Mirrors

Surface

Chapter Thirty-Six:

Surface

Two men were screaming at each other through a glass window, outside another room. They were arguing over something I had no knowledge of. My head began to throb. I tried lifting it up but, to my dismay, had to set it back down because of a sharp pain that pierced into my temples. The dim lights lit the room enough, but somehow it made my headache worse. The world was spinning, and I didn’t know how to control it. I was laying down on a comfy bed that rose about four feet to the ground.

“She’s been asleep for six months now! It’s passed her birthday and Junior year’s going to start in a month. How are you going to get it to your head that she’s not going to wake up?” one of the men said.

“She’s alive, isn’t she?” the other said. “She’s still breathing.”

“But she’s been asleep for so long! How are you so sure that she’s gonna wake up in a year, a decade or ever?”

“She has to. The doctors said that she could wake up in a matter of weeks from now. We just gotta wait!”

“You’re spending so much already on—on a vegetable.”

“This is my daughter you're talking about. And she’s your niece. Can you just show a little bit more sympathy?”

And they kept going with the shouting; I could feel my ears starting to bleed because of them. I didn’t care; I just needed some rest. So I did whatever sane, weak person could do in a situation like this.

“Can you please shut the hell up?” I scolded, screaming so that the both of them could hear. “I’m trying to rest here!”

Both of them stopped what they were doing. They turned their heads at me, their mouth gaped wide open. Their eyes widened in size, as if they had just seen a ghost. They leaned in closer into the glass pane, squinting their eyes. One of them rubbed their eyes with the back of their hands, making sure that he wasn’t seeing things. I began to feel uncomfortable with the sudden attention I was receiving. Who the hell were these guys? And who . . .

“Irene!” one of them blurted out, entering my room as fast as he could. He went to the side of my bed, pulling me into his arms. A series of kisses bombarded towards me, attacking me. This stranger was weird.

I furrowed my brows, bewilderment took a hold of me. When he was done, I pulled away and opened my mouth. “Who are you?”

In the afternoon, an entire family came to visit me. They all proclaimed that they were mine, that they had spent all their time with me. They called me Irene. Quite frankly, I couldn’t remember my own name. So, I started to believe them. The doctors explained to me that I went into a coma that lasted for six months. And that amnesia was a likely outcome of the head trauma.

The family—in which they told me was mine—told me stories of my past. I listened to each one, trying to dig them out of my mind. But no matter how much I tried, I couldn’t shake off the feeling as if I’m listening to someone else’s life. It felt like I was watching this life through a window . . . through a mirror. I was someone who saw this person’s life at a third-person point of view. The thought sent an eerie vibe; how did that sound so familiar?

Everything was fine with me. My language was fine, my artistic talent still struck people’s hearts, and everything school-related still plastered my brain. But when it came to my personal life, my personal memories, all I could see is a dark, bottomless abyss as deep as the ocean.

One day, this lady who called me her mother brought me an easel, a canvas, paints and brushes. She told me that everything I saw right ahead of me was from my deceased grandmother. I stood up and started to paint. This was a skill that I picked up really quickly, as if riding a bicycle for the first time in years. I picked up the brush, dabbed it in the blue paint, and swung my wrist toward the canvas. I was mindlessly painting, letting the image form ahead of me. I couldn’t even tell half the time what I wanted to paint.

And an image in my mind just formed, and I wanted to paint it. So I did. The end result was a girl, falling back into a bottomless ocean. Her back was turned to its depths; her eyes turned to the surface membrane up above. She had a melancholy smile on her face, though her sad eyes told even more of her feelings. The sun above was so tempting, calling out to her. But somehow, she couldn’t swim up. So she gave up, letting herself drown.

A mirror lay below her, laying horizontally as if about to catch her. A doll floated toward it, half of its body disappeared into the glass. The glass didn’t seem as solid as it should, splashing away as the doll passed through it.

I stood back, letting the image sink in. A flash of memory got a hold of me, with the same image as the painting. I was reaching for a doll—a Raggedy Anne doll—before it reached the mirror. And that mirror? It was very elegant, framed with ebony black wood. The frame was carved with a delicate hand, showing off the vines and roses along its lines. It was painted, probably with the same hand. It was extraordinary. Was this part of my memory?

My parents asked me how I got this painting. I denied and lied, telling them that I wanted to swim. Quinn—my supposed little sister—pointed to the Raggedy Anne doll and smiled.

“You still have that doll,” she told me in a hushed whisper.

“I do?” I asked. I couldn’t remember.

“Yeah,” she nodded. “Raggedy Annie.”

“Annie?”

“Yup,” she smiled. “That’s what you used to call her.”

After that, I started to believe every single thing this family told me. I began to accept them and the love they showered on me. I began to laugh again, letting down my walls. This the family I lived for sixteen—er—seventeen years of my life. Might as well get along with them.

When the two girls were alone with me, Florence asked something strange.

“Do you remember being a ghost?”

I looked at her, bewildered. “Sorry?”

“Because when you were asleep, we heard your voice,” she said, enthusiastically.

I shook my head. “No. I don’t remember,” I replied.

“Oh.”

Quinn glared at her, as if she just asked a stupid question. Now that I could think about it, that was a stupid question. Why would you asked an amnesiac a question about the past, or about the time when he or she was asleep?

The next day, Quinn came to visit with something behind her back.

“Quinn?” I asked. “What do you have there?”

She let the object in sight, putting it in front of her. She laid it down on my stomach, letting it sit in place. It was Raggedy Anne with her big black eyes, red yarn of hair, her close-mouthed smile and a yellow raincoat. Her triangular nose was pink and big, but cute nonetheless. Buttons, zippers and straps were on the coat.

I pulled her closer to me; my face was full of wonder. My head began to throb, trying to remember something that Raggedy Anne might know.

Suddenly, a flash of light came before me. Sudden images began to play in my mind. From the good and the bad . . . and the worse. I began to scream in terror, letting the memories cram inside my weak mind. All the emotions that was once lost in time, came back with sheer force. The monsters, the demons, the torment: all of which came hurdling right after me.

Quinn was surprised; fear came across her eyes. She ran out, looking for some help.

Then, I remembered a small voice. It said, “Why aren’t you happy?”

I calmed myself down, letting those words absorb. Why aren’t you happy? I said to myself, over and over again. Those words, that voice, that little girl was me.

I remembered everything from my life, and beyond. It was an adventure. I will remember it forever in my heart, my mind and soul. And with this knowledge intact, I learned to forgive myself.

~The End~