Fleeting Memories

I am alone. Living in an empty space entirely of my own making. Trapped between four walls and a ceiling, stuck with only my memories and dreams to fill the void. This was my lot in life, predestined and unavoidable. One fateful choice was all it took.

------ 

It started with a promise. In a moment that we both wished would last a lifetime. She grasped my clammy hand, ignoring the sweat. Not ignoring it, but accepting it. Embracing it, the same way she embraced all my shame, all my baggage.

“You’re nervous” Ariadne said.

I was always nervous then; she made me nervous. The kind of nervous you get when things are going a little too well. She invoked and dispelled my anxieties all in a single breath. It felt unnatural. To love and to be loved with such ferocity. Often, I would joke,

"People don’t have this. Where’s the catch? ”.

It wasn’t true, of course. Plenty had found a love like ours; you only needed to listen to the library of love songs that played on the radio. It permeates through every part of our being: romantic, maternal, familial, or platonic. Love of country, of learning, and of culture. Progress depends on it. These segments of love form a whole that has built the world and all its wonders. But my reservations were real. My insecurities commanded me. None had taught me how to love; I saw it as a mockery, an affront to my lived experience.

I was incomplete when she found me. Subtly damaged and disturbingly apathetic, I shielded myself from anything that might cause me further pain. It was difficult for me to put into words. Had I been some sort of Dickensian orphan, it may have been easier to explain myself; I’d simply direct people toward Oliver Twist and leave it at that. My family wasn’t dead, and they weren’t scoundrels like Bill Sikes or Fagin. But they were difficult and unhelpful. It wasn’t anything overly dramatic that formed me into the man I was, but rather that I was unable to locate my path. I was lost, maddened by the fruitless search for a calling that eluded me. My lust for life had been so far unrequited, and I turned bitter and reckless. Bitter that I was surrounded by others' light, like a dark spot in a sea of fireflies. The ones with the light flittered and danced together, while I remained unseen and cast adrift. And in my desperate search, I was drawn to things that made me feel alive. Booze and drugs became my crutch. A life where I would start the day in one bed and end it in another, and my only contribution to society was to the barman. My light was flickering and dim.

Still, Ariadne learned to love my pain, and I hers. She always said, “You don’t get love without pain."

“I’ve never looked at it that way."

------

I lay in my room, remembering pieces of her. She reveals herself in fragments when a woman wearing her sundress walks past my doorway or when someone puts on the songs we loved. Even now, years later, Ariadne dances to the Rolling Stones, “You can’t always get what you want”, and still, I am entranced. But she is shrouded, like a ghost, shifting in and out of existence. Caught between visions of her and the darkness that envelopes me, I wait for the world to bring her back, but always she eludes me. 

------ 

We made our promise at the bandstand in the park, hiding from the rain under its canopy. Chips of green paint dropped and nestled in our hair. The beams, once gilded with gold, had faded and rotted into sandy brown branches above the old stage after years of neglect. A sparrow nested in the rafters, finding a home amongst abandonment.

“Do you see the Sparrows, Jack?” Ariadne said.

“Yep”

“They’re my favourite. Can you hear the baby ones? Do you think they’re hungry?”

“Probably. Maybe they don’t like the rain."

“I love the rain."

“I know you do. Ooh, it’s so relaxing””

“Oh, stop it. It is relaxing though. It was raining when we met, do you remember?”

I shrugged and grinned, trying to make her laugh. For whatever reason she’d always found me funny, in my mannerisms or in the way I’d poke fun at her.

“Come on. You must remember?”

“Of course I do. At the Speakers Corner in Hyde Park. You only came up to me to share my umbrella."

Ariadne was there to listen to some speakers from the British Socialists. I’d just been wandering around following another drinking session that ended after I’d run out of funds. She asked if she could share my umbrella, and I happily obliged. We had a short conversation where I pretended to be supporting the Socialists, praying she wouldn’t smell the alcohol on my breath. I never understood why she wanted to be near me. Perhaps it was my dark and mysterious demeanour. Ariadne had always been drawn to broken things. She embodied empathy. Raised in an oppressively conservative household, she elected to follow her own path and trusted in people, no matter who they were. She disappointed her family and was cut off, yet this never quelled her goodness. Ariadne was troubled like the rest of us, yet she never sought to let her troubles trouble her. I saw in her a light, my light, and knew I needed more of her. That’s where we began.

We stayed under the bandstand for hours just talking, waiting for the sun to show her face again. There was a peace in these mundane moments.

“Jack. Can you promise me something?”

------

A knock intrudes the silence of my room. A young woman with mousy brown hair strides in carrying a washing basket.

“Ariadne?”

“It’s only me Jack. I’ve got to change the bedding. Been doing the rounds."

“Oh. Oh okay, go on then."

She gets to work removing the sheets from the bed while I sit in my chair staring out the window at the courtyard below. I notice her pale green uniform and remember where I am. All day I see women in green uniforms rushing about the place.

“Why don’t you go sit with the others?”

“No thanks dear”

“They’ve got a movie on in there. It’s a Wonderful Life, I think. The others are loving it."

“I think I’ll stay."

