Tainted Memories

POV: Tina

I had just finished cleaning room 310, the last hotel room I was assigned, when the door flew open, and the occupants appeared. The woman totally ignored me and walked across the room to the bed. Opening the bedside drawer, she scratched around, looking for something, but came up empty.

Straightening up, she turned, her expression outraged. “You stole my bracelet, didn’t you?” she accused. “I know it was here this morning.”

Before I could reply, the husband spoke up. “No, dear, you left it there, and I put it in my pocket. I don’t know why you are always so quick to accuse humans.” He sent me a cursory glance, his nostrils flaring. I was used to that. A lot of wolves did that in my presence.

The two started arguing, and I stood rooted to the spot. They were blocking the doorway, and I couldn’t get past them. Inwardly, I heaved a sigh of relief. That was why I was working here in the first place. I’d been caught stealing – I still think my crime was more of a misdemeanor – stealing food only because I didn’t want to starve to death.

It had been a nightmare when they arrested me as I was unable to prove who I was. I was supposed to bring my birth certificate for verification, which I never did because I didn’t possess one. It was either community service or jail, so I chose community service and have been cleaning here for three months. My sentence was for a year.

The upside to cleaning hotel rooms was that I managed to feed myself and was paid a weekly allowance. It was a paltry amount and didn’t allow me to rent a room or anything, but it made survival easier.

There were many places to hide and sleep in a hotel, not to mention opportunities to shower. I had no issues stealing food, even from unfinished breakfast trays. Saving every penny for a new start away from here. Four hundred dollars wouldn’t get me far, but it was better than a poke in the eye.

Four years ago, I woke up in a motel room in Pennington with only a backpack and instructions to wait. I waited, desperately wanting to know what happened, but no one ever came. The room had been paid for a week in advance, and I stayed that long, but I couldn’t wait any longer and didn’t have enough money to pay for a motel indefinitely.

I wish I knew who was supposed to meet me, but the clerk had no idea who had paid for the room. My memories before this are nonexistent. They start that day in that dingy motel room with green carpets and a yellow bedspread, frightened and alone. Maybe I had a family, but I just couldn’t remember.

I’d caught a bus to Camden City with the last of my money, hoping the big city offered more opportunities. And it had. I managed to get a job in a small restaurant owned by a human. Matthew was a kind man who immediately knew I was in trouble. He let me sleep in a storage room and even bought me a blow-up mattress until I got on my feet. For three years, I washed dishes, but that came to a grinding halt when he died and the restaurant closed.

I’d been more carefree then... I managed to rent a room, and I even had a boyfriend for a short time, but that didn’t work out.

Once I no longer had an income, I was forced to give up the room. Without papers or qualifications, no one wanted to hire me, especially not shifters. I didn’t have the foresight to ask Matthew for a reference before he died. Humans were at the bottom of the food chain, and shifters mostly ignored us.

Before my arrest, I’d been living in a condemned house, sketching portraits in the market square to make enough money to feed myself. But as I didn’t have a permit, I was often chased away. Sketching portraits was not lucrative, and paper and charcoal were expensive. Out of pure self-preservation, I stole food.

The couple was still arguing, making me feel uncomfortable. Looking out the window, I saw Peter park his truck. He came once a week to deliver toilet rolls for the hotel and always stayed the night. All the girls working here avoided him like the plague because of his lewd manner. I always ducked into the nearest room when I saw him coming.

I felt the telltale signs of an oncoming migraine. I’d been in Camden City too long, and the police had me on their radar.

The man called to me, motioning that I could leave. I hurriedly pushed my cleaning cart out the door and left it in the hallway—a plan formed in my mind. But I was done with Camden City, where wolves didn't give a shit and sneered at you or gave you a slap if you begged.

I headed to the little storage closet. A black thigh-length coat had been hanging there for months, and I assumed someone had forgotten it or didn’t need it anymore. The maid’s outfit was far too noticeable. It consisted of a short blue skirt, a tight blue blouse, a white apron, and blue pumps. The name of the Hotel was emblazoned on the blouse.

