From a Yesterday You Don't Remember (One Shot)

From a Yesterday You Don't Remember

From a Yesterday You Don't Remember by JellOfAllTrades
November 19, 2014 Wednesday

I woke up to an irritating electronic beeping somewhere to the right of my head. Opening my eyes to an unfamiliar white room, I look for the source of the sound and see a complicated looking alarm clock. I move to push the buttons that I hope will turn it off and panicked when a voice recording started playing.

"Good morning, Mary Grace." A woman's voice greeted. I stared at the alarm clock turned recorder. Mary Grace? Is that my name? God help me, I don't even remember who I am.

"You must be confused. I know. But don't worry, you're fine. You're in our home—yours  and mine. Anyway, you should get ready. The bathroom's the first door to the left of the hallway."

The recording stopped and the room grew silent. I looked around, trying to understand what is happening; where am I, who was the woman behind the recording and who the heck am I? I tried to remember what happened yesterday, the day before that, last week, last month, last Christmas, but I remember nothing.

I stand up and approach the cabinet nearby. There are dozens of picture frames on it, of two women who must be in their late twenties. There's a picture of them smiling at the camera, holding hands in the beach. Another of them sitting on a park bench, side by side but looking at opposite directions. Who are these women? Why don’t I have any memories of them? Then it occurred to me and I dash to the bathroom and felt my heart race when I saw my own reflection in the mirror. I am one of the girls in the pictures.

There on the mirror’s frame are more pictures, taped. I recognize my own face smiling at me. Underneath the picture is a neatly scribbled name. Mary Grace Santos. The name seems familiar to me although weird enough to be considered my own. What happened to me last night that I forgot everything?

Another picture was under my own. It was of the girl I am with in the other pictures. She, too, is smiling at the camera and underneath the picture is an untidy writing in red. Nicole Galang--> best friend.

This must be her, the woman behind the good morning recording. But why don’t I remember her when I have this feeling that I should? I must be a bad best friend then, to forget about her when it is her that greeted me first thing in the morning.

You’re in our home—yours and mine, I remember from the recording. Then she must be here, too, perhaps in another room. I ready myself to meet her later, maybe at breakfast.

After I got myself ready and felt presentable enough although still felt extremely alienated on my own body, I exit the bathroom and venture past the bedroom I woke up in. Across the hallway is another door but is locked. I go farther and find a staircase going down. Preparing myself for what lies downstairs, I take a deep breath. If Nicole Galang really is my best friend, then she would know what happened to me that made me lose my memories.

The place is deserted and I find no trace of Nicole Galang in the living room, dining room or in the kitchen. The recording said this was our home and it is too early in the morning for her to have already left. I looked everywhere except through that locked door upstairs. I ran, taking the stairs two steps at a time and knocking quite loudly on the door.

“Nicole?” I call out, feeling alone in an unfamiliar house with no recollections of the day before—or of any other day for this matter. “Nicole, are you in there?”

There was no response and I press my ear to the door hoping to hear any scuffle of someone inside. There is none.

I return to my room and see that there is a book on the bed that I have not noticed before. I opened it to see what is inside and found the same untidy handwriting similar to that who wrote on Nicole Galang’s picture. This time the writer used a blue marker instead of red.