Short Stories!

a forgotten memory (?)

Quick Side Note: So I said in my update that I've been writing a lot, yeah? Well that was a lie. I've been looking through my drafts and I realize now that I've only written two. In two years. I have an explanation though! I've been working on a lot of other projects (none of them are ready to be published yet, but it's still progress!) and I promise to write more in the future!! (dont make promises you can't keep, Cherry) Anyway, I'm not even sure what the vibes are with this one, but I kept in mind the color grey a lot while writing it. I tried to keep any context vague, because there is no context. I made this up on the spot.

The old, broken house looms; a piece of the past frozen in time. The grey sky makes it look sad and forlorn.

You gaze up at it. You should remember. It was yours once. But all you see is the fading blue paint chipping at the edges.

You hesitate before entering. There is a tree, worn and old next to the entrance. It's the only thing in the garden that has stood the test of time. You see an old swing hanging from a branch, rocking back and forth in the wind. You must've played there once. You take a deep breath, then step inside.

You listen to how the tired, dirty floors creak. There is a small table in the foyer, with a large square of paint that is faded just less than the walls. A missing photo, you think absentmindedly, as you walk into the kitchen.

The rush to leave is evident in this room. The pantries are left open, and there is shattered glass on the floor from a broken jar. You step over it cautiously. There is a dinner table too. The chairs are pushed out frantically, and there are plates on the table. It is covered in a fine layer of dust. It seems they got the warnings while eating dinner.

You walk into the living room next. A moth-eaten, musty couch is in the middle of the room, and an empty bookshelf on the wall. There are more of those squares of wall where there used to be photographs. There is not much to see here now, while everything is dead and cold, but there is a feeling surrounding it. The warmth and security this room presents, even after all this time, is enough to make it difficult to want to leave. This place used to be warm, inviting. This room belonged to you. To your family. To your mother. The thought is almost too much to bear. You knew it before, when Contacts confirmed that this was your home growing up, but it hasn't hit you until now.

You've never had a family. The feeling of a father tousling your hair, or a mother's arms enveloping you had never been yours. Well, they had been, once, but these memories are no longer yours. This home is as familiar as a stranger's would be. But in this room, it feels safe. It feels welcoming. It feels like your home. The feeling is so strong that it knocks the wind out of you, leaving you breathless and rooted to the spot. You don't want to leave. You desperately don't want to leave. So you do the only thing you feel you can. You turn and go back to the kitchen.

Attachment is weakness. Fear is weakness. Emotion is weakness. You are not weak, you are the best trainee the Academy has ever seen. You won't let a house, a house you don't even remember, change that.

You should leave completely, go back to the Academy and throw yourself back into training. Forget this weakness, forget this idea, forget this stupid house. But you can't. You just can't. This is all that is left of your past. You have to see the rest.

So you continue on.There are no large rooms left on the ground floor, so you decide to go upstairs. As you walk up, there are similar squares on the walls as in the foyer. You wonder where the pictures went, and if they were left. Much like the floor, the stairs creak under your weight. There are two large rooms here, so you start with the closest.

It is yours. Yours and someone else's. If you had known, you would have prepared yourself. But you didn't, so now you stand still in the doorway, gaze locked on the toys on the floor, and the bunk bed, and tiny clothes in the small wardrobe. It is difficult, but you shake yourself out of your stupor. Attachment is weakness. 

You slowly make your way through the room taking carefully measure steps. You touch everything, the beds, the toys, the clothes. Even the squares of colored wall, where pictures were ripped off.

You walk along what should have been your room, and, as you do, you almost hear the faint sound of children's laughter in the air. But then it's gone, swept away by the passing wind. The feeling of home is there in this room to but you fight to ignore it.

The next room must be your parents. This time you prepare, but it is unnecessary. The room is practically barren, aside from the frames of the furniture. The feeling of home has been leeched out of this room, gone cold without any people to full the large, empty space. You turn to leave, vaguely disappointed.

You are stopped by something peeking out from under the bed. It is an old box, seemingly forgotten in the haste to leave. It is shut, but the lock on it is old and rusted, and comes off easily when you yank it.

You open the box slowly, then cough as a plume of dust reaches your face. You look inside, and almost forget to breathe.

The missing pictures. The box is full of them. Some still have plaster from where they were ripped off the walls.

You take them out gently, like they are rare and precious jewels. To you, they are.

You still have no memory of the people in the pictures, but you can guess. There is your mother, with the same hair as you. She stands next to your father. You have his nose. There is a boy, too. A brother maybe? His eyes are closed in every photo, with a shiny happy smile. You shared a room with him, you are sure.

And then there is you. You may be younger, but it is undeniably you. You look the same, although the haunted look from your eyes is not there. That came later, when the world fell apart.

A tear falls from your eye onto the paper, splotching a balloon your brother is holding, narrowly missing his face. You hide the picture quickly, trying to save your treasure. You put the photos gingerly back in the box, then hoist it back over your shoulder.

You exit the room, and gaze in the direction of your own. You can see the fading yellow walls from here. You feel your eyes sting. You shake your head to clear it. You have allowed yourself to make to many mistake. But crying is a line you don't dare to cross. You've already allowed yourself to become attached, there can be no emotion.

You walk down the stairs slowly, then stand in the entryway. The door is still open where you left it. You now see and hear the rain that must have been pouring for a while. You sigh, then adjust the box on your shoulder. You step outside, shutting the door gently. You exit and walk along the worn stone path, letting the rain fall against your face, maintaining a look of stony indifference. It will be harder to sneak back into the barracks with the trunk, but you will not leave it. You have lost so much, you deserve this, at least.

You stop and turn to look at the house one last time. A moment passes when everything is frozen in time. Then you focus all your energy, and the sky splits open with a fierce roar. The blinding power of lightning strikes down on the house with all its might. You do not flinch.

The light disappears, leaving the home burning in its wake. Even with the rain, the fires are too large to be put out. Soon the home will be nothing but a pile of ashes. And then the only thing that would tell you that it was there at all is the box of pictures, resting on your shoulder.

You turn and leave, without looking back.