Memorized

by Alyne Roberts

  Once inside, I race for my journal. I rush to scribble down what I remembered. I swallow the guilt for casting the only person in my life in a less than perfect light. Noah is my boyfriend, supporter, and only friend. I have a home, education, and safety because of Noah. Writing that I once felt ignored stabs me like betrayal.

  It takes hours to calm myself. Landon told me stress only weakened me, and the more I think about that, the more nervous I become to the point that I can't relax. I rip through my apartment, making more of a mess than the last time I did when I’d first arrived home. Answers will put me at ease. I scatter expensive clothing, important documents, and framed photos on the floor. I uncover the same clues as before. A depressed college student living in luxury because of the only person she truly loves in the world.

  By the time I'm sinking into a hot bubble bath, I'm convinced I'm overreacting. In three years, I'm sure there would be some missed phone calls here and there. Just because I only remembered missed calls doesn't mean there weren't answered calls. I tell myself that I haven't changed during the missing time-frame.

  I made choices for a reason, I'm sure. A degree in hospitality would put me in charge of any major hotel in Atlanta. Such a career would be more stable and profitable than a performing musician. I adapted and changed for the world that I live in and just can't remember it. I'm sure the medication from a doctor who, according to my prior Google search, was hours away can also be rationally explained. Maybe I didn't want anyone to know I was battling depression.

  Once dry, I slip on a cotton tee-shirt and shorts before crawling into bed. I don't care that the sun is just starting to set. Landon said to get plenty of rest and going to bed this early would give me more than enough sleep. If I want to get better than I need to try with all my might. A determination slides over me, giving me strength. I pull the soft sheets over my body and melt into the mattress.

  My heart is pounding. I’m gasping for air and my muscles are burning. I’m running and can't stop. If I slow down or stop, I’ll die. I know I am going to die. I need to keep going. I need to get away. I have a life I want to live. The fear became consuming, choking me.

  Drenched in sweat, I sit straight up in bed. Shaking hands push my wild hair out of my face. My bedroom is pitch black and the pounding of my heart is drowning out any other sounds. The fluttering in my stomach and my ragged breathing make me think I am going to be sick. As I swing my feet off the bed, I freeze in fear.

  Every muscle is locked in place, solid and tense. I strain my hearing to make out sounds over my hammering heartbeat. I force myself to stand, not sure what move to make next. I grab my phone from the nightstand and use the screen to light up the room. I'm not sure why I'm surprised to see that the room is empty. I know I set my alarm when I came in, but my fear is so real.

  I unlock my phone and dial 911, my finger hovering over the call button as I sneak to my open doorway. I hit every light switch as I walk down the hall. The living room is lit up like an art gallery as I check behind every piece of furniture. I find nothing out of the ordinary. My alarm is still armed and the patio door is still locked.

  I stand in the kitchen near the knife block, figuring that would be the safest spot in the house. Even though I am fairly certain I'm alone, I can't calm my breathing or shake the coldness in my body. Swallowing my pride, I do the last thing I want to do. Taking a step backward on my path to becoming strong and independent, I hit Noah's name in my cell.

  The call goes straight to voicemail and I curse at his voicemail message before hanging up. The dream that woke me is starting to fade in my mind, but I'm too nervous to go for my notebook. With my eyes tightly closed, I concentrate on breathing deeply and wishing my racing heartbeat back to normal. Loneliness, stronger than ever before, sinks in my already weak stomach.

  Hating that I have no one else, I dial Landon's number. I almost hope he doesn't pick up so I don't need to burden him. I know I can try Dr. Mason but the office is closed. By the third ring I almost convince myself that I am overreacting and start to hang up.

  "Willow?" Landon answers in a raspy voice that gives me chills. "Are you okay?"

  "I don't know," I whisper. "I thought someone was here, but I guess I was wrong. I'm sorry I woke you."

  "Are you at home? Text me your address and I’ll be there as fast as I can," he says quickly, and I can tell he's already in motion. I hear rustling and some thumping in the background.

  "You don't need to do that," I say weakly, hating that I feel so needy.

  "Stay put. Okay?"

  Before I can argue, he hangs up and I unwillingly let out a breath of relief. Just knowing that Landon will be here tames my racing heartbeat. My fingers tremble as I text him my address and set the phone on the counter. The longer I lean against my counter, the more my body seems to calm from the fright. This constant fear and confusion is getting old.

  I jump out of my skin when I hear the buzzer. The front desk tells me that Landon has arrived and I give them permission to send him up. The precaution makes me feel more secure and reminds me why I have no reason for flipping out. It's highly unlikely someone can just walk up to my door and break in. I watch through the peephole until I see Landon in the hall and I swing open the door.

  I don't even think before I fling myself into his body. It's clearly an unexpected move because Landon stumbles back a step before he regains his footing. I bury my face into his neck and feel his arms hesitantly go around my waist. Deeply inhaling his smell, I don't care if I look crazy. He smells like soap and something that's uniquely him. His strong arms around me is the only thing that chases away the fear.

  "You okay?" he asks quietly into my hair.

