Falling down, having tripped over the rug, she thought to herself, “Whatever happened to Jim?” It was a startling thought to have had, and as the pain across her arm, chest and face began to grow she lay, unmoving, and she wondered idly whether she had in fact had time to think the entire thought before hitting the floor.
Gradually the chair legs in front of her became less distinct, finally disappearing in a dark shadow. “Surely he married the son of that old fella who used to mend broken dreams up on the common” she mused whilst the throbbing in the temples grew, not deeper but faster.
“No, not that Jim”. The thread of her thoughts were hard to grasp; as hard as the thread of the rug was to ungrasp from the corner of her mouth. She tried once more to spit it out. It remained. “Am I trying? Or do I just think I am?”
Her mind was filled with a man’s image. Faceless and indistinct, a fuzzy grey silhouette. “How strange I can’t remember Jim!” The idea tickled her, just as the thread tickled her gums. “Hang on; I don’t know anyone called Jim.” The pain was growing simultaneously heavier and yet more numb. She pictured the pictures at the picture-house. The deep booming voice over the trailer filled her mind’s ears “What next for……”
“Oh. What is my name? Am I Jim?” Namelessness has a levitating quality and her contact with the ground became slightly less precise. Her name stayed out of reach, and the pain began to ease, in accordance with her easing off the floor. “Oh it’s snowing” the aimless thought flitted through her brain as she reached the level of the window. Still her name escaped her.
Soon Mark would be home. What would be the first word you would utter to come home to a floating loved one broken and covered in blood? Yes, but sadly that particular proper noun would ricochet off her memory and bring her crashing down; the weight of a name is too heavy in this world.