When it’s all over, I walk slowly up my creaking stares. I tiptoe like I did as a child, scared that I might wake someone but I know I can’t wake the dead.
My room is dark, lit only by a candle next to my bed, and what normally would feel gloomy felt comfortable. Peaceful. For once, my mind had gone silent.
I make my way to the window and sit. I remember looking out this window as a child, but only vaguely. My childhood memories have always felt like a fever dream, strange and vivid, but I’ve never been able to decipher what ad really happened from what my mind has created. I stare at my reflection in the dark glass, admiring the features my mother had unwillingly given to me. I look at my, thin eyebrows. Perfectly waxed every three weeks, just as my husband had wanted. I look at my lips, plump and pink. They look different from normal, not covered in unflattering colors my husband always insisted I wear. I notice my wrinkles now and I run my fingers over them. I feel like I could wipe them away with the swipe of my finger, but they’re still there when my hand leaves my face. I finally look into my dark brown eyes, and feel a sense of familiarity. Like I’ve been here before.
In this moment, I realize that the memories from my childhood were not created in my mind, they were real. In this moment, I realize that I’m not looking at myself, I’m looking at the devil.
When I first see her, I am behind her. She’s short, but not too short, and her skin looks like caramel. It’s smooth and it reminds me of warm brown sugar. But when she turns around, she’s become a warm cup of coffee. Light brown, with swirls of freshly poured cream that hasn’t yet been stirred. Even more beautiful than I could’ve imagined. At the first sight of her, I don’t know if I love her. But I know I’m interested in learning everything there is to know about her. And her, everything I’ll allow her to know about me. I don’t know if I’ll ever be capable of loving someone, but I know that she needs to love me.
It’s a strange thing to be forgotten. It’s not an adjective, or a noun, or a verb. It’s not a feeling. And it’s not a saying. It’s a sense of being that absorbs every single part of you, even if it only lasts a moment.
In relationships, the act of being forgotten begins when someone bright and shiny comes along. Someone with whom your love has no history with, someone they haven’t fought with, and someone who hasn’t made themselves look nuts begging you to love them. Although it feels fast to the one who’s about to be forgotten, it’s slow for the one who you love. The one you thought was yours and only yours. Slowly and quickly, he begins to ignore you, claiming he was busy working when you know he’s not. Then he stops caring about how you feel, in any sense, whether it be happy, or mad, or lonely. And finally, he fills your head with drunken lies and has his way with you for one last time, before he’s gone. And now your forgotten.
I probably sound bitter, even though I’ve moved on myself and I’m happy. But I’m not. It’s just that I’ve never forgotten how anyone has made me feel. The good, the bad, and the awful. I remember almost every part. So no, I haven’t forgotten anyone, but I’m sure they’ve forgotten me.
