I wake up in the one place I don’t want to be. Ohio. For a moment, I lie in the stillness of morning as inwardly I twist in agony. I have to get out of here. With a start, I sit up in the papery hotel sheets and tumble for my phone. The bright screen shines through my chubby fingers with a wash of white. I want to go home. I want to go back to those simple days of bliss when I would sit in the kitchen, pressed against the wall listening to the soothing rhythm of a boiling pot. I long for the ease of life in one home, under one roof, and it pains me that I never appreciated it when I had it. I want to home. I need to go home. But I can’t. I struggle out of the writhing sheets and stagger out to the window. Quickly, I scan the parking lot for police cars. It has become a habit now. The lot is empty but for some beat up minivans. I’d like to think I’m safe but I prefer paranoia to prison.
I leave the hotel quickly and start walking. I need to get out of Ohio. I have to find somewhere no one knows who I am—what I am. What am I? The question frightens me, because I am beginning to forget the person I was before the night I truly forgot myself. I don’t remember why, and I don’t know how but there is blood on my hands. Blood on my heart. Blood on my soul. Who am I? I don’t even remember my name any more but I know I am a murderer. I am a fugitive. I am on the run.