The Confusing Diary of a Very Angry Meerab

Ghosted by my Memories

Memory is the diary that we carry about ourselves. It shaped our soul. It's what we have  seen, what we  are, what we will become. It weaves its patterns over our lives, tasting experiences, creating reactions, forming bonds, and invigorating the senses, as we journey through the path of life.

The last memory he had was of her screaming. The red kameez brightly highlighting her even in the crushing darkness following the crash. Her eyes met his for a second but he wished they didn't. For he saw fear in them. Absolute complete terror. Until she was pulled away.

He  was never the dramatic one, never one to exaggerate, but in the moments like these that he  couldn't control—he sensed a shaking that emanated from his  body all the way to his  hands. The figures in the room were like ghostly hallows in the night – like shapeless souls.

The one by the door turned to him  and let out a breath of relief, but his eyes were trained on the one by the bed. He was hunching. On the bed. Bent over until his forehead touched linen-clad knees.

The sorrow was so great that it had bent the body into a shapeless figure of the night. Buried there amongst its guilt.

" She's alright."

No sooner had the words left her mouth that the bent figure unfolded itself and stared at her.

In the dark she could see the reddish tint of his eyes and the guilt – the powerful emotions – that took over his eyes.

"Is she...?" He whispered to her – his night angel bearing news. His mother

"Haan.. Murtasim." There was a touch of annoyance in her voice. " She's obviously not dancing around. She's been in an accident. She's alive." Her own voice was acid and gum. Burning, burning, in the night – soft and tender, light and bright.

The man let out a second breath of relief. " I want to see her"
She didn't think it was a good idea. She knew that it didn't matter what she thought. He would do as he pleased.

So she chose the wiser route.
" I will ask the nurse to bring a wheelchair" she said to him , and he nodded – not needing another prompt, not needing another word.

They say that the loss of memory is like loss of the soul. The body lingers, the eyes blink, the mouth smiles – but the soul is gone. The person has floated away.

But she had floated nowhere. She knew who she was, she knew she was tired. She knew many things.

No. To lose one's memory is simply to experience loneliness for the very first time.

Burning, freezing, loneliness that consumes and destroys. Makes you shiver, makes you sick with the desire to, if for just one minute, remember.

The first memory she had of her time awake was of a face.

"Meerab ," he said to her.

She nodded. She nodded in her haze. That was her name.

But she was so tired. So... alone.

But saw his eyes. She knew those eyes.

"Meerab ," he said again.

She wanted to reply. She wanted to do much more than blink and stare, but her lips felt heavy and she decided to sleep. Before her mind drifted she thought she heard an angel crying. A soft, painful cry – almost inaudible to human ears. A precious grief. Private, hidden, and just for her.

And then... And then he was gone.

And she was alone once more.

All alone. The loneliness consumed her and she wished once more that she could remember, because if she could remember then she would understand why he was the one crying by her bed.