Is it mine?
The handwriting on the paper stares back at me.
I’ll take care of you. You are not alone. It says.
I look around the room. It’s my bedroom, one I have spent years in. But suddenly it feels unfamiliar. A chill settles, I don’t know if it’s the weather or just me, I can’t seem to differentiate, everything feels hazy. The clock on my desk says it is close to 3 in the afternoon. Wasn’t I at a sleepover last night?
I confirm with my mother whether someone has been in my room. She affirms that no one but me has been to my room after I returned early from the sleepover last night. She asks me why I didn’t spend the night. I lied that I wasn’t feeling well. In reality, I don’t remember. This is not the first time it has happened. Neither will it be the last. I just know it.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. It's a text from my friend.
I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have forced you to talk about your father. I didn’t realize it would make you so upset. The text reads.
Truth be told, like a lot of other things, my memories of my father aren’t sharp at all. He left the scene very early on in life. I don’t understand why I would get upset over someone I don’t even remember. The last thing I recall from last night is us talking about random things while sipping wine she stole from her parent’s cellar. The conversation started getting deep and I vaguely remember feeling suddenly exhausted, like I was about to get unconscious. I reply to her, asking what exactly I did when I was upset, making an excuse that the wine made things blurry.
I don’t know how to explain it. You were like a totally different person. You didn’t do anything bad… you just started crying like a baby... literally like a child... and you begged me to take you home. It was cute though, you acting like a five-year-old. I guess it was just the alcohol. She answers.
The entire thing seems bizarre and very unlike me. I seldom cry, let alone over something related to my father. I agree with her and put the blame on the alcohol in my system.
The amnesia doesn’t get better. I find myself in places I don’t remember going to, saying things to people I don’t recall, and finding weird things in my room that I don’t remember bringing.
Right now, I’m looking at my room, horrified. I hear slamming on my door but I can barely register it amongst everything. My room is a mess. The bedside lamp lies broken on the ground, my books are scattered everywhere and my glass window has a huge crack on it.
The banging on my door gets louder. I open it to find my mother looking at me with terrified eyes. She asks me what happened, what made me so angry. I tell her I don’t understand what she means.
You were so angry when you came back home. It was like you were a different person altogether. I know you get temper tantrums but what made you so angry this time?
I get temper tantrums? I can’t recall the last time I got angry. I always believed that I wasn’t prone to anger. Is this really me? And if yes, then how much do I even really know about myself?
I give my mother some excuse and get her out of the room. It’s too much. I can’t seem to wrap my head around recent happenings. Was it always this way and I was the only one unaware of myself? How many things have I done, how many things have I said, that I have no recollections of? The thought scares me to the core. Who am I?
I find a scribbled note on my desk beneath the mess of the books.
Don’t be afraid. You are stronger than this.
The note seems strangely familiar. Immediately, I started looking for the one I came across last week. As I suspected, the handwriting on both is the same.
Who am I?
Who all am I?
How many am I?
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