  I nod and untangle myself from him to close the open door behind us. Landon is searching my face, his eyes wide and alert. He's reading me, knowing my thoughts and secrets. If he is looking for answers, then I wish him luck. Answers are all that I need right now.

  "Sorry," I mumble. "I had a nightmare and couldn't calm down. I tried calling Noah but he didn't answer, which is a habit of his I learned in a flashback. I don't have anyone else and I just needed someone to talk to," I ramble while trying to blink back tears.

  "It's okay," he interrupts.

  Landon takes a step toward me and pauses. It's almost as if he's debating his next move. His body is tense, hair messy from the sleep I woke him from, and his hands are clenched in fists. When I look back at his face, he steps forward and abruptly pulls me against his chest. One hand holds the back of my head while the other is one my back.

  I rest my cheek on his shirt, feeling the warmth through it. "There, that wasn't too hard, now was it?" I tease.

  I feel him chuckle. "I'm careful with what I do. Every touch, smell, taste, or sight is forever there. Everyone and anything. It can haunt me or please me and it's always a gamble to which way it goes. Holding you is no different."

  The nose can remember roughly fifty-thousand scents. Scent is the number one trigger of a memory. All I smell right now is vanilla. It's subtle but potent at the same time. Letting Willow get this physically close is a mistake on my part, but an irreversible one. I now know how her tiny frame fits against my wider body.

  My arms stay glued to her even though I'm begging myself to let her go. I need distance and this is the exact opposite. I'm holding on because I know she needs this. I can still feel the slight tremble in her and my blood boils to think of her terrified here all alone. I want to find her preppy boyfriend and knock some sense into him. Letting her walk the city alone a night was one thing, but not being here for her now wasn't right to me.

  I reluctantly pull away from Willow and guide her to a stool to sit. She isn't wearing any makeup and her hair is slightly mussed from sleep and running her hands through it. There's a redness around her eyes from crying and her cheeks are a flushed pink. Even looking disheveled and upset, she's still stunning. There's a natural beauty to her that can't be covered by fear and grief.

  I search her ki
tchen for some tea and run some hot water through the coffee machine. I slide the steaming cup to her and look up to take in her apartment for the first time since walking inside. It's bright with every light on. The walls are white and sterile-looking in the harsh light. Even the spotlights to display the hanging art are on. Even grown-ups can be scared of the darkness. Monsters are real no matter your age.

  Everything is modern, bold, and expensive. I could easily picture a wealthy businessman living here, only stopping to sleep before returning back to the office as soon as the sun breaks. The random pieces of color do nothing to make it more inviting. It's cold, shallow, and faceless. I look at Willow, and although she feels broken and lost, she holds more life than can be contained and it’s clear she doesn't fit in here.

  "Nice place," I say.

  She shrugs. "I'd say thank you, but I don't even pay for it or remember decorating it. I appreciate your admiration, though," she says, sarcasm dripping from every word. I can't help but laugh and it's worth it because she grins up at me.

  "You don't live with him?" I ask, not even wanting to say his name.

  "No," she answers with a shake of her head. "He wants to move in together at the place being built next door."

  "Do you?" I ask.

  "He feels like a stranger."

  I nod but don't push her. She's had enough. I can see strength inside of her, but it doesn't mean she's unbreakable. The flashbacks are coming more frequently and too much at once could snap her. I've seen patients at the hospital breaking down, screaming and crying when they couldn't handle much more. I swallow hard, knowing I could never see Willow like that. I have a strong instinct to protect her.

  "What happened, Willow? Are you okay?" I finally ask her. She had clung to me like I was rescuing her. Her movements are jittery and her breathing is still erratic.

  "I had a nightmare and when I woke up," she pauses to look down into her cup of tea. I lean over and place a finger under her chin, tilting her head up to look at me. "I was just so scared. I thought someone was here or something. I didn't know what else to do."

  "It's okay," I tell her gently. "Did you remember something?"

  "Yes, but I don't understand much of it. I didn't even make it to my journal yet," she tells me.

  I put my hand out for her and wait for her to take it. Skin to skin, I feel the heat burning my palm but I don't pull back like I want to. Touching her is already permanent. Willow leads me down a hall and into a room that looks more like an office. It has the same lack of personality as the rest of the place. A laptop sits on a desk with papers strewn around on the floor.

  "I was investigating," she says, as if to explain the mess. I watch curiously as she opens a drawer and digs to the bottom, pulling out the leather notebook.

  Willow sits on the floor and leans against a bookcase while I look around the room. As she scribbles furiously, I try to piece together who this girl might be. There are so many things in someone's home that could provide a glimpse into who they are. You choose photos, movies, music, and style for a reason. If you can find the reason for the belongings, you learn about them.

  Her bookshelf is lined with fashion and gossip magazines. Textbooks for business and marketing are stacked near the desk. Nothing represents her life before moving to Georgia. No family photos of the parents she lost or the friends she left behind to pursue her dream. The room is lacking anything to do with music, which was the passion she last remembered.

  "May I?" I ask her, motioning to her computer when she looks at me.

  She nods and I sit down at the desk. If I could help one person in my psychology career, I would be happy if it was her. Giving her back what she lost, something I take for granted and often call a curse, I would have served a greater purpose.

