Memories at the table

It was some time ago when I was here.

When was it?

Six, seven, eight years ago, I think.

This is a familiar table with a familiar empty vase on it.

Where did it go? The time, I mean.

What the bloody hell was I doing? What happened to me? What did others do to me?

After all this time, I just remember one accident that happened one night. Yes, something happened—something horrible—that made me separate from this place and all of the mementos I had.

However, it is too late for me to think about it, but I cannot stop myself from sobbing. I cannot help but notice the new elephant lamp on the counter, which was not here before.

Really, eight years have passed?

Yes, I guess so. It has been a long time—longer for me.

Because do you know how it feels to wake up every morning wishing you would not think about the past? Even happy memories of the past can hunt you down, hurt you, eat you alive—day after day after day. For how long? Until I lost myself? Until I ceased to exist?

For many years, I tried to forget. I promised myself to forgive and forget, just for once, to put everything aside—but I never did. I was never strong enough to remove my memories of everything that I believed was mine, everything I thought was true.

It is neither a dream nor a nightmare; the past is my future. The past is here tonight, sitting in front of me, looking at me with no emotion in her eyes. The past is so alive that it is sitting here, not moving, just sipping tea from my favourite mug, which I do not remember offering her.

She is eagerly waiting. She is waiting for my downfall. Maybe someday she will win, just like she won my mother over. But I do not want to talk about my mother. I do not want to fail.

I want to forgive and forget. I am trying, but maybe I cannot anymore—not after tonight, not while she is here looking deeply, coldly into my eyes.

I am scared of her.

What will she do? What is she capable of?

Can I call the police? Can I call somebody to come save me?

Can I call a lawyer? Should I call an ambulance? Who?

No, I cannot.

It is just me, alone, sitting at this table waiting for them to come. But I will—I want to—I will forget and forgive.

I should remember to smile a lot. That is what I always hear from people. I should remember not to share my deepest thoughts, fears, secrets, and interests because they may use them against me.

When I was walking down the street the other day, I remembered I should walk slowly because my sister once told me I might lose my balance and fall. But I also remember someone else telling me to look around, to stay alert, to protect myself from any harm that may occur while I am walking.

I remember she told me to keep my head high. Do not fall. Also, do not run. Look around, but not too much. Walk fast, not slow. Talk loudly so people can hear you clearly—but also do not talk to strangers.

Twenty years ago, when I had my first kiss, I was told I did not remember anything. I do not remember saying that I was interested in kissing him.

Why did I kiss him then?

But ten years and two days after that, I was again told: why did I kiss him if I remembered that I was not interested in him?

Just to clarify—they were not the same person.

I do not want to. Please, can I just forget?

Maybe this way is my way to go on a road that nobody wants to take.

Maybe I was just born to be forgotten by people, not remembered.

Maybe it is a sin for me to remember.

Maybe nothing good comes from me remembering things.

Maybe I just need to relax, watch TV, and make a sandwich.

Mom always said I was too big, too heavy to be handled. Mom always told me that ever since I was a child. “You always break your toys. You do not deserve a new one. Just play with the broken ones.”

All of my childhood, I tried to fix them. I tried to be gentle with them. I tried to remember to treat them right.

I was never successful. I always failed.

Never mind. I should watch TV before they come.

I know there is nothing on TV that can get my attention. It is better to just sit and listen.

Oh wait—I just remembered the dish I made earlier is getting cold.

Never mind.

I rub my hand across my cheeks to wipe away the tears. Then again, I reach out to rub the pointy, sharp edge of the table.

What fun nights we had—all of us sitting around this table. We had nothing but youth, love, innocence, and hope for the future ahead of us.

Oh, the future was a painful subject for us—but not at the table.

I tell myself to pull yourself together. They are coming any time now.

No, I cannot. These thoughts are screaming in my brain, in my soul, in my body, in my bones—echoing in my ears, flowing through my blood.

Just focus. They are coming any time now, after all this time apart.

I squeeze my bottom lip with my teeth so hard that it almost bleeds.

Oh, blood. Remember in middle school when you ran fast to play catch with your friend, but you ended up falling on your face? You ripped your bottom lip open and there was blood everywhere on your clothes.

I was interrupted because my phone rang. She told me to open the door because the bell does not work.

So I got up. I took a quick glance in the mirror and at the pot that is boiling with hot water.

I just remembered—why not?

People do it all the time. It should be easy, shouldn't it?

Should I serve my cold dish?

After all some... some things are better to serve cold.