To Be Forgotten

She jolted awake, cold in nothing but a small, white dress, enveloped in a room as dark as the night sky before impending dawn. She pulled at the spotless fabric, felt how soft and cotton-like the material was. She was sure the dress wasn’t her own. Her eyes watered as she wrapped her arms around herself, the cold air filtering in through an open window along with tiny flecks of what appeared to be pure white snow.

Where was she?

Shifting to stand, she almost felt like hissing at the stone-cold floors beneath her, the feeling of standing upon them similar to standing on sharp ice. She glanced around, looking for an exit, for some sign of where she was or something to give her a sense of identification. There was nothing; nothing except the stone floors and walls along with the opened window that allowed a stream of eerie wind to flow and circulate within the tiny room.

Who was she?

She glanced down at her hands, flexing them with a twinge of curiosity. Her hands almost resembled those of a skeleton; tiny, bony, and far too fragile looking. Her skin, a warm, deep brown in most places, was splotched in a number of different shades that were noticeably lighter as if she’d suffered a painful burn. Her lips twitched, unsure if they wanted to curl up in a smile or down in a displeased glower. She had no idea what she thought of it, as she had no idea what or who had caused it.

She moved to stand before the window, glancing out into the dark, cold night. She couldn’t see anything if she’d wanted to. The snow was too thick, too blinding, and the tall trees served as a masquerade for the outside world. It felt unreal in a way, like an image out of a fairy tale. The next shiver that wracked her lithe frame had nothing to do with the cold.

She paused. She could have sworn she’d just seen a figure move from the corner of her eye. It’d looked like a shadow in the form of a girl. She shut her eyes, her stomach twisted in a painful ball, she turned around. She hated the way her emotions were designating her actions. She hated the feeling of fear and hesitancy, two things that felt as if they didn’t belong within her. Troubled by the thought, she decided to approach her current situation with valor.

She opened her eyes.

Six ghost-like figures stood before her. They surrounded her in a semi-circle, staring with eyes that were more like bottomless pits of black. Wisps of something that appeared like smoke twirled around their daunting, still forms. She stared back and realized she recognized every single one of them, some more than others.

The two on the very left, a brawny man and a petite woman, caught her attention the most. The man was huge, built entirely of broad shoulders, mean muscles, and intimidating spirits. The woman, on the other hand, seemed to be as intimidating as a lost kitten. Despite that, she seemed strong in her own unique kind of way. She stood tall, her aura honest and unafraid of the show of vulnerability. The man was holding a hand to his heart and the woman pressed a palm to her neck, just above her collarbone. She didn’t even bother questioning why as her gaze trailed to the two men just beside the pair.

She didn’t know why, but the moment her eyes fell upon them a burning hatred erupted within her chest. They were both dressed in suits but one was missing his tie. One stood up straight, arms crossed over his chest, and the other was hunched over a bit as if he’d taken a blow to the stomach. Despite the helpless demeanor he emitted, he still stared her in the eye in a pretentious show of hostility.

The next figure to the side of them, a girl, somehow made her feel sicker than she’d already felt the moment she awoke. She was weak. There was no denying that with the way she was practically curled in on herself or how she was the only one who didn’t look her in the eyes. Instead, the girl’s gaze was fixated on the ground. Tiny weeps of sorrow escaped her mouth, the sound swallowed by the whistles of wind permeating the room.

The last man, his lanky figure covered in a neat vest and slacks, undeniably smirked at her. Something about him made her just as angry as the other two men had, but she tried not to think too much. Her head already felt as if it might split open at any given second.

“What are you?” She asked, taking a step back. “What do you want?”

The girl’s weeping grew louder, the gigantic man let out a deep, throaty laugh, and the tieless man sighed and, to her surprise, justified her inquiry with an answer.

“Another chance.”

She didn’t get the opportunity to question the statement because with one strong puff of wind, all six figures vanished and she was once again left alone.

She fell to her knees and buried her face in her hands.

The cold was becoming too hard to bear and her stomach refused to stop growling, twisting, no matter how many times she’d begged it to. She lay sprawled across the frigid floors, goosebumps scattered across her exposed arms and legs. She let out a long exhale, watching her icy breath fan above her before dispersing once more.

