Amnesia, Book 1: A Girl Lost In The Woods

<Jeanette> Chapter III: The Tragedy

Location Unknown

Where are we Dear One? Is this another distraction?

Don’t feel bad. We’re asking you to learn these things in a finite amount of time—when we in our perfection have known for eternity.

You succeed.

We are proud of you.

The wood beneath your bare elbows feels cold. The oil of a thousand human hands has worn it smooth and sticky at the same time. The stiff cushion under your legs makes your knees sore.

The rest of the scene fleshes out into breathing color. Distorted human forms broken into small panes of glass line the walls, and a dim light blushes through them. The only other light in the room comes from a clutch of small red candles burning beneath the statue of a woman with an exposed heart. Two rows of pews take up most of the space inside this chamber. At the back is a small wooden podium, a velvet chair, and an elaborate altar. Above this hangs a statue depicting the skeletal remains of a dead man fastened to two intersecting pieces of wood.

This is a church you say? What is its purpose?

Oh.

How sad.

Your attention isn’t on the man speaking from the podium, but on a formidable black casket that looms just beyond the pews.

You didn’t want to sit at the front.

Your sister sits with you so you won’t be alone. You don’t hear a word that the man says and you don’t chant when the others chant. But the minute she starts crying again—a soft, pitiful whisper of a noise—you’re the only one to notice, and you wrap your arms around her.

You don’t cry.

You just lost the most important person in your life—your heart is breaking, but you don’t cry. You feel the pulling at the back of your throat. The weight in your chest could crush the world…

But you don’t. You don’t cry because you’re the strong one. If you started crying then she would see, and how would she believe you when you told her that it was going to be alright?

You see your father two rows ahead. He can’t see you cry either. You have to be strong for him.

The strong one. Always.

You use your anger to keep the tears down. Your anger is explosive, barely restrained, pure and red hot.

Why? Why did he let this happen? Why did this God take away your mother? How was this fair? How could he love you and do this to you?”

Your grief is still immense. We feel the depth of your pain—it shatters us. Our love cannot take it away.

We cannot explain it. To attempt words is not enough. To say that you will understand is not enough. No act on our part will be enough. This should not be. A failed world. A damage. A mistake. A loss that should not be part of the Experience.

A line begins to form. One-by-one the somberly clad humans march forward to stand in front of the casket. They spend a moment talking to the body of the dead woman, or simply bow their heads and move on.

Your sister walks in front of you. She’s five years younger, but otherwise the two of you could be twins. She arrives at the front of the line. She holds up a single, perfect white rose. She moves to place it in the woman’s hands, but she can’t. She can’t bring herself to touch the body. Her shoulder’s start to shake and she starts to break down again. You notice instantly. You’re at her side before your father even finishes standing. You help her carefully, lending her your strength and guiding her trembling hands forward. She slips the flower between the woman’s fingers and quickly kisses your cheek.

It’s your turn. You stand in front of your mother’s corpse. You try to block out the smell of the chemicals that the perfume and flowers can’t mask.

That’s not how she smelled.

The placid pale face of the woman you loved so much. You know that it’s her. You tell yourself that she’s right there.

Your mind fills with images of a birthday, of a surprise breakfast. You were barely old enough to use the stove. She slept so sweetly in that bed, and woke with a smile when you surprised her. She was so happy…

Terror runs cold in your veins. It’s not her anymore. The woman in the coffin isn’t her.

This can’t be her.

You feel your father’s hand on your shoulder. Only then do you realize that you’re shaking. You feel all the hatred and grief and sickness and desperation well up inside—you feel it tearing you apart.

You shake off your father’s grasp and streak down the aisle, running all the way back to your house.

Then you cry. You finally cry.

But you didn’t let them see you.

The strong one. Always.

We are proud of you.