She offers a pitiful smile and lovingly fluffs the pillows. She gathers the laundry into the basket and sets to leave.

“Alright then lovely. Call if you need anything."

When she’s gone, I go back to watching the courtyard. It’s autumn now, and the trees have shed their leaves, which flutter away in the wind. In a stone bird bath, set beneath a tree, a lone sparrow takes a drink.

------

“Can you promise me something?”

“What is it love?”

“Promise me that we’ll never lock ourselves away from the world. That we’ll always shine. Together."

“I promise. I’ll always do right by you, Ariadne, you know that?”

“Thank you."

Ariadne had given herself to me, offered up her future. My life’s labour was to guard her, and in return she made me. We built our world, and she became my lighthouse, guiding me to the man I was supposed to be. We made a promise, a beautiful oath, one that should last a lifetime. The thing with a promise is once it’s made, it can’t be taken back.

Things weren’t always plain sailing, and there wasn’t a constant stream of passion and ecstasy. Life rarely works that way. I lacked stable employment, doing the odd job here and there, labouring, digging ditches, or fruit picking. For a while Ariadne was our sole breadwinner, working every hour under the sun to make ends meet. I felt emasculated, like I was the one who should be making our lives comfortable.

“It should be me working. Me looking after you!”

“I didn’t know that was a rule, Jack. What job would you even get right now?”

What she said pained me. Probably because it was true. I was a recovering alcoholic, Ariadne pleaded with me to knock it on the head, and I was angry about it. Suppressing a mean streak towards the one who removed my crutch, there was no way I’d find a job in that state.

Despite all this, we never let go of the promise. I think that’s what made it feel so real. It survived through the strife; not once did we retreat from it. Eventually, after some healing, I found a job on the docks, and Ariadne encouraged me to start writing and journalling. It seems I did have some sort of calling after all, and I was pretty good at it. I’d write her little notes and poems to leave on her nightstand when I’d head to work, and she’d kiss me when I got home and tell me how much she loved them. We spent years stumbling through life, laughing through the pain. How then was I able to mess it all up?

It started off small. I’d forget what Ariadne sent me to the shops for or hop in my beat-up Ford Cortina and have no recollection of why I was driving in the first place. Miss a day of work here and there, heading into town following old memories that had no place in the present. I figured it was just stress. Then I started to forget things about her, things that mattered. What her favourite colour was. Red? Or purple? I struggled to recall her hometown and the address of the first home we shared. It shook me to my core, feeling the precious moments slipping away.

“I’m sorry sir. You have Alzheimer’s. You’re still in the early stages at the moment."

"I—is there anything you can do?”

“I’m afraid not. It’s only going to get worse”

All I could feel was anger. Anger at how matter-of-fact the doctor was, as if he wasn’t stealing my life away in one conversation. I was no doctor but knew this was a death sentence. I was angry at myself, looking for something to blame. It could’ve been the drinking, or the fumes at the docks, or maybe I was just unlucky. Whatever the case, there was no reversing it.

I kept it from Ariadne, tried to ignore it. There’s something distinctly human in ignoring something in the hopes that it will go away. For a while I convinced myself it was working. I could still work, still make her laugh. We were happy. But I was degrading. The disease chipped away at me in the background; my memory was fading, my ability to complete even simple tasks was becoming questionable at best, and I was growing depressed and irritable. Like a house on a cliff, waiting to be swallowed by a sea that ceaselessly shore chunks from my foundations.

I never told Ariadne about the disease; I couldn’t bear to see the look in her eyes when I told her I was losing my light. This was my path, not hers, she had far more to offer this world than watching a man slowly die in front of her eyes. No, she had to keep her light. So, I just left. While I still had some sort of cognition, before the house finally collapsed, I packed a bag and hopped on a train to take me as far from my life as I could get, leaving only a note as Ariadne slept in our bed. I would lock myself away from the world, but I wasn’t going to drag her with me.

 ------

They took me to this place at some point after I fled. I returned to my old ways, living on the fringes of society until I was found wandering the streets, barefoot and speaking nonsense. I’ve been here ever since, gradually being chipped away. I think it’s some sort of care home. The people are nice enough, but none can compare to my Ariadne.

She exists now only through fading memories. Fleeting memories, which turn to ash and float out of reach like a burning roll of film. I try to read my journals, a treasure trove of Ariadne, but the words are merely shapes on paper and hold no meaning. I am locked out and have thrown away my key.

Ariadne leaves me in pieces. Painfully slow, she creeps further away. Her face is a blur, her voice muffled. I am chasing a ghost. An apparition only revealed in my regret. I will die soon, I know this. I don’t regret dying, only that I will die with no memory of her. Ashamed that her lasting memory of me is of abandonment, when I broke that sacred promise.

If things had been different, had she stirred while I watched her sleep that final time, would that've changed things? Would she be at my side? Stop me dying alone. She would never have allowed it, but I deprived her of choice. Denied her autonomy. Denied myself a final embrace.

To have one more touch or one more word would be to die a happy man. But that time has passed. I will never see my love again. I’m left alone with my pain. All that remains is her name, calling out to me from the abyss.

"Ariadne."