She glanced toward the dilapidated door to her right; tall, wooden, and covered in scratches like those from a deranged animal. It was unlocked. She’d even peeked out of it once when her curiosity got the better of her, but she didn’t leave the room. Probably never would.

There was nothing out there for her. There was nothing to give her any resemblance of hope. No food, no water, nothing. Just another door that she refused to pass.

A soft, melodic humming started up some distance away. It didn’t startle her. She’d heard it before, but never quite this close. It seemed to be getting even closer. Her lips trembled and she closed her eyes and began to breathe deeply. She’d known she wasn’t alone, but she’d never seen the other creature that was getting closer and closer by the second. She was scared and she despised it; wished she could gain some semblance of control over herself.

She didn’t know who steadily approached but she did know she didn’t trust them. She did know they had to have something to do with what she was doing there and why she couldn’t even remember her own name. Perhaps the creature would explain everything to her? Perhaps she could then leave and merrily forget about the entire experience? She was aware that was only a possibility and a slim one at that. As the humming finally reached her door, the soft tune shattering the glass walls she’d built around herself in a matter of seconds as if a piercing scream, she suddenly felt like taking a leap of faith through the window. It didn’t matter how high up she knew it was. Anything felt better than facing the sure to be monster who was now turning the doorknob and stepping a long, bony leg through the door.

She held her breath as the creature revealed herself, but not completely. Her ungodly tall and bone-skinny form was concealed within a long, black cloak. With her hood pulled over her head, her facial features were nothing but shadows. Her voice was raspy and calm when she spoke, her speech broken. “Hello. I assume you’re hungry?”

Only then did she notice the small bowl of food within the creature’s hand and the bottle of presumable water held in the other. She shook her head, now trembling head to toe in fear but continuing to channel her last thread of nerve. She glared at the creature.

“Witch… Don’t come closer. Stay exactly where you are.”

The creature sat the food and water down on the floor beside her feet with a clunk. She held up a glossy journal, the midnight blue cover gleaming in the dim light, and said, “you can expect to be here for a while. You might as well be productive in the meantime. Use this journal to record your memories as they come back to you.”

“What do you mean?” she questioned. “Where the hell am I?”

The creature didn’t answer. Setting the journal down beside the food along with a pen, she made her exit without another word, humming that strange but familiar tune once again. As soon as the sound could no longer be heard, she shot to her feet and hastened toward the bowl, engulfing its contents without a second thought. As soon as she finished gulping down the provided water, she picked up the journal along with the pen. Flipping the cover open, she ran her fingers over the smooth, white pages. She tried to think of something to write, thought better of it, and instead finally set about exiting the room and trailing into the next, journal in hand.

She instantly took notice of the small, potted rose in the corner of the room, shriveled up and wilted. She crouched before it, running her finger over the ridges of the dark rose, frowning as the plant withered into dust from the slightest of pressures. She winced, gasping as her headache from earlier came back tenfold just as a particular memory did.

When she was younger, her mother used to have a small garden out back; partially full of flowers and partially full of produce. She remembered the time she’d gotten the bright idea to rip them from their roots and eat them. She’d only been around four at the time.

The one flower within the garden that’d managed to pique her interest had been a single black rose. Up until the first day she’d seen it, she hadn’t even been so sure they existed. They were so mysterious-looking, so dark. They seemed so less pretentious than the various bright-colored tulips and daisies. They were the most beautiful pieces of nature she’d ever laid her eyes on.

She moved to sit to the side of it, her back pressed against the wall. She rubbed at her forehead with a wince. In spite of the pounding in her head, she felt an abnormal inclination to write her thoughts down. She pulled out her pen and flipped her journal open. Things were starting to come to her, even if incredibly slowly.

The sun had just gone down, the night quiet with the exception of the ever obnoxious cicadas outside of my kitchen window. My father was seated at the table, newspaper in hand. My mother was busy preparing dinner; some sort of broth that I’d grown accustomed to along with a small loaf of bread. The delicious smells of her cooking encompassed the room, making me more impatient than ever to shove some food down my throat. I was so naive at that tender age. So ignorantly worry-free as if the world was problem-free in itself.

