In Practice

Sitting under the roof, shielded by pieces of tin plates, Bona Valman stirred from the inside. The rain landed outside and on his makeshift cover. It sounded quiet. Through the cracks of the plates, light emitted into the tiny shack of his. His dirty, black hair tangled, his ash nose wiggled, and lay back on the stacks of newspapers, seeking comfort and warmth before the sun arrive.

Valman, once a successful business man, was kicked out of his company years ago for committing what was known nowadays as white collar crime. He went on trials and was sentenced to a federal prison somewhere in the wilderness of an unknown state for five months. Time eclipsed at the moment he stepped out of the prison transport.

He had no memory of ever being in the prison, or signing the divorce paper, or anything before he moved to the sunny seaside beach house in California. The life he used to live had left him unattended. Upon release, he was homeless, clueless. He received only the jacket he wore and the watch he carried.

Being out of the prison was suppose to be a thing to celebrate, or at least be glad about. But not for Valman. No one was waiting for him, no transportation, no welcome home wagon, and certainly not the kisses that burned him sometimes during sleep.

The fragments of memories. Sometimes he could see clearly into the past, but then there were always some kind of a variation of the same event he remembered, like a copies of the draft and the final product in a play. He couldn't rely on his memory.

Though he knew he lived in Los Angeles because his drivers license told him so.