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...
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I wake up reluctantly after spending the last hour trying to fall asleep, but it's too early to get up. I hide under the sheets, leaving only my head out.
As I see the fog covering my window, I frown. Surely the town fair is going to be a challenge today.
I gaze at the ceiling for a moment before letting out a sigh and lazily getting out of bed. I blindly open the drawer of the bedside table, the sound of the pill blister echoing in the room as I take one out. I walk barefoot on the cold floor to the bathroom, turn on the tap, and swallow the pill.
Immersing myself in the hot water, the steam envelops my body, easing my muscle tension. As I lather myself, I carefully inspect my body, noticing with concern that there's only a small bruise on my forearm, like the only trace of what happened. I swallow hard and stop looking at it. Despite the images that come to my mind, I continue washing, suppressing my anger and confusion not to ruin my day.
Once I step out of the shower, I prepare for the rainy weather, dressing in my rain pants, boots, scarf, and waterproof jacket. Then, I open my bedside table drawer to look for my glasses.
At some unavoidable moment, I'll have to organize all this to avoid these delays.
With fatigue, I meticulously search every corner, every object, but my gaze stops at a box hidden in the back. By the name, I know it's the medicine I should take daily, but I don't understand why it looks different. Suddenly, I feel uneasy. I gather the other old boxes to compare, and to my surprise, I can't help but roll my eyes. Could they have made a mistake again? Have I been taking the wrong medication all of last week?
"I'll grow older waiting!"
"I'm coming!" I shout back to Dad. I take one last look at the pills and, leaving my glasses behind, I put them back in their place and close the drawer. The girl at the pharmacy will have a long conversation with me.
As I step into the backyard, the dense fog and fine rain envelop me, gently caressing my cheeks like tiny splinters.
"Good morning, young lady," my father says with a raspy voice while holding a pot with his hands resembling oak branches.
"Good morning," I reply.
I don't understand why Mom insisted so much on helping him. Perhaps it's a consequence of being grounded, as I find myself standing in the rain watching Dad take care of everything. My presence seems to be more of a burden than a help. I rub my nose. Finally, when he's done, we get into the truck together.
"Daughter, do you know what saudable means?"
Until he finally speaks to me. He steps on the accelerator to drive us into the street.
"No," I reply honestly. "What is it?"
"A feeling caused by distance, like the longing for something loved that makes you melancholic. It is a word in Spanish." he says attentively, and I process the new information.
