I remember… (part 3)

I awoke not knowing where I was or what had happened. A bump on my head told me I had fallen hard. I carefully got up, taking my time so as to evaluate any damage in my body. I was not a stranger to fainting nor to forgetting what had happened. This much I always knew.

I examined the photo on my hands. It was of me with a girl I could not recognize. We seemed happy, almost in love. What was her name? There was a black blur in the picture. Something was near us. I needed to find out more. I looked around the room: a lamp, cold coffee, books everywhere, a comfortable reading couch. This seemed like a place I could live in, but whose was it?

With the picture in my hand, I slowly started walking. My back ached a bit from the fall, but I seemed to be okay. I looked around the kitchen: toaster, coffee maker, sink with a few dishes, fruit. I walked towards the bedrooms and slowly opened the door: a bed with a closet. No sign of anybody here. I opened the second door: a bathroom with a shower, tub, sink and toilet. Nothing out of the ordinary. I walked towards the last door in the hallway and held my breath. If there was anything that could help me figure out what had happened in my life, it would be this door.

Once again, I woke up and found myself lying on the floor. Flashes of something jumping at me kept repeating in my head. I began moving my body slowly to make sure I was okay. One of these days, I would wake up from these absences unable to walk. As I moved my arms, I felt something furry near me. On my other hand was the photo. All of a sudden bits and pieces came back to me. That black blur was a black cat, perhaps the same black cat that was sleeping on my stomach now. Flashes of the cat in my life came back to me, some of us sleeping, others of me waking up after fainting and the cat on my belly as if keeping guard.

I still didn’t know much about my life, but I knew I was home.

This is part 3 of a sequel titled “I remember part 1” and “I remember part 2.” Although these posts are not necessarily related to each other, they are inspired by each other.


I remember… (part 2)

I still cannot understand what made me get on the train. I just know that I felt an impulse, a push on my legs that forced me to take a step and get on. I walked through the coaches until I found a solitary one. I needed time and space to think. My life had been chaos the last couple of days, and now, I was on a train without knowing the destination of my life. I sat on the other side of the window to admire the landscape. Maybe I would see something I could recognize, a sign of what had happened. When night finally fell and the light of the sun no longer touched the trees, I closed my eyes. It was 10:30 p.m. already.

I fell into a deep almost hallucinogen stupor. I felt drugged and I was terrified to know if it was due to the exhaustion or something I had taken. Suddenly, I remembered images. They  were faint and incoherent. Remembering a meditation class I had once taken to please an old girlfriend, I decided to let the images run as if it was a film. Maybe this way I could understand something, know something. The image of a blond woman with light skin and a pink dress repeated several times. I did not recognize her but I felt I had met her during the last couple of days.

The train stopped in a small unknown town. I remember seeing the word Bunde at some point, but I wasn’t sure. What did that mean? I looked out the window to see if I could recognize any of the passengers. Nothing. I heard some voices but could not understand what they said. Everything was abrupt, unfriendly. I felt a strong desire to be home and feel the warmth of my place, of something known.

When the train reached its third stop, I stood up. The same push that made me get on the train made me get off. The few people that got off the train made their way home without noticing my fear. I walked with everyone not knowing where I was going. Perhaps it had been a bad idea to get off the train. Would I be able to get back to the station if this search proved to be unsuccessful?

I walked about ten minutes. I was cold and hungry, and the fear I felt choked me up. I walked to a tall, dark building. The names on the entrance signaled this was an apartment building. I found a set of keys I had never seen inside my coat pocket. I went in and took the elevator. The other key had a sticker with the number 309 on it. I got off on the third floor and found the door. 309. What would I find once I opened it? Perhaps I would find a clue as to what had happened to me these last couple of days.

Carefully I opened the door. I didn’t want to make noise and alert anyone in the apartment. I found a lamp softly illuminating a chair. Next to the chair was a table with a cold cup of coffee and several books. I immediately recognized the titles. There was a bookshelf behind with more books and pictures. I walked towards it. Perhaps the woman in the pink dress would be in these pictures.

