Invisible

14. Open Up The Door

I was born with a rare condition, one that has haunted me for as long as I can remember. It's the reason why my family thinks I'm cursed. When other kids would talk about their imaginary friends, their parents would smile and indulge them. But when I did the same, I was met with fear and confusion. My parents took me to shamans, hoping for a cure, but all they found was confirmation of their worst fears.

As time passed, the disdain for me grew, fueled by the whispers of those who saw me as different. And when the pain became too much to bear, I began to forget. It's why losing my Polaroids hurt so much—they were my lifeline to the memories I was slowly losing. Unlike most families, we didn't have family photos or albums to look back on. It was up to me to preserve what little I could remember.

Every day, I write in my notebook, documenting snippets of memories about my parents, so I don't forget them entirely. It's become a ritual, reading those entries each morning to ground myself in a reality that's slipping away.

But lately, I don't know what to do with myself. The memories fade more quickly now, slipping through my fingers like grains of sand. And I fear that one day, I'll forget everything, including who I am.

As I sit amidst the wreckage of my shattered Polaroids, I realize that even the most precious memories are fragile and fleeting. And with each passing day, I feel myself slipping further into the abyss of forgetfulness, losing pieces of myself in the process.

It's a cruel irony that some people have taken advantage of my condition, exploiting my vulnerability without remorse. The worst part is that I often don't realize until it's too late, leaving me feeling betrayed and alone.

One such instance involves my former friend turned bully. There was a time when we were close, or at least I thought we were. But then, something changed, and he became someone else entirely. I only remember this because I wrote about it in the 5th grade, a faint echo of a memory that managed to escape the grasp of my forgetfulness.

The unpredictability of my memory loss adds another layer of complexity to my already tumultuous existence. The hippocampus, that intricate structure in my brain responsible for memory formation, sometimes betrays me, allowing certain memories to slip away while holding onto others with an iron grip.

I'll never forget the lessons my dad imparted to me, like the time we watched "Spirited Away" together. He told me to try my best to remember everything that happens to me, because who I am is always right. But as I flip through the pages of my notebooks, I find nothing about myself, no trace of the person I once was or the person I'm trying to become.

In the end, I'm left grappling with the fragments of my identity, piecing together a puzzle that seems to have no solution. But amidst the chaos, I hold onto the hope that one day, I'll find clarity and reclaim what's been lost.

Leaving my bedroom, I push the door open slowly, the hinges protesting with a soft creak. Grandpa sits in front of the TV, his eyes fixed on the screen. I can't help but wonder what he's trying to escape, drowning himself in alcohol and staying up till dawn. Is he trying to cope with something? I can't shake the feeling of not knowing anything anymore. I don't know who I am, and I don't understand why he's chosen to spend his nights like this. Everything feels shrouded in uncertainty, leaving me with more questions than answers.

The next day at school, I feel like a stranger in my own skin. When my name is called out in attendance, I hesitate, unsure if I should respond. The sound seems familiar, but I can't grasp onto it with certainty. Faces blur together, and staring at people for too long sends sharp pains shooting through my brain. The color golden, in particular, triggers a strange reaction, making my eyes water inexplicably.