Melody Mathews: awake again.

I woke in the alleyway, my clothes a little torn on the sleeves and legs. A throbbing headache pusling through my head. It was the thing that connected me to the real world: the sound of traffic roaring down the highstreet, an aeroplane overhead. I tried to stand but it was too painful, I got a headrush like never before and the sheer pain in my forehead forced the rest of me to the floor. I groaned, and fumbled for a sheet of paper that had been left beside me.

'Your name is Melody Mathews.' Well I could remember that much. Melody Mathews, 25 years old. Had lived in the country for sixteen years, then ran off to the city. Became a receptionist. Became a victim to the womanising boss. Became a receptionist somewhere else. Had a small apartment. Lost contact with parents. Remained a receptionist at this same establishment for seven years. Went to a work party for her friend Josh last night. Here was where I stopped remembering. I don't even remember drinking...

'Do not go home, Melody. Go and find a man called Matthew Tempest. He can provide you with a number for new accomodation. Do not go home, please. Run Melody. Run and do not look back.'

I stared at this note in bewilderment. What had happened? And why were my clothes so ripped? Was that- was that blood?

That's when it started to return. And I knew I had to trust this letter, because my life literally depended on it.

The End

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