As soon as I looked at the photographs, I felt a chill come in to the apartment and inside my body. This was too much and I fell together with the photo. I found my ghost.

This story was inspired by what I remember… (part 1) talks about.

We accept the love we think we deserve.

She was in such a hurry that she began throwing the clothes inside the suitcase instead of placing them neatly, not noticing the car in the driveway. She was a neat-freak with hints of OCD, but right now, organization didn’t matter. What mattered was to get out as fast as possible. As she was rummaging through her drawers and closet, trying to fit enough clothes and anything of sentimental value she might want or need, the words her friend had told her rang in her head.

We accept the love we think we deserve.

Clearly that line in the latest book her friend had read was meant for romantic love, but somehow it spoke to her. What type of love did she deserve? More importantly, what did she deserve? She was a hard working girl with decent grades and enough activities to be considered for the state schools. She went out with friends and occasionally drank never losing her sense of responsibility. She was pretty in an average kind of way and was exceptionally kind to her friends and family. She deserved better.

Once again the words rang in her head: We accept the love we think we deserve.

She was one of the few people to realize she deserved better at such a young age. How many stories had she read of wives, children and parents in comma or dead because they thought they deserved that? How many stories went untold?

As she closed the suitcase, she looked around the room one more time. That room had been her salvation, her safe place, but she knew it would be no more. Her safe place would be in her heart wherever she went. She deserved better love and that is what she was going to find even if it meant a lifetime of searching.

She started walking down the stairs hoping to get out as soon as possible. As soon as she set foot on the last step, the one that always creaked when someone walked by, she heard that voice; the voice she wished she would never hear again.

-Where do you think you are going?

After that, everything became blurry. Flashes of light and screaming haunted her for years to come. Her life was not the same after that day, yet she never forgot those words:

We accept the love we think we deserve.

*Quote taken from the book The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky

A little story

I was walking towards the park holding his hand. This wasn’t getting serious, but I liked holding his hand. I liked the idea of being serious, just not with him. I think it was the way he chewed his food that screamed “Don’t marry him.” Regardless of the fact we had no future, holding hands was fun. I would pretend we had been together for years and this was one of our routine outings. After this we would go look at furniture for our new home, and then go back home to finish some do-it-yourself project. It was the best fantasy marriage.

We had been walking for about half and hour when I spotted this old woman at a distance. She was sitting on a bench with a small black purse full of red yarn. She had a bag of bread crumbs for the pigeons. There must have been dozens of pigeons around her. They were a cloud of black smoke surrounding her. It was magical, creepy and quite comical all at the same time.

As soon as the old woman’s face was clearly visible to us, I felt him get nervous. Something about the woman unnerved him. He suddenly let go of my hand to cover his face. All at once he began weeping; he was out of breath. I remember feeling embarrassed at first. What could possibly posses him to such a spectacle? The old woman was just as stupefied with his behavior as I was. Once my embarrassment subsided, I became confused. Why was I with this man? This man had nothing to offer; we had no future. As his tears became stronger, I knew it was time to leave, to flee this circus-like show.

To this day, I do not know what happened. Once I turned and walked away, I lost all contact. He never called nor was I interested in his phone call. It was as if with those tears he wiped clean both our lives and we started over. Sometimes I still imagine him walking around the park before going to a do-it-yourself store with his wife. I can never see the face of this woman, but I also know it isn’t me. Perhaps it is the old woman who was sitting on the bench that sunny afternoon.

Letters and memories


I sat frozen after reading the letter. I didn’t know who the people involved in the letter were, but I wanted to know more. I wanted to know Mary; I wanted to be friends with this mythical creature Ben longed for. I started longing for her. I tried researching on line for these two real life characters but the commonness of their name was of no help. How many Mary’s could there be in the world? Thousands.

For the years to come, I thought of Mary and Ben. I imagined what had become of their lives, and hoped one day I could join them. My life stopped the moment I read their letter, and as much as I wanted to, my life never started over. It wouldn’t without them.