WICASTA LOVELACE

The Taste of Dulce

    “Dulce,” the voice said. “It’s Dee-ul-say.” It was parsed out into phonetics. Syllables. Rhythm. She stared into the reflection at a woman who watched her, who touched full, pink lips. “Mouth feel,” she said to herself. It’s what he would say. An odd phrase. “Mouth feel.” It sat strangely on her tongue. “Dulce” didn’t taste right, either. Didn’t feel right.

    It would do. It had to. For now, at least. A reference. It didn’t feel like her, but it was something they could mark her with until she faded back into her void. That’s all it had to be.

    Dulce blinked. Hard. Closed her eyes tightly, painfully, so stars, sparkles, came out in the darkness. All she had to do was to re-form for a little bit. Reincorporate. Breathe. Reintegrate. Be. Just for a little while.

    She’d winked into a muddled existence that morning, a swirl of jasmine and sweat, and had spent most of her day making sense of it all. Or trying to. What came before was still there. In bits and pieces. Jagged fragments. Whispers. Stale shadows that moved and undulated. Waking dreams. There was a word for it. A phrase. A name on the tip of her dry tongue.

    Something... other. Older. Ancient.

    Something... not Dulce.

    Someone... not Dulce.

    The woman in the mirror grimaced.

    Who was she now?