Her alarm clock was still blaring music as she looked into the glass. Helen recognized the woman looking back at her, yet something about this scene felt entirely unfamiliar. She had woken up with a fever the day before, and the day before that... well she could barely remember anything. As she brushed her teeth, she realized that she couldn't remember much before that at all -- a few nights excised from her mind -- all replaced with subtle sensations. A jab, music, light, falling, sitting, standing, laying down -- then darkness, turning, all just moments without context.
She was worried, more so because trying to dredge through the thoughts was proving less and less effective with every passing second. Like trying to remember the fine details of a dream. That gave her an idea, her eyes lit up and she held her toothbrush in place while she scribbled down these fading memories into a notepad by her bed -- the dream journal. Her hands felt uncoordinated, but the writing was good enough.
"Party? Who took me? Drugged. Get tested..." The words summoned an image of someone -- another woman. Her hair was shoulder length, brown, dark brown eyes, tan skin, "Screaming, other woman screaming. What was she screaming at?" She couldn't recall a voice, a name, but she could remember, "shorter than me, maybe. Or I was standing on something." She blushed and wrote out, "big boobs, party clothes, where was the party."
She returned to the bathroom to take her toothbrush out and rinse her mouth. Her phone might have answers -- she dug through the comforters to find the thing was dead, no charge. She plugged it in at her desk and started to make her bed. The smell of sweat and dried saliva wafted up as she tossed the blankets down -- washing the sheets would be a must. As she stepped out into the living room of her apartment, she immediately noticed how clean everything was. She was never a slob, but the place looked professionally done -- leather couches polished and healed, every wooden surface dusted, and all dishes put away. Looking at the dishes reminded her of another concern -- she didn't feel hungry, despite having no recollection of having eaten for days. She stepped over to the refrigerator and cracked it open to see it full of leftovers piled into Tupperware. A good half of it was picnic food -- pasta salad, deviled eggs, a quiche -- the other half was Italian or takeout. Beyond that, her groceries were stocked well.
Helen shut the door and stepped back, leaning against the kitchen counter. Someone was taking care of her, or squatting in her apartment. Whoever it was made no secret of it, and did everything to make sure they left the place better than they found it. No memories though -- maybe it was that woman. Helen shook her head and walked to the front door, to check if it was locked. Not only was it locked, but the chain was shut as well. Her heart dropped, and she put her back to the wall -- they were still here. She edged through to the kitchen and grabbed a knife, holding it at an arm's length in front of her. Her breathing was still, and she quietly stepped through the apartment towards the balcony. The blinds were drawn, and she poked the tip of the knife against them to pull them aside. No one was there, however. If the bathroom, bedroom, den, and kitchen were empty -- then the intruder was gone. But the apartment was five stories up, a jump from that height would kill anyone. Perhaps they were under the bed, or in a closet, patiently waiting for her.
She walked towards her bedroom and felt an intense muscle stitch on her right side, it radiated pain and heat for a few seconds, almost enough to crumple her to the ground. She leaned against the wall, waiting for it to subside. As it disappeared, she felt her heartbeat in her stomach and her breathing returning to normal -- she stepped into the bedroom and opened up the closet, knife ready. It was just as she remembered it, with one glaring exception. In the center, on top of her dresser was a small altar. A few pictures, burnt past recognition, three statues and a doll, all leaned against a wood panel surrounded by a few bunt out candles. Everything inside her closet smelled like perfume.
That perfume -- it smelled like peaches, maybe with aloe or something else in there. Like a lotion used to soothe burns. The scent recalled more of what was lost to her. Someone was caring for her in this room, the face was unfamiliar, fading in and out of focus until she saw it clearly -- it was the same woman as the party. She was rubbing Helen's body with the lotion, but there were more hands than hers. She remembered the bed sagging, feeling pressure around her. How many hands was it -- some had lotion, others were washing it off with cool water, others were drying her off with towels. The memory was as fresh as the smell lingering in the air. She snapped one of the candles off the wood and tried to identify a brand somewhere on it -- some sort of hint at where they came from.
Why couldn't she remember it all. She always had a good memory, a strong sense of what happened before. This feeling was incredibly alien -- as though someone had taken her brain and stuck it in a blender for days. She looked at the wood panel -- it was finely veneered, glossy. She pulled it out of the darkness of the closet and held it to the light. Its front side had eight symbols running down it, all meaningless to her. The first looked like three dotted lines, with a circle within a circle above them. The second was four triangles with a wave above them and a thick line below. The third was a trapezoid... with her on it. Her mind said "Helen" there, but the physical symbol was simply a circle within a circle, below another circle within a circle. She looked at it, and the one symbol was as easy to read as plain English. Nothing else made sense, just that single symbol. She flipped over the panel and saw the back had a post-it note on it.
