If You Forget | ✓

Chapter 1

I snap out of my thoughts when the low buzz of the car engine dies down. I look out of the window and see that we're parked in front of a large house with a light pink facade. Is it ours? The sight of it evokes nothing in me.

My parents leave the car, and I follow. They rush to my side to help me out, despite me telling them I can perfectly walk on my own. It's not like I was actually injured. When I was brought to the hospital, I only had some scrapes and bruises, but they've all healed since then.

They take both of my sides again as if they're shielding me from everything near us. When we reach the door, my mom fumbles in her pocket and finally takes a key out. Once she unlocks the door, we enter inside, straight into a narrow hallway.

I look around, trying to see if anything in the hallway will ring a bell somewhere in my brain, but my efforts are futile. From the shoe rack to the coat hanger in the corner, nothing feels familiar enough.

"Are you going to take off your shoes?" my dad asks me. I look down and see that they've already changed their shoes for some comfortable slippers.

"Oh, right," I say as I bend down to grab my laces.

"Do you need any help with them?" my mother's concerned voice reaches me.

I shake my head in response, but a slight wave of dizziness stops me. "No, it's fine, I've got it." I unlace my shoes and put them aside, while my mom gives me my slippers. They're soft, but cold; nothing about them feels mine.

From the hallway, my parents take me to the living room. I try my best to soak in the view and spot something familiar, but the only thing I notice is that the room looks cozy. There is a large beige couch on one side of the room, and one of those electric fireplaces on the other. Its top is filled with various tiny decorations; above it, a large TV is nesting on the wall. Near the couch stands one sole armchair, accompanied by a small glass table that rests on the fluffy carpet.

"So?" my mother finally says, and I turn around to face them. I see the way they're looking at me—expectantly, like they're waiting for me to say that a miracle has happened and that I remember everything now. But I don't.

I simply shake my head. The room seems very comfortable and homely with its beige and white tones, but no matter how lovely it seemed, my brain still doesn't recognize it as a home. There's no sense of familiarity attached to it—it's like I'm seeing it for the very first time.

"Let me take you to your room, then. Maybe you'll recognize that one," she tells me again, linking her arm with mine. I let her take me out of the living room and lead me up the stairs. As we climb our way up, I only notice some pictures hanging on the wall next to us, but we pass by too quickly for me to see what's on them.

We continue down the hallway, and I see four identical doors. If I had to stop and guess which one was mine, would I pick the right one?

To my luck, we pass the first one on our left and stop in front of the second one. My mother opens the door and beckons me to come inside. I hesitate for a second, but then follow her in.

The room isn't anything special. There's the usual furniture, like a bed, a nice desk with a matching chair and a pile of textbooks stacked on top of it, another soft carpet, as well as a large closet and a mirror. Besides that, a small bookshelf occupies one corner of the room, with three rows of neatly packed books on it. Their colorful spines break the simplicity of the room and draw my attention to them.

Looking around slowly, I realize it doesn't have as many things as I thought it would. It's immaculate, as some might expect from a girl's room, but it lacks personality. There are no posters, no personal touches to the room, only one framed picture on the nightstand.

I feel my mother's expectant gaze glued to me, so I turn around to face her. Hope is written all over her face, and her slight smile only seems to brighten her features.

"Nothing," I say to her. "It feels sort of... empty for me to really put a finger on anything."

She tries her best not to look disappointed, but I see through her facade. "Oh, don't worry, you'll remember soon enough. I always kept telling you to bring more colors into the room, maybe decorate it a little more, but you've always liked it this way." A nostalgic smile lingers on her face for a split second, and then she recollects herself and takes me back downstairs.

I try to ignore the dull pang of guilt in my chest as I sit in the living room, waiting for her to finish the dinner. My dad roams around the house until he finally settles down on the other side of the couch and starts watching TV. I pretend that I don't notice all the quick glances he gives me while we sit there, so I absent-mindedly gaze around the room.

The dinner isn't much different, because we eat in silence, with nothing more than an occasional mustered word or two. As much as I want to talk to them about something—anything—it's hard for me to do so, and they're not hesitating any less than I am. I cannot say I blame them. After all, their only daughter was missing for over a month, and now she barely even knows who they are.

"How's the food?" my mother finally breaks the silence, stealing a glance in my direction.

I swallow my bite before I reply. "It's nice. Definitely better than the hospital food."

My awkward attempt at a joke doesn't elicit anything more than a couple of—somehow, even more awkward—hums. I almost sigh in relief when I finish my plate and retreat to my room.

The soft mattress gives me some comfort as I stare into the ceiling. My parents are trying their best to make me feel safe at home, but I was already prepared for this atmosphere, even when I was still in the hospital. The fuzzy memories of the hospital and numerous examinations slowly overwhelm me, but one of them resurfaces and quickly outshines all the others.

I stand up from my bed and walk over to the mirror on the opposite side of the room. Standing there, I fumble with my clothes, until I eventually lift up my shirt, exposing my jutting ribs. Then, I finally make out the words embedded on my skin.

I first saw it when I was in the hospital. Before that, I didn't know there was some black ink permanently decorating my skin. A tattoo.

The doctors were the ones who noticed it first. They've asked me if I knew what it meant, but just like everything else, I had no idea. I expected them to tell someone about it, either my parents or the police, but no one did, so I decided to keep it my little secret for now. I gently graze the words with my finger, feeling that they somehow have a much deeper meaning for me.

"r. p.
if you forget"