Page 2 of When We Crash

He isn’t the devil. He’s an angel. Of death. How sad a job it must be.

“I only want to be near the light, noble one. Show me light,” he said.

“How?” His words were riddles, and I didn’t have the patience for them.

“Don’t you know? Love is light.” He said this to me like it was common sense.

I brought us back to the reason for our conversation. “Does that mean I get to go back to her?”

“You’ll go back, but not as you were. She will not be as she was. You will not know her, not until you see her. And she will not know you, even if she sees you. Find her and show me the light. Earn this miracle.”

Utter silence spread between my consciousness and his being. I waited for more.

“Know this: few of your memories will be yours. And her soul will not remember yours at all. It isn’t about whatwas, it’s about whatis.”

I didn’t know what was happening until I felt the electricity of life course through me. As I bottomed out, plummeting back to Earth, I heard his last words.

“I’ll be watching. Find the light. Until we meet again…”

* * *

I felta physical impact on my body, like I’d been dropped from the sky and hit the pavement. There were sirens and voices all around. Someone was pushing at my chest, and the bright blue and red lights glowed through my lids. Drops of water splattered on my face and I understood, even through the chaos, that it was raining.

“He’s got a pulse! Let’s move!” someone yelled from beside me.

I was lifted and, as people crowded around me, I heard a woman screaming.

“Dex! Dexter!”

I wondered where Dexter was.

And then I slept.

* * *

One moment I was sleeping,the next I was up—lungs gasping for air, eyes roving around the room in a panic.

Was I dreaming? Did I…did I meet the Grim Reaper?

I looked down at my hands.

They weren’t mine.

Gone was the childhood scar I’d gotten from…wait, where did I get that scar?Before I could search through my fragmented memories, someone opened my door.

A petite woman walked in, grocery bags in her hands, light brown hair tousled. When she looked at me, her bags hit the floor and her green eyes filled as she rushed toward me. “Oh, Dexter, your mom would kill me. I’m doing a shitty job. I know it. But I’m trying, I really am.”

Even though her hands were now empty, she didn’t hug me.

I was at a loss for words. I didn’t want to tell this woman I had no idea who she was. But, as her frantic eyes assessed mine, she started to understand.

“Dex? You…youdoknow who I am, right?” Her voice wavered under the pressure of tears yet to fall.

“I…” I cleared my throat, not used to the sound of this voice. “I just can’t remember anything. My hands, they aren’t mine. My name isn’t Dexter. It’s…”

What’s my name?

In my desperation to hold onto her, had I sacrificed my own memories? The ones that held my identity?

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