photography by tiah Bullock WORDS BY raphail Spartalis
specimen 64
The air was cold. And damp. She didn’t know how she knew that... how she knew anything, for that matter. What was “cold”? And how was that different to what wasn’t cold? There was a word for that... she was sure there was. Then as if by simply thinking it, she summoned the lost vocabulary from the dusty recesses of her mind with sharp realisation: hot! The suddenness of that thought jolted her just as a smile instinctively creased the length of her bandaged face. She sent a questing hand up to inspect the strange changes to her mouth. Mouth. ‘Maaauuuu-tthhh.’ She voiced the word clumsily, feeling the shape of it as much with her lips as with her probing hands. Was this warm breathy noise really coming from her? She was moving her hands all over her face now, touching and poking it like a curious child. Eyes. Nose. Hair- no. No hair. She was sure that wasn’t right. And even while thinking it, her mind wandered to a tattered memory of thick, woolly locks dropping in heavy curls past her shoulders. Auburn. Yes, it was auburn. But this memory was at such stark odds with reality that her brain all but rejected it. Was that truly her hair? How could it be? Her fingers tracked a deep scar across her close-cropped scalp, the short bristly hair pricking her hand sharply. Her heart sank. No, the memory was real, she thought, sudden resolve steeling her mind. With a newfound confidence, she groped after the memory, desperate not to lose this piece of herself. But it was weak, frayed at the edges like an old, dirty rag. She could feel it fading even now; each attempt to recall it weakening her grip on it. But she refused to give up, and in a childish act of fervent denial, reached out with her arms as if to grab the thought and