My dad was smarter, though. So quiet and observant; well aware that no one could be trusted, not even his own daughter and wife. At the time, I hated him for it, but now it made perfect sense. He wasn’t cold just to be cold. He was cold because he understood the reality of our situation in a way a child couldn’t. He had always been that way, and my older brother’s disappearance didn’t exactly aid his wariness. It was a surprise for him to be eating dinner with us at all. Most days, he’d disappear for periods of time only to show up later in a distant night with splatters of blood, dried and already flaking, across his dark, cultured clothing.

Each and every night it happened, my mother grew increasingly distressed. I never quite understood why. No matter where he went or what he was doing, he always came home perfectly fine with a little extra cash to show for it.

That particular night, however, my dad forgot what it meant to be smart. He forgot what it meant to not let your guard down. Two men approached our door, banging big, strong fists against it until my father finally took the initiative to swing open the door. Maybe he’d gotten arrogant, maybe it just wasn’t one of his good days, but he lost.

He’d lost the fight, lost his dignity, lost his life.

He had slunk to the ground, a knife plunged deep into his heart as his blood seeped out around him. My mother screamed, screamed as if it would somehow bring him back and told me to run.

I didn’t.

She’d taken a knife, one she’d just been using to chop the vegetables that would have gone into the soup, and charged the man. The man who had killed her husband along with her remaining will to live. It was stupid, reckless, and with a strangled breath, she would soon lay beside my father.

Their eyes remained open, cast up to the sky as if asking the deity above why their life had turned out that way. Why couldn’t it have been someone else? Why them?

I let the men drag me out of the house; let them trample over our garden as if walking around it wouldn’t suffice. As if they needed to add just a tad bit more salt into the wound. Their big feet left death in wake; as major as the death of my parents, and as minor as the deaths of dozens of small, helpless tulips. The singular rose remained untouched, standing tall and still and silent.

That became the last time I’d see a tulip, a rose, or any flower for that matter, for a long period of time. Because after that, my life became dressing in pretty, delicate lingerie and laying on a smelly, uncomfortable bed waiting to be mounted as if I were nothing more than a horse, an animal.

I didn’t fight back, but why would I? That’d be stupid, a battle lost, and I’m anything but stupid.

She looked over the words she’d just written. The story seemed about right. That tiny shell of memory gave her hope. She jumped a bit in surprise when she noticed her mother standing to the side of her, but she didn't look the same as the last time she'd seen her alive. Now, she was nothing but a ghost, one of the shadow-like figures she'd seen earlier. Once her initial fright passed, she smiled at her. An arrogant kind of grin that had her mother frowning in disappointment.

“I never wanted you to turn out like your father.”

“Why not?” she asked curiously. “You obviously loved him, so which of his traits did you not want me to inherit?”

“None of them,” she murmured. “Not his cold empathy. Not his arrogance. Not even his strength. I always wanted you to grow up to become your own person. To find something in this world worth living for that wasn’t money, power, or sex. Something… beautiful. More meaningful. Different.”

“Dad was always smarter than you,” she stated, frowning at the woman’s words. As much as she had cared about her mother, her optimism had always bothered her. It’d always seemed childish and out of place. It’d always seemed like a chorus of lies. “He always knew there was nothing beautiful about our world.”

Her mother shrugged, her dark eyes never breaking contact with her own. “Maybe so.”

Her mother turned to walk away, her steps soft and unhurried. Her dark, kinky hair danced with the wind along with the royal blue dress she’d always worn. She hesitated before stepping out of the door, turning to her with sad, dark eyes.

“I’ll see you again sometime, my little duckling.”

And with that phrase, she made her departure. She frowned at the nickname her mother had used to refer to her. Maybe her mother had suddenly forgotten that she wasn’t a child anymore. She wouldn’t put it past the woman.

She moved to enter that very same room, surprised to see it wasn’t the same old plain room identical to the ones she’d just left. This room was bigger and large portraits of random people littered the walls.

