hand on Anya’s neck, desperately looking for the chain akin to her own, and the other practically breaking the necklace around hers. And then more static. She stays like this for a while, half in the real world, half back in time, fighting her own memory. But to no avail. Until Anya’s shrieks come piercing through the surface.

“Amanda! Don’t leave me! She left, she left, she left!” 

I left, I left, I left. Back into my blush colored dream.