D: FILE 0003

There was a time when information could liberate a person. When Learning an important truth could change someone's world. Nothing would look the same again. Things would make sense that weren't thinkable before. It wasn't like learning a logical system of something confusing. It changed a person deep down. They would be forced to admit that they didn't know who they were anymore. I don't know what they did. I guess they had to figure out who they were again.

Crystal turns over onto her side and looked out the window of the hotel room. It's raining against the window and the glass is fogging over. Red taillights move in a line through the fog. But the blue Egkro sign next door is lighting the room.

The sheets are itchy and she squirms her legs across them.

"Why am I here?" she groans to no one. Her gaze glides over to the door and then back to the window. It's 2:43. She thinks about walking back over to the Egkro to get something to eat. But it's still raining and that water can't be safe. No one told her to bring a rain cloak. Maybe she should have known to bring one. She didn't think she'd be here this long. She decides to order one to the room. There are so many. She doesn't know what dangers exist in the water here but the item descriptions teach her what she needs to know. She picks one that's a smokey grey with the simple readout.

"Why anyone would want a full display on a their clothing is beyond me." one of the reviewers said.

It's 4:28.

How long will it take to get here?

She scrolls through potential food orders but decides against it. The prices are so much higher than they will be next door. Why couldn't they put in a roof between the buildings? They know it's going to be raining poison. How can they call this a real city?

She turns over in the bed again and rubs her eyes. They warm and relax under her touch. She keeps them closed.

How long has it been since she met the hantu in that other rainy city?

Her apartment was blue. Baby blue with roses. Why did she like roses so much? The attraction to them feels foreign now. Something that someone else likes. She imagines the black dripping rose she sprayed on her bedroom wall. The pastel roses patterned on the teacups piled in a crate by her bed. What were they for? Roses have all these petals. People act like they're delicate but drawings of them look so complex and messy. Harsh and scary. They curl around themselves and suffocate your eyes.

She didn't back up the white machine. She could have. She knew lots of people who she could have asked to help her do it. Probably for free. It was so hard back then to ask for help. She felt like she had to already know how to do everything on her own or else she was a helpless woman trying to get a man to help her.

Her first draft was on that white machine. No, I shouldn't call it that. That makes it sound like there was a second draft. It was more like her first try. The first attempt to get something out. Out from under her nails where all her dreams had been collecting for the past 4 years. Was that first scrape unskilled and superficial? Or was it the most honest and transparent expression she will have ever made?

Does it matter?

She tries to remember what the man looked like who bought her broken white machine. Does she still have the emails from when he came to her work and bought it from her for parts? What did she even use the money for? Probably beer. No, probably clothes.

The delivery tone oozes through the door.

©2019 by Zita