Memory

When she wakes up, her eyes are irritated and her eyelashes are glued together. Her head is foggy and there is a pounding somewhere in there. Her body aches as she stretches out from her curled position.

When she stretches her arms, her hand hits something sitting beside her pillow. When she rolls over to look at it, her spine crackles.

It’s a book. The cover is made of a dark red dyed leather, and it’s not very thick. It’s kind of small. It’s small enough to fit in a purse or even a jacket.

She sits up with it in her hands, her curiosity piqued. She turns the cover and is met with the sight of a drawing of the view out her window. What window?

Gods, she’s so disoriented. She doesn’t remember what she did last night. Was she drinking? No, she doesn’t drink. Does she? Is she old enough to drink, how old is she?

Instead of worrying about the implications of those questions, she turns the page instead.

At least she doesn’t have to worry about the implications anymore. It’s right there in front of her eyes written in messy large letters.

You’re not going crazy. You have amnesia. Don’t forget to eat breakfast.

Oh. That’s different from what most people wake up to. She should look at the rest of the pages, make sure she doesn’t miss anything.

Reading the rest of the pages takes a little bit. It’s just casual information that she should know. Her full name is written in bold at the end of the first page. Her address is written, what her signature looks like, who her parents are, her siblings, and the rest is just a journal. She supposes that she’s supposed to write down anything important she does or thinks today.

She’s not all that bothered by the fact that she just found out she has amnesia. It’s something she does almost every day she guesses. The book went in-depth on what’s actually going on here. Not complete amnesia, sometimes she can remember things clearly. But that’s rare, and usually, she forgets large swaths of time.

It must be a bad day then, she didn’t quite forget her name, but it felt more solid when she read it.

That’s distressing. She hauls herself up to see if she can take a shower. Might as well start the day, this isn’t new.

She takes her shower and puts on some clothes that are in her closet and doesn’t question herself on whether she would wear these clothes normally or if it’s just because she doesn’t have memories.

But if she’s like this all the time, is there even a normal for her? Is she just constantly changing?

She steps out of her room and into the hallway. She might as well take a look around what she assumes is her house.

When she takes a look at the living room table, it’s clear she has many more journals than just the one she woke up with. There are a lot of books on the bookshelves too, but the ones on the table are journals.

She takes the time to leaf through a couple. One is filled with what seems to be opinions on social issues, written like a school essay with sources and quotes. She sets that one aside to read later.

There are a few more about day to day life, numbered 45 - 48, the one she is carrying is number 49. She barely skims those, she can already vaguely remember some of the events in those.

She’s not an amnesiac, not completely, but it still hurts. It’s hard to know that this is her life, there is no past and there is no future. Anything she wants to keep has to be written down in detail.

There are notebooks filled with poetry, and she doesn’t remember a single word of it. She’s sure that if she looked in the mirror and spoke, she could perform, but at this moment not a single word comes to her mind.

There are so many notebooks on the table and there are so many that she can’t remember. It hurts so much to know that she has lost so much.

She turns sharply towards the kitchen and all but throws herself into it. The familiar sight of the dark wooden table and chairs is enough to calm her. There is a camera and a stack of photos laying on the table, also a familiar sight.

Picking up the photos, she knows she doesn’t recognize them, but the weight of them in her hands is familiar enough. She shuffles through them in an attempt to familiarize herself with the photos. She does this every day, she’s sure, so she doesn’t take the same photos over and over again.

There’s quite a few, but most are memorable in and of themselves, memory issues notwithstanding. She has no idea how she managed to get some of these.

She sets the photos down to pick up the camera. It fits almost better than the photos. She can’t tell you a single thing about the camera, she doesn’t remember a single word of manual.

But she could go out right now and take the best photos. She knows how to use the camera in a way she could never hope to remember. Her mind might be fucked, but her body will always remember.

She doesn’t want to take any photos right now, she doesn’t feel solid enough to go outside just yet. She sets the camera back down and steps into the living room.

She wants to take another look at those books. There are a few on philosophy, a few on money, business, charisma. She barely remembers any philosophy and has a good grasp of business.

She still feels a little fragile, so what better way to relax than laying on the couch reading philosophy. There's probably tea in the kitchen. There are no blankets in the living room but it’s not cold so it’s fine.

She spends the hours until the sun sets softly, reading. The atmosphere is perfect. When her eyes start to slip shut in the middle of a book she grabs the journal she woke up with and tucks it under her arms.

She lets herself drift off, only a little melancholy about the fact that she probably won’t remember this in the morning.