I’m a zombie at school. I don’t feel rested. I dreamed about Norma last night. My psych told me to write down any memories that come to me, including dreams. But that sounds so cliché. Like the heroine in a book who has an epitome from a strange dream full of symbolism. That’s not me.
In the bright, shining sun my dream isn’t as morbid as it felt when I woke up. Norma is the same grandmotherly person I remember before she died. Not the one in my sleep who repeated the same phrase over and over again, while she searched her home.
"Where’s my cat? Where's my cat? Where's my cat?
I need to flush out these memories. Bring them to the light, hold them up, see them for what they really, really are. I need to be brave. What if my memories come back and I am a serial killer?
My stomach hurts, it's clenched so tight. My throat opens up like it knows I'm going to puke. I'm only half way through my school day. How will I survive the rest of my classes? I won't. I check myself out of school by leaving through the band door on the side of the building. I take the long way to the parking lot, ducking under windows, walking through the middle of the football field and weaving around cars. I find Trash Can right where I left him. I slide into the drivers seat and wait. I don't know for what. A friend to find me? A counselor to give me detention? Memories to pour out? I shove the key into the ignition and rev the engine. I want out of my life.
I drive the opposite direction of my house. I follow the road with no more thoughts in my head than what I'll make for dinner.
I glance at the clock on my phone. Another hour and school will be over. Will the truancy officer call Dad? I don't care. I'm driving through a neighborhood where house after house is identical, except the color and the landscape. It's creeping me out like I've been thrust back into some sort of dystopian world where everyone is happy and the same. No worries about hiearchy in school or work. No one dies tracgically. Everyone lives to the ripe old age of 62 before giving up their life. Children are smiling, teens are laughing, people are good.
I pull the car over and cry in front of a blue house. I don't cry often. It gives me a headache. Why am I crying? Because I know I'm not guilty of anything than having a best friend. I wipe my tears. I have to stop living my life on the run because I have no memories. I will find them. I get my planner out and look at the date. Then I circle one exactly a month from now. I will know my fate on November 8th. Aiden's bday.
In the bright, shining sun my dream isn’t as morbid as it felt when I woke up. Norma is the same grandmotherly person I remember before she died. Not the one in my sleep who repeated the same phrase over and over again, while she searched her home.
"Where’s my cat? Where's my cat? Where's my cat?
I need to flush out these memories. Bring them to the light, hold them up, see them for what they really, really are. I need to be brave. What if my memories come back and I am a serial killer?
My stomach hurts, it's clenched so tight. My throat opens up like it knows I'm going to puke. I'm only half way through my school day. How will I survive the rest of my classes? I won't. I check myself out of school by leaving through the band door on the side of the building. I take the long way to the parking lot, ducking under windows, walking through the middle of the football field and weaving around cars. I find Trash Can right where I left him. I slide into the drivers seat and wait. I don't know for what. A friend to find me? A counselor to give me detention? Memories to pour out? I shove the key into the ignition and rev the engine. I want out of my life.
I drive the opposite direction of my house. I follow the road with no more thoughts in my head than what I'll make for dinner.
I glance at the clock on my phone. Another hour and school will be over. Will the truancy officer call Dad? I don't care. I'm driving through a neighborhood where house after house is identical, except the color and the landscape. It's creeping me out like I've been thrust back into some sort of dystopian world where everyone is happy and the same. No worries about hiearchy in school or work. No one dies tracgically. Everyone lives to the ripe old age of 62 before giving up their life. Children are smiling, teens are laughing, people are good.
I pull the car over and cry in front of a blue house. I don't cry often. It gives me a headache. Why am I crying? Because I know I'm not guilty of anything than having a best friend. I wipe my tears. I have to stop living my life on the run because I have no memories. I will find them. I get my planner out and look at the date. Then I circle one exactly a month from now. I will know my fate on November 8th. Aiden's bday.