The coat would perfectly hide my uniform. Once I had appropriated the coat and picked up my backpack, hidden behind a bag of rags and containing the sum total of my life, I left through the side entrance. Cautiously pushing the door open, I scanned the parking lot. No one was in sight, so I walked briskly across the tarmac, heading straight for Peter’s truck.

I had often watched him and knew he left the keys in the ignition. No one wanted to steal his truck; it was old and ugly, the paint peeling, and it had about as many dents as his pock-marked face.

An old Mini was parked right next to Peter’s truck. The sun had faded the red paint, but it appealed to me. I tried the door, and it opened. Hesitating briefly, I glanced around before pulling the visor down, and the keys dropped. The Mini was a better option, and although I felt guilty for taking something that wasn't mine, I put it down to providence.

I don’t remember getting a driver’s license, but I can drive. There are many things I can do, but I have no memory of how or when.

I climbed in as though I owned it and drove off, following the signs north and leaving Camden City far behind. It was high time to find a new place, a new life, and I needed to be far away from here before the migraine incapacitated me, a sense of urgency spurring me on.

The migraines happened sporadically, but in the last year, the frequency increased, and that worried me greatly. The last one was just before my arrest. The first day is always the worst, and it took a day for the pounding in my head to go away; in addition, I was confused and muddled, as though someone had taken a whisk to my brain, mixing everything up.

The last time, while I was living in the condemned house, I lost consciousness and could not remember my name for a day—or maybe it was two. It was a horrible feeling waking up and not knowing who you were. It scared the shit out of me, and I couldn’t help thinking that one day, I would wake up after a migraine and not recover any memories, and perhaps that’s why I couldn’t remember anything before waking up in that motel.

For that reason, I kept a note in my purse stating my name and date of birth. I had no idea what year I was born. Sometimes, I felt that Tina was not my name; it felt wrong. But as I had no alternatives, I hoped whoever had left the instructions knew me.

I knew in my heart that the migraines would destroy me sooner or later, and maybe my parents had felt that way, too, and that's why they dropped me at that motel. I’d considered consulting a doctor, but that was beyond my means, so was buying pain pills over the counter.

I had tried meditation and all sorts of mental exercises to help me remember, but it was a blank canvas—like I had just come into being and hadn’t existed before. Considering that the police could not find any record of me and that my name felt wrong, I deduced that something had happened. That yearning to find out who I am never lessened, but without resources, it was a pointless dream.

Checking the rearview mirror frequently, my anxiety faded as no one showed the slightest interest in me. There were no police cars, either. There wasn’t much daylight left, and that pleased me. The dark made me feel safe and invisible.

The Minis clock read 6:52 pm, which meant I had been driving for about two hours. The scenery had changed drastically, with forest on either side of the road and hardly any oncoming traffic. The pounding in my head reached a level where I knew I couldn’t drive much further. I was out of time...

The location was a little inconvenient, and I scanned the trees suspiciously. Even if someone was out there, I probably couldn’t see them– my vision had deteriorated so much. I had hoped to reach a town and park in a parking lot while the migraine took its course.

Pulling over to the shoulder of the road, I maneuvered closer to the trees. Climbing in the back, I stretched out, closing my eyes in relief, shivering as the car temperature dropped. Once the pain became a living beast inside me, I wouldn’t notice the cold.

I slept fitfully. My body curled in a fetal position. The slightest movement aggravated the pounding in my head. I had no idea what time it was when it felt like my head would burst. The urge to vomit drove me out of the car.

Flinging open the door, I staggered to the closest tree and threw up violently and repeatedly, but even that didn’t lessen the pain in my head. Resting my face against the bark of the tree, I took deep breaths. The smell of the forest and soil added to the queasiness. I waited just in case the vomiting spell wasn’t over. I tried to move as little as possible, like a mannequin in a display window. That is how I felt often enough, an empty vessel watching the world go by.

I knew I was going to pass out and had to get back to the Mini and my backpack. Crawling towards it, berating myself for not keeping it close, my mind started shutting down, and I hoped to God I would remember who I was when I came to.