Helen, I and the others have been keeping check while you recover. You will not remember now, but you will. If you feel unwell just give me a call, I'll be there in a flash.
There was no name, no contact information. But it was evidence. It was something to point the police to. The police -- just as that thought entered her head, another memory flooded back in. She was running. Running with a few others. She felt sick in this memory, a stomach ache or something -- they were running from someone, or maybe some someone's. Were they police? She felt like the answer was almost yes. But why was she running, why did the memory evoke such fear. She didn't know.
If she was running from the police... she needed to figure out what happened before she called them. Her phone finally buzzed to life, and began humming with backed-up notifications. Missed calls from Mom, but none from work. A missed dentist's appointment, a missed meeting with a friend, dozens of messages on her socials. Almost a hundred emails to sift through. She sighed at the sight, and resolved to spend the afternoon getting everything in order.
First though, she would need to get her clothes washed, and clean herself off. Everything on her felt sweaty and sticky. A shower, or better yet, a bath was due.
She stepped into the bathroom, and pulled her shirt off. Looking in the mirror, though, she was greeted by an unexpected sight -- her belly and her chest were covered in painted symbols. Lowering a finger to touch the dark pigment revealed it to be fresh -- still wet and fairly sticky. She smeared the bit of dye on her hand onto her shirt and sighed at this. As she started to fill up the bath she sat herself on the toilet and put her face in her hands, trying to put everything together. Had she been abducted? Then why was she left to her own now? Why the fever. Who were the women? Helen was lost in a world of incomplete memories and unexplained phenomena. As the water heated up, she stuck her toes in, drying them off and taking off her pajama pants before settling into the water. She had never really been one for baths, and couldn't remember the last time she'd actually gone out of her way to take one in this place. As the water went past her waist, however, memories returned of that same woman -- the first one, watching over her in the bath.
Helen shut her eyes and focused on the memory while she slowly descended into warmth. "Thank you Helen -- thank you for being so..." Her voice faded out, then back in, "you're just perfect. We're going to be so so so perfect." Helen could remember the woman's voice more clearly now -- she had a slight southern drawl, she said she was from West Texas, said she and a few friends were visiting... why were they visiting.
"We've been looking for you -- you-you." Helen remembered squinting at that, the woman said, "We were looking for someone like you. But once we saw you, we knew we were looking for you." The woman had kissed her forehead, and as soon as Helen's memory dwelled on that feeling her eyes drifted back open.
The pigment was starting to wear off now, slowly dissolving into the water. The little dark tentacles of paint drifting into the little ocean. Helen started talking to herself, "What the fuck is all of this." She had meant for it to come out as a shout, but she could only murmur it. The bathroom door was locked tight and in this little space she felt safe enough. In the warm water, everything felt so soft and comfortable, she wanted to pass out in the bath. Something about that thought alarmed her. She should be on her highest guard. She should be ready to run to the police and tell everyone she was abducted by strange women and that she couldn't remember the last five days. And yet... she was relaxed, calm, and as she was starting to realize, sensitive. As she brushed off the paint, the skin underneath felt strangely good. Exceptionally good. Like her hips and waist and belly were suddenly a whole new erogenous zone -- the feeling of her fingertips against the soft, plush skin of her abdomen was beginning to drive her up a little.
That was another thing... the mirror, she remembered the unfamiliarity. She was certainly a little bloated, but it wasn't just at her midsection. Everywhere was just a tad more plush, she had filled out a little. But that thought, even if it should have worried her a little, faded with more rubbing. Eventually her hands found their way down to her thighs, where the sensation was even more intense. She felt the pigment still thick all around there, and she scrubbed it off with her bare fingers, having to do so gingerly and slowly so as not to overstimulate herself. As she drew closer to her lips, the pigment grew thicker and thicker, she could barely use even the tips of her fingers, working in long, patient motions to remove it layer by layer. She felt her heart pumping in her chest, felt it echoing through her body, felt her breath shortening and raising with every single motion. For minutes it was just her teasing herself trying to get the paint to a point where she could finally push towards release.
Then, with a sudden twitch, she peeled back the last bit and her crotch was cleared, ready for her fingers. Those same fingers were coated in the slick pigment, counteracting the roughness of the water. She started to carefully push against her clit, rubbing it in the same slow motions she'd used to clean it off. The paint made the sensation echo across everywhere it touched. Her fingers weren't just on her clitoris, they were all across her body, massaging her to ecstasy. She bit her lip and used her other hand to pinch her nipple, and the intensity made her arch her back in joy.
