Nostalgia

Nostalgia is derived from the joining of two Greek words: νόστος (nóstos), meaning "to return home," and ἄλγος (álgos), meaning "pain." The combined meaning ‘the pain of returning home’.

The door opens, the sidewalk bustling with people eager to get home, to their families, their pets, to anything. She has nothing waiting for her, but she longs to be inside her apartment just the same. The comfort of her couch, her central heating warming her bones, the idea brings a smile to her face as she takes her first step out into the street. She is just beginning the short walk home when she is met with a gust of wind, cold at first and then familiar. Another breeze and she stops, a lingering perfume in the air, a scent that brings memory. Subtle at first, an echo of a dream long forgotten, and then she is almost knocked down by the strength of it. Without warning, it overcomes her. Fragments and jumbles of a room, silent sobs under an old bed sheet, an ornate mirror hanging half broken on the wall, blue eyes staring back at her. Pulling herself out of the waking nightmare, she lets the lingering deja vu wash over her.

Shaking her head, she continues walking home, the feeling of unease seeping into her bones, her marrow. Slowly and then all at once too much, she begins to run, her legs moving without her consent. Out, out, out is all she thinks as she picks up the pace yet again. Seeing her apartment building up ahead, she sprints for it. Her head a jumble of thoughts and scents and memories and everything. The restless energy eating away at her limbs, she hurries up the six flights of stairs, dismissing the elevator altogether. Her keys in hand, she shakily opens the front door, going directly to her desk. Grabbing for the first loose piece of paper she can find, she writes, and writes and writes. She writes until her hands cramp, her fingers go numb, and the static leaves her brain. Coming out of the fog, she looks down to see a page full of notes, some nonsense, others bringing back.. I remember.. She shakes the thought from her mind. Her brain trying to piece together a puzzle of a story she doesn’t remember being part of.

The page is covered in splinters of someone's life, hers? She isn't sure. She wonders if the memories are her own or a figment of her imagination. She also wonders if the memories are hers; maybe there's a reason she forgot, her mind trying to shield her from things best left unremembered, safer left in the dark. Her mind protecting her the only way it knows how; she wonders if she should let it. Staring at the page, she tries to mend the broken words into something that makes sense. Nothing comes to her before sleep does. Finally overtaking her, and then so do the dreams. Endless dreams, more memories, and not memories, that mean nothing and everything. The crib where they lay, the slamming of a door, the footsteps that get closer before.. She wakes and screams for it to stop. The empty room does not speak back. The ceiling becomes her companion for the night as sleep evades her yet again.

The next morning she calls in sick to work, heads back to her desk and stares. The words awaken an emotion long since dead inside her, dread. And as it begins to sink its claws further inside, she embraces it. Emotion is something to be felt, to allow within and sit with. She remembers the words her therapist spoke to her only a few sessions ago, placing her hands on her chest, she allows the tears to fall. It is not a luxury she often lets herself indulge in, bar special occasions. She would classify this as such. The cathartic release of tears also brings another onslaught of remembrance. A bottle breaking in the kitchen, screams, cries, shouts, hiding behind the door as they watch on.

Shaking in earnest after the latest flash, she goes to the bathroom. Splashing her face with water and looking into the mirror, her reflection stares back. My blue eyes shine off the gleaming surface and show me what I have been trying to escape from. Myself. We are an amalgamation of all our memories, good and bad; it's what makes us human. More of my therapist's words come back to haunt me. Accepting my fate, I ponder on what this means, if these memories are mine, what do I do with that? What happened to me? Do I want to know? Yes, I need to. This time, when the memories come, I do not stop them. I let them wash over me, a wave in the ocean of my mind, I let it drown me. Lucidity is the first thing I notice in this dream state, an understanding that this is not a time that is right now and that I can leave at any time. I take a calming breath and walk out the front door. I ignore the noises and do not turn back; memories can not hurt me, physically that is. I turn to stare at the house, my house. 184. The golden numbers screwed into the front door gleam at me like horror does not reside inside. I slowly rouse myself and rub at my eyes; they come away wet. 184 Garden Grove.

It is not a conscious decision that leads me to the front of 184 Garden Grove, but a nonetheless necessary one. I stare at the golden numbers, now slightly rusted with age, the gold chipped on the corners. I look at the rest of the house. Abandonment clear on its features, run down and unkempt in appearance. I wonder if anyone still lives here. I walk towards the front door, the precipice. My past and present colliding in a sea of emotions I can no longer run from. My mind and my memories take away all sense of choice. The now ever-present dread fills my stomach, becoming a lead weight inside of me. I want to hide, I want to be held as if a child. Alas, I can not. So I stand at the precipice and turn the handle. The door opens.