History Doesn't Repeat Itself

Chapter 1

4 Weeks later

I never thought going outside would be this refreshing. The last time I went outside was probably during. . . Yeah. My mother told me all about what happened: The car somehow swerved and flipped upside-down; which I didn't even know was possible. Curse you cruel world.

I had just finished rehabilitation and I feel good as new. Not that I remember how I was before the whole accident, though. Nevertheless, I feel perfect, I can taste, smell, see, hear, and basically feel everything. It only took me around the first week to stand up, and after that, everything was a walk in the park. Literally.

Mom's familiar blue Ford EcoSport passes by the hospital entrance and I try my best to remember it. But It just came out as a blur. I guess it'd have to take more than a car to make me regain my memories, and I'm alright with that. 

I walked up the car slowly, hesitating at how I was—ironically—going inside of a car again. It wasn't like I was scared of cars now, but It's not like I didn't crash while inside one.

Out of my comfort zone, I hesitantly climbed into the vehicle, and off we went. Mom wasn't necessarily a reckless driver, she was more of a slow type. Going ten digits below the speed limit which I specifically remember because of how she used to drive me to school ever since high school. Though I couldn't recall it, she did tell it to me during rehab, and I'm happy that she was trying her best to make me remember.

"Where are we headed to?" I say while I position myself to look at her, leaning the side of my head against the headrest. Staring at her with the most innocent face I could pull off.

A limp smile, and then: "Home. Your home." She says, looking like she wants to explain further, but I don't let her.

I shift my body. "My apartment?" 

"No. Your house, sweetie." She said with a look of concern on her face. "Your home."

I owned a house? That's a question that i asked myself while I stared at my mother with a confused expression.

"My. . . house?"

"Yeah. . . a house. That one over there."—She points at a house in the distance—"Do you remember?"

"I can't say that I do, ma. Sorry." I say. I felt the need to apologize because I felt like my mother had been trying her best these past few weeks, and all I could remember was her and nothing else. 

Ma. That was what I used to call her, I remember that. But the other details were still a blur. One new surprise after the other. This was great. Not great as in I-was-in-a-car-crash great. But the I-remember-shit-right-away-after-I-see-it type of way.

I plug an Airpod in my left ear, listening to a playlist of songs that my mom suggested to me when I reinstalled Spotify on my phone, and the next thing I knew, I fell asleep.

I was awoken by a loud barking noise, followed by a slippery, wet tongue grazing through my palm.

"Oofy!" I yell out in excitement.

Oofy. I remember him.

I got a dog named Oofy around 7 years ago, I remembered the exact moment I got him. He was a Great Dane and he liked belly rubs. Me and Dave—my boyfriend—were arguing about whether we would be able to take care of it. I was pissed that he had the audacity to complain even though he already agreed to the idea of getting a dog prior to the trip. We ended up getting Oofy two days after the initial trip. We brought him home and I loved him—the dog, not Dave. I was the one who was taking care of Oofy while Dave—that ignorant son of a bitch—just kept going out with his friends, showing off that he has a "girlfriend who loves him so much". He was alright, he didn't wrong me or anything, hell, he didn't even care about me that much. He didn't even care about my body. He only cared about himself and his status as "A guy who was able to pull a 10."