What would happen if your name isn't your name? If you aren't who you think you are? And if what you believe to be real is an illusion created by your tormented mind? How would you feel?
In this story, fantasy sets the stage for a world where Chlori...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The doctor quickly arrived, looking like a novice; straight hair as if it had been licked by a cow and a neat uniform, though he was a bit clumsy handling things. He rapidly checked me over, shining a flashlight in my eyes, taking my blood pressure, and asking a few routine questions. He only needed a little information to confirm my diagnosis, which surprised me.
"It's a case of anxious stress," he said, handing my mother a prescription note, "this will help her get better."
In my mind, lucid images of what had happened were swirling frantically. Did he think it was so irrelevant to cry blood? It seems absurd to me. He ignored everything I said. He must have wanted to leave quickly, which he did, or simply said the first thing that came to mind to calm my mother, adding that a case of anxious stress is something "typical of that age". Thanks, doctor.
Anyway, she didn't say anything about it.
I didn't come down to have dinner, so my father brought the dinner to my room.
"Your mother made it, take it slow," he kisses my head, "if you want more, just call me and I'll bring it to you."
"Okay," I smile without showing my teeth until I see him disappear through the door.
Now I'm alone with the steam from the soup fogging up my eyes. Although I have no appetite, I hold the cup and force myself to swallow the hot liquid.
A few long minutes passed, perhaps more, I don't know how long I sat in silence staring at my hands. There is only the light from the street coming in through the window now. Seeing the mess around me, I get up and start to clean it. What else can I do?
While yawning, my eyes fly towards the desk where my open diary lays. I drop the bag so it falls to the floor and I approach it. I straighten the chair before sitting down. Ademia. I uncap the pen and write it down.
What will it be? An adjective, a name, a bad word? A word in a foreign language?
I dedicate at least two more hours in the same uncomfortable and hunched position, searching on the computer for another possible meaning to be written along with the remaining 187 that I have collected recently. The curious thing is that, although I am aware of the tedious task of finding its origin and meaning, with "Ademia" it is impossible for me.
"What do you mean, error? Doesn't it exist?"
The search results, wherever they are, indicate grammatical errors, as if I have typed it wrong, but apart from "edema," they offer no other suggestions. It's strange. My eyes move from the paper to the screen: then, did Mom invent a word?
My hands start to itch. What time is it? Will she still be awake?
...
I knock on her door three times and wait for her to answer. It's past eight in the evening, so I don't think she's asleep yet. While I wait, I scratch the palm of my hand.
