Free Wraith's Awakening (Para-Ops) by Virna DePaul Page B

Big breasted. But amnesia or not, I feel right down to my bones that I'm not an exhibitionist. Pulling the cardboard against me, I lunge forward. “No, don't leave. Please. Can I borrow your sweater? Anything?”
    Now the woman looks insulted, as if I'd asked to fuck her late husband in their marriage bed. I sigh. I'm flippant and have a potty mouth. Got it.
    Certainly not,” the old woman huffs. “Just who do you think I am?”
    Like I would know. I don't even know who I am. “I-”
    She's off before I can say more, shaking her head as she departs so I am left with no doubt as to her disapproval. A stagnant breeze rushes beneath the cardboard, which, like a hospital gown, is barely managing to cover the front of me let alone the back. A quick glance outside the alley finds the street empty so I take several determined steps back toward the dumpsters.
    Dumpster diving-or in my case, dumpster shifting-ain't pleasant. After stacking several empty crates, I manage to boost myself up so I can shift one piece of garbage off the other. I soon tire of doing this one-handed and give up on all attempts at modesty. I fling my cardboard sheet away. The way I smell, if someone is going to see my naked body and attack me, they deserve what they get. My stomach rolls when I uncover a particularly nasty pocket of something, but then I'm rewarded by the sight of a flannel sleeve. For a second, I think it's the shirt that smells so bad, but when I put it on I realize it smells even worse. Still, it's long and reaches halfway down my thighs and I don't stick around to find a matching pair of pants.
    Wherever the hell I am, I need things. Bathroom. Food. Answers. In that order.
    The main street is lined with tired-looking shops in disrepair-a drug store, a Laundromat, a bookstore-all closed. I pump my arms and legs until I catch up with the old lady with the walker. As if she smells me coming, she pauses and glances over her shoulder while I'm still several feet away.
    “Thanks for the help back there,” I say as I pass her on the left.
    “Youth. Always in a hurry,” she murmurs.
    I don't bother answering. My bladder feels like I'm about to explode and, filthy clothes or not, I absolutely refuse to squat and pee on the street. I break into a run, or what probably looks more like a haphazard, stumbling jog. I'm about to rethink my stance on squatting when I spot a young man with dark hair, clothes, and eyeliner unlocking a steel gate that secures a small shop.
    He spots me a half-second later, eyes widening as I rush up to him.
    “Bathroom-” I gasp as I frantically squeeze my thighs together and half-crouch.
    He glances past me and behind him, as if trying to confirm I'm really talking to him.
    “Please, sir.”
    The “sir” must have done it. He sighs, unlocks the gate, shoves it up, and unlocks the door. “Back left,” he says.
    “Thank you so much,” I breathe as I race past a series of racks overloaded with clothes. I have the impression of skulls, flames, and not surprising, seas of black, before I see the dingy white door and barrel through it. I freeze for only a second when I get a whiff of the place-it makes me long to be back next to the dumpsters-then squat over the toilet.
    My relief as I wait for my bladder to empty is dizzying.
    I realize I've discovered two more things about myself. I can be polite. And, while I'm no wimp-I'm wearing a shirt I found in a dumpster, after all-I have certain standards when it comes to cleanliness. Even though a person's butt is supposed to be the most sterile part of the human body, I'm not taking chances. I need to find out who I am and where I belong, and my blue-tinged butt isn't touching anything nasty in the mean time.
    I wait several minutes but nothing happens. My urge to pee magically disappears and I frown.
    What the hell is going on?
    I straighten and wash my hands at the sink. I cringe when I see my reflection in the mirror. I'm comforted by the fact my features seem