She hated their faces; how utterly defeated each of them looked. As she did her rounds, she frowned at the eyes that followed her around the room no matter where she went. The orbs presented in the portraits spoke volumes, way more than any words that could be said. She recognized those faces, but she couldn’t put a finger on how.

She was sure she’d find out eventually.

“Do you know who they are?”

Her eyes widened, thoroughly startled by the raspy voice coming from behind her. She whirled around, clutching the pen in her hand tighter. Even as she shivered slightly from fear, she held the object within her hand like a weapon. “Come any closer to me and I swear I’ll shove this through your eyeball and straight to your brain, witch.”

The witch let out a low laugh, well aware of how easily she could call her bluff without repercussion but apparently choosing to humor her. Gesturing to the portraits, she spoke up in a loud rumble. The sound made her skin crawl. “These are the portraits of the townsmen and women of Manson.”

“Manson,” she muttered under her breath. “That’s where I lived, isn’t it?”

“Mm.”

“So why are these pictures here? Why would these people matter to me? To anyone for that matter?” Her brows furrowed and her voice deepened in slight anger. “They’re all demons in human form. Who’d care if something happened to them?”

The witch took a few steps forward and she took some steps back, desperate to keep some sort of distance between them no matter what. The witch ran a hand over one of the portraits causing tiny particles of dust to fall to the floor beneath them.

“Everyone can be lost and has someone to lose,” the witch sighed. “They may not matter to you or me, but they did to the people that loved them. I’m sure your actions have caused a great deal of pain to those that do care.”

“What did I do to them?” She waited for an answer, but the witch only continued to stare at one of the portraits, her eyes holding those of the boy’s in the picture. She grew irritated at the fact that the witch was blatantly ignoring her but fought to keep her emotions at bay. “What the hell’s the point in all of this, anyway? You act as if I’ve harmed you.”

Even as she said it, she couldn’t stop her curiosity. What had she done that impacted the lives of so many people? How can one small life like her own hold so much power over others?

“Did I kill them?” she asked. If she had, she had no doubt each and every single one of them deserved it, but she still had to know. “Are they dead?”

The witch finally turned to her, her voice low. “You are just a spider in a web; clinging on to whoever comes close enough to touch you. Draining the life out of them to fuel your own pathetic little fire.”

“You don’t know a thing about me.”

She let out a humorless laugh. “Oh, I know more about you than you know about yourself.”

She paused, a mixture of frightened, disbelieving, and undoubtedly curious. “Who am I, then? What’s my name? How did I get here?”

“Figure it out yourself. I’m not here to tell you your entire life story. I’ve already been generous enough.” The witch nodded at the journal in her left hand tellingly. “That’s what that’s for. My gift to you. Treasure the damned paper more than you treasured our people.”

“Our people?”

“It’ll come back to you in time,” the witch bit out, turning on her heel and making her way to the door. Just before she stepped out of the room, she turned back to her and said, “I’ll make sure of it.”

And then, she was gone.

If she wasn’t already terrified before, she certainly was when the witch slammed the door behind herself. She heard the click of the lock and with slow, cautious steps moved to test the doorknob. The witch had locked the door; locked her in the room filled with portraits of strangers who wouldn’t stop staring at her with their sad, hopeless eyes.

Anxiety grabbed hold of her mind and body. Her heart sank in her chest; the beating getting louder and louder until she was sure it’d beat out of her rib cage.

“What an interesting way to go,” she whispered to herself, the pain worsening.

Her breathing picked up and she shrank into herself, curling up upon with ground just as tears began to leak from her dark eyes. Her white dress was blotched with patches of brown, residue from the less than pristine floor beneath her. She let out a scream, loud and raw and enraged.

She’d been locked up for enough of her life. Couldn’t the deity above let her experience peace if only for a moment? Just an hour, a minute, a second…

Anything.

Anything to stop the insistent madness that wouldn’t stop trying to claw its way inside her and in turn, pushing out her sanity as if it had never held a place in her heart.

Her ears wouldn’t stop

ringing

; ringing and ringing and ringing until she was sure it’d drive her mad. Her chest hurt just as much as the banging in her head. She sat against the wall in agony until the insistent, maddening pain finally put her to sleep.