Not much of my memories are left of the past. My parents' faces were faded and resembled masks. I had only the remnants of my childhood memories, all without faces and in total darkness. At the age of nine something happened in my family. The injury was so deep that I forgot most of my life.
I had only that memory of my best friend. The only one in my whole life. It was a picture stuck in my mind with a laugh and melody from the music box in the background.
Among the rear holes of my amnesia I saw his honey eyes and dark mahogany hair. I remembered his friendly smile ... but nothing else. All the rest disappeared into the darkness. He also.
I returned to the orphanage where I was born. My amazing parents, Maddalena and Steven, gave me a warm feeling of having a family, adopting me, a feeling that I later forgot. I lived with them until the age of fifteen.
By amnesia, they made various psychological exams and control tests, which year by year ended with more and more failure. It seemed that I did not regain my memory. This fact deformed me.
On the one hand I wanted to know what happened, but on the other ... a strange feeling of anxiety suggested that I did not want to.
Of course there were some nasty consequences of my injury. Every once in a while I got paranoid or had the impression that someone was stalking me. Specialists told the parents that there must be a specific memory associated with me that was constantly being simulated. I did not know the reason or exactly what it was, but despite my efforts, I could not focus on it.
I felt like I was being watched, not by people, but by the stuff in my room. It was stupid, I know. At first they were just toys, but from time to time their large, round eyes seemed to look at me.
When I was little, I thought stuffed toys in my room were alive and sometimes I tried to prove it. I turned violently until I looked at them until my eyes started blinking or I watched my room through the open door.
Memory was one of the few childhood memories that made me smile. But everything changed, stuffed toys looked at me again. It looked almost as if they wanted to test me. This thought is in my head. Sometimes I think they moved, turning their little heads in my direction. Other times they made a noise in my room. It can not be true, of course.
Why does this thought haunt me? Why do I hate these stuffed toys? After all, why can not I get rid of them? I could give it to other children or throw it in trash. One day I tried, really, but when I took one of them into my arms, a strong sense of fear and horror stopped me. And it always ended up putting them back in their place, on the furniture, on my bed, on the shelves. Then I had to take sedatives.
There was only one toy I had with me at night. In spite of my age I could not separate from her and felt a familiar feeling that appeared long before my amnesia.
I found myself in my closet in an orphanage and since then we have been inseparable.
It was a sweet bunny with long ears like him, red on one side, and caramel on the other. He wore a black waistcoat with two long sleeves that pulled down to his feet and a yellowed collar. His left coral eye was covered with a metal paint with a black patch on top.
He was very funny, but it looked like a plain stuffed toy that was harmless. He had been sleeping with me since I was little, just like the night after I had washed him, filling his clothes in the box.
I was still in the dark, unable to move or understand how I could end up with only silence. Something grabbed my wrist and held so tight that it hurt my immediate pain. White nails slowly sank into my body. I watched as they cut my skin, causing bleeding. I cried and screamed, but the roar of laughter drowned out my desperate pleas.
