Traci Hawkins –<br/>October 3, 8:24 AM<br/><br/>I  groaned as I shifted in the sweat soaked folds of my bed, the buzzing alarm tearing through the hang over like a white hot awl.  Fingers groped blindly across the small stand next to the bed before slamming down in a fist on the offending clock.  The intruder into my sweet oblivion fell dutifully silent, it’s plastic casing cracked from previously violent encounters.<br/><br/>Sitting up slowly as the light of the rising sun tore at my blurry eyes until a shakily raised hand blocked it, I tried desperately to remember the previous night.<br/><br/><em>Damn it.  Not</em>another<em>bender</em>– I cursed, throwing back the covers, noting the beer bottles littering the smooth carpet of the bedroom.<br/><br/>Feeble and trembling legs carried me to the clock, bleary eyes trying to make sense of the seemingly cryptic digital display. October 3.<em>God, three days?  I must have gotten</em>royally<em>messed up!</em><br/><br/>Bracing my head against the wall I waited for the brass band to stop marching through my skull.  Breath came fast and shallow as I attempted to sort out the jumbled twists of memory.  As always it eluded me and a fist slammed against the beige wall paper with a grunt of frustration.  I still had no idea what triggered them, but every once in a while I woke from what appeared to be an alchoholic binge with a migraine for the record books.<br/><br/>It hadn’t been this bad for a while though, not since high school.  The funny thing,  the really weird thing was that I<em>never </em>drank.   I was always clean and sober until another blackout decided to roll around.  It was as if something deep inside of me was trying to purge itself, to wash itself away with the sour taste of beer.<br/><br/><em>Amelia is going to kill me –</em>I thought as I stumbled into the bathroom, stripping off the clothes that had probably spent the last several days clinging to me before stepping into the shower.<br/><br/>The steaming hot water washed over me, wipping away the sweat and grime with it’s cleansing stream.  I stood there for a long time, muscles trembling as they fought to remember something, something my brain had forgotten. My head smacked lightly against the tile wall of the shower as the familiar frustration washed over me.<br/><br/>I should be happy.  I’d taken over the family business, Pop’s private investigation firm, almost two years ago.  Dad had always said I’d had the best nose for trouble he’d ever seen, and I’d proved it time and time again over the last twenty four months.  A slim beauty, I looked nothing like what someone would expect for my profession.  Tall, just cresting past six foot, the lithe but well formed body looked more like a cheerleader’s rather than a woman that had spent much of her childhood wrestling with her brothers or competing in sports.<br/><br/>Long, slim legs rose to a trim waist and an athletic, tight rear.  My smooth, toned belly was the result of the ruthless training regime I was very carefull to keep up on.  Breasts, full and firm;  had always been a constant source of teasing from my brothers as well as the reason for a lot of attention from other boys .  My long black hair fell in wet strands down my smooth backside, it’s bangs pressed against a sharp and beautiful face,  soft hazel eyes closed as the water washed over me.<br/><br/>I stood there for a long time, a soft sob escaping my lips as a half forgotten memory danced across the surface of my mind.<br/><br/><em>A basement.  Chains.  Pain.  A smiling man.  A torn and mangled car.</em><br/><br/>I’d tried hypnosis, meditation, any number of crackpot memory recovery scams.  Nothing helped.  The best I could do, and what I did now, was to push it out of my mind.<br/><br/>I quickly and efficiently scrubbed myself clean, stepping out to quickly dry myself off, kicking bottles to spin beneath various pieces of furniture as I walked back into her bedroom.  Dressing quickly in my customary jeans and button down white shirt I took a moment to smile at my attractive but slightly slovenly reflection.<br/><br/><em>Amelia’ll flip when she sees me –</em>I  grinned in fond amusement at the thought of my pushy and somewhat obsessive accountant, the ‘nanny’ I always called her.<br/><br/>Slipping the familiar weight of my shoulder rig on, I took a moment to check the old .38 pistol, my fingers touching it’s worn metal almost reverently.  Dad’s gun.  It had carried him through countless dangerous jobs and had saved me in several of my own.  Throwing on my worn overcoat I stepped out of the apartment into the bright, crisp fall morning.<br/>