Pictures of the past

Do You Remember?

7:00 AM.

Blinding sunlight flooded Win's room. He covered his eyes, trying to shut it out with no such luck. He hated summer. He hated it so much.

And yet, here he was.

Alone again, at his mother's house, wishing for summer to end so he could spend another year in the winter's cold and strangely comforting embrace.

He stood up. His whole body was sore–God, why did it feel like that?–and his mouth felt dry. 

Just ignore it. Get it over with. It's just another day. Don't be pathetic.

He opened the bathroom door and stared at the mirror. His reflection stared back; his eyebags had somehow gotten even worse. Win felt slightly ridiculous, actually caring about how he looked. He hadn’t cared for so many years he was beginning to forget what that felt like. It wasn’t pleasant.

His black hair stuck out like dry twigs, covering his forehead and growing longer each day. Soon, it'd reach his shoulders. Win decided to get it over with. He reached for the scissors.

Snip, snip.

What a horrible idea. If his hair looked bad before, it looked twice as bad now. Locks of his hair fell into the sink, wrapping around his fingers, making a mess.

Win was so shocked he could only stare blankly at the mirror, admiring his horrendously choppy haircut.
He facepalmed at his own stupidity, wondering where he'd gotten the courage to even pick up the scissors in the first place. Now he regretted it.

After a few seconds of pondering on his ridiculous decision, he decided to pretend it hadn’t even happened and stepped into the shower.

Water dripped onto his hair, spreading a cold feeling through his shoulders. Win watched a few strands of hair from his, ahem, unfortunate haircut, wash down the drain.

It took him about ten minutes to get out of the shower and put on clean clothes. Something simple, really, just some plaid grey pants and a black shirt that read "hi". Win liked that shirt. It felt very... him. "Hi" was probably the only thing he knew how to say without stuttering.

He walked down the stairs. His legs were shaking. They'd been doing that for a few days now. Maybe he should get that checked.

When he reached the last step, he made his way to the kitchen and placed his hand on the fridge's handle.
Before he could look inside, something caught his attention.

A note.

A pink post-it was taped to the fridge. It read a note with his mom's handwriting.
Win picked it up.

"Hi, Winstar!" He hated being called that. "I'm out for work." Oh, great. "Please wash your clothes." Reasonable request. "Your breakfast is in the microwave, please eat something." Okay. That's fine. "By the way, do your dear mother a favor and pick up some groceries later. The same store as always. You remember it, right? Love, mom."

Win stared at the note. Crap, he thought. Out of all the things he wanted to do today, going outside was not one of them. Actually, there was nothing on the list of things he wanted to do. Win didn't want to do anything at all.

Win sighed and left the note where he'd found it.

You wouldn't want to dissappoint her, would you?

Fine, Win told himself. He walked over to the microwave and set it to 57 seconds. He liked that number. 57. What a silly number. It was Marley's favorite; he remembered that much.

He watched his breakfast spin around before washing his hands in the kitchen sink.

beep, beep, beep...

That sound was insufferable. Win shut it off and pulled his steaming-hot food out of the microwave. Almost immediately, he burned his hand, but he didn't say a word. He hardly even flinched, having gotten used to it by now.

He ate. Barely. Actually, it wasn’t that bad. Sure, okay, it was re-heated leftovers, but it wasn't that bad. Before he knew it, he'd finished the whole meal.
Win waited for a few seconds. Oh, nice. He didn't throw up after eating so quickly. Great success.

He washed his plate, tossed it inside the cabinet, prayed he hadn’t shattered it and walked upstairs to collect his laundry. He caught a glimpse of the callendar. His birthday was approaching. He'd spend it with his mother this year. Maybe she'd even take the day off to celebrate with him. Unlikely, but possible.

Brianna would've told him to be hopeful, and that good things could be found in the darkest of places, and that after a rainstorm there's always a sunny sky and many other things Win couldn't remember. It was silly, anyway. Childish.

He picked up the laundry basket. It wasn’t too heavy. As he walked back downstairs, he slammed face-first into a piece of furniture. Not the first time that had happened.

A picture fell to the floor.

Win put down the basket and picked it up. A small polaroid, old and crumpled. On the back, a comforting message, the ink fading ever so slowly. He remembered it now.

"Winstar's 11th birthday. We love you! Don't forget us!"

Win turned it around and smiled.
Four familiar faces greeted him, along with his own.

Brianna's sparkling eyes as she looked at the camera, her arms wrapped around Win in a comforting hug, her smile as wide as he remembered it. He wondered if she was okay.

Win could almost hear Avery's contagious laughter as he stared at his young face smiling, distracted from the camera as he and Jade play-wrestled behind 11-year-old Win. They'd always been so much fun.

In the picture, Marley's smile was as sweet as he remembered it. He always had this look on his face, like he was never quite on earth; almost like his mind wandered endlessly through a garden of flowers. He remembered Marley's nickname. Flower. Mar was always flower. He certainly seemed like one.

Win missed them. More than anything in the world, really, but he'd started to forget. He couldn't remember everything, no matter how hard he tried.

He'd started to forget.

Forgetting was always scary.