  "I went through emails and stuff like that already," she mumbles.

  "What's your Facebook password?" I ask when I get to the login screen.

  Willow sighs and comes to stand next to me. "I have been trying to figure that out. It's none of the usual ones I would use. I tried to reset the password, but I can't get into that email address, either."

  "Bring this over one day and my brother can help us get into it. He's good with computers," I tell her.

  It is widely thought that online identities are idealized and mostly false. Studies show that Facebook profiles can actually accurately convey a personality. Social media became popular because it satisfies the basic need to be known by others. Users can edit and load photos as they choose. They post their comments, can revise, and share what they want people to see. I think getting a glimpse at Willow's profile will give us a view of the person she was, or at least pretending to be.

  "You need to sleep," I tell Willow when I hear her yawn.

  "No, I can't," she argues quickly. "My mind is still racing."

  "Well, the brain is more active at night," I tell her, and then wince when I realize that doesn't really help my case much.

  "Will you stay for a bit?" she whispers, and if I wasn't watching her lips so closely, I might not have understood. Her lips are a deep shade of pink and look soft to the touch.

  I know I should leave. Being here late at night is already bordering on inappropriate for my research. I'm sure if Noah knew she had another man in her place after midnight, he wouldn’t be happy. I almost hope he finds out so he knows that he wasn't here and someone else was. Staying will only make me want to stay longer. With Willow, a little always seems like too much but not enough at the same time.

  "Of course," I say, internally punching myself in the face for my traitorous mouth.

  The relieved and excited smile that graces Willow's face makes it worth it. She hands me the journal and we leave the office as I shut the light off behind us. Willow climbs on the couch and flips on the TV mounted in front of us. I switch off the lights before I sit down next to her. She doesn't protest to the darkness, so I take that to mean she's no longer terrified of someone lurking in the shadows.

  "It's not a very comfortable couch, so I apologize," she says with an easy laugh.

  "I feel like I'm sitting on a wood bench," I tease. There's barely any padding to the cushions.

  "I know! It's terrible. I wonder if I picked this out? Maybe I never thought to actually use it," she muses.

  As I watch her browse the channel guide, I see the world from her point of view for once. Usually locked inside my own thoughts, I don't often see outside of it. Where I know every choice I have made and why, she has no idea why things are the way they are. She was thrust into a strange home with a new boyfriend and had no sense of her education or career path. I envied her when I first saw her but now I pity her.

  Willow settles on a romantic comedy that I have seen already. My mind is spinning while she seems engrossed in the film. I'm exhausted but know I couldn't sleep even if I tried. All this time, I was trying to keep this lost girl out. I needed her to be out of mind, never to be someone who would grace my thoughts too often. Seeing her in unshielded light, I realize I need to help her.

  Willow's eyelids are blinking slowly when I glance over. Her breathing has slowed and the tension in her shoulders is easing. I flip though her notebook, finding the entry from tonight’s dreams. The handwriting is more interesting to me than the words she used. How one writes alone can indicate more than five-thousand personality traits.

  The narrow spacing and closed O's tells me she's lonely and feels closed off. She uses rounded letters, showing her creative and artistic side. I see the tension from her dream in the narrow looping of her letters. Previous entries used wider loops, showing a more relaxed state of mind. With her panic and fear, her writing gets heavy and messy, almost hard to read. The slanting of the letters varies from line to line. It's uncommon to see and usually seen with confusion and disconnect with reality.

  When I look over at Willow, she's fast asleep. I exhale in relief that she feels safe enough to let herself go. Her memories from tonight are unclear, but one thing stands out to me. Emo
tions will outlast the memories of trauma. Although the events that led her to this state are erased, the underlying emotions are still there.

  She is scared, untrusting, and feels like an impersonator in her own home. I don't know what she was like before the accident, but I know she hasn't been that person in a long time. Willow's fear isn't just because of a manifested nightmare. There is still a threat for her to fear, and until she remembers what that is, she has no protection from it.

  Even knowing that when she walks away I will be haunted with her memory, I decide to stay with her. I want to walk away like I do with anything that I don't think I want to live the rest of my life reliving. Willow has the potential to ruin me, but I have the potential to save her.

  When I wake up, I'm alone in my own bed. Sunlight streams through the windows and I feel exhausted from my late night. Rubbing my eyes, I try to remember coming into my room and saying goodbye to Landon, but I can't. He must have carried me in after I fell asleep. I think about him touching me, holding me close as he carried me across the apartment, and a shiver scurries down my spine.

  I drag myself from bed and creep out into the living room. The place is empty and silent, and I'm filled with familiar loneliness. Last night, I felt a sense of peace and safety that I hadn't been able to obtain in a long time. If I really thought about it, probably not since I woke up with this new life. In a world where strangers surround me, Landon is the closest person I have.

  He was gentle and comforting last night. When he touched me, the negativity slipped away and I was left with a pleasant buzzing. With him holding me, I never wanted him to let go. I know I shouldn't have enjoyed it as much as I did, but I wanted more. Even just waking up, rumpled hair and clothes, he looked every bit as good as he did when I saw him put together at the coffee shop.