Fractured Memories

Fractured Memories- Alona (Harker Middle School, 7th Grade)

Glaring lights dance erratically around the otherwise dark room, their sharp movements

occasionally blinding my vision. Chatter and music fills the air. In the corner, colorful,

untouched gifts are haphazardly heaped in a mound.I stand at the center of it all, smiling,

laughing, and thanking everyone who came. As I sip on a can of soda, its cool aluminium surface

a contrast against my warm hands, my eyes drift to a small, unassuming present that has tumbled

down from the top of the pile. It’s flimsily packaged with a dull gray wrapping that looks like it’s

about to fall apart. My curiosity sparks. Who could be the friend who prepared such a

disappointing gift? It sits there, on the floor, enticing me. “Excuse me,” I repeat as I push through

the crowd of guests to pick up the package carefully. I weigh it in my hand. It’s slightly heavy,

but I can’t tell what it is. I look around quickly before slipping out the back door into the

backyard.

The grass, blanketed in the soft silver glow cast by the full moon above, is lush and green

from the rainfall throughout the past week. Fresh air fills my lungs. I turn the small present in my

hands around, expecting to see a name. But there isn’t one. No tag, no handwriting—nothing to

give away its origin. My fingers trace the uneven folds of the paper, the tape barely holding it

together. Despite its unremarkable appearance, something about it feels...off. I hesitate, my mind

racing. Did someone forget to sign it, or was it left anonymous on purpose? A cool breeze rushes

past me, sending shivers down my spine. I peel back the first strip of tape, and the whole

package falls apart. Everything afterwards happens in an instant; pain shoots through my hands,

and the jarring sound of metal clattering on concrete cuts through the quiet night air. I look down

in shock at the jagged blades scattered at my feet, glinting in the moonlight. Crimson drops drip

from my palms onto the pale grass below, forming tiny, ominous stains. Warm blood runs from

fresh gashes on my hands. My breathing quickens, and I instinctively step back, almost

stumbling as my shoe grazes one of the blades. A white slip of paper amongst the knives catches

my eye. My hand trembling, I crouch down and pick it up. Two sentences, scrawled in angry,

shaky handwriting, stares back at me. “I haven’t forgotten. Watch your back.” The night feels

darker now, the winds colder and harsher. I think back to the party, scanning my memory for

anyone who might hold a grudge, but no one comes to mind.

I quietly walk back into the house, and even though I’m welcomed by yet another round

of lively laughter, the warmth and noise feel surreal and distant. My heart pounds in my chest as

I weave through the crowd, careful to keep my bleeding hands tucked inside my pockets and out

of sight. I think back to the message, the knives. Could this all just be some sort of joke? My gut

tells me otherwise. The deliberate handwriting definitely seemed personal. I enter the bathroom

and lock the door behind me. Under the bright light, I turn on the sink and pull out my hands. I

flinch as I rinse them under the cold water. As I bandage my hands with tissue and tape from the

cabinet, a memory suddenly pushes forward from the back of my mind. Two years ago, in a

narrow and crowded school hallway. A timid girl with a trembling voice. Me, laughing along

with my friends as one of them kicks her notebook down the hall. I just stood there, smiling, like

it wasn’t my problem. I didn’t even know why they hated her, but I didn’t feel the need to

intervene. I stare at the mirror. Could it be her? It was far-fetched, but no one else came to mind

at the moment..

Soon, the party starts winding down, guests spilling out the front door. I force a smile,

thanking them for coming, but my thoughts are elsewhere. Every face I see is a suspect. They

could be watching me right now, reveling in my confusion and fear. “Great party,” a voice says,

snapping me back to reality. It’s Kayla, one of my closest friends. Her warm smile relieves me a

bit. “You okay? You seem a little out of it.”

“Yeah, just tired,” I lie, waving it off. “It’s been a long night.” She nods, but her brow

furrows slightly. “Well, see you tomorrow then.”

Later that night, the house is silent. The gifts remain in their corner, untouched. I sit on the

couch, staring at the note again. The words blur together as my eyes sting with exhaustion. I

haven’t forgotten. Watch your back. I still wasn’t even sure who it was. I try to think, try to piece

it together, but my mind feels like a jumble of fractured memories.

The next day, I spend hours sifting through my past. There’s a list forming in my head—people

I’ve wronged, moments I’d buried and forgotten. The girl in the hallway. The teammate I’d

betrayed in a fit of jealousy. The friend I’d hurt because I was too selfish. The truth crashes over

me like a wave: I wasn’t as innocent as I thought. And now, those haunting memories are

catching up to me. “So what? What am I supposed to do? Apologize to everyone I’ve ever hurt?

Live in fear and misery forever?” But deep down, I know the answer. I can’t undo the past and

rewind back to those moments—but I can face it; I can change, no matter how difficult it will be.

In my hand, my phone screen turns off. I stare at the dark surface, and my reflection looks back

at me. These new scars on my hand are a part of me now, but so is the understanding that these

incidents are reminders not of guilt but of responsibility..

And maybe, just maybe, that’s how I’ll finally find peace.