Although the amnesia-related stories are very popular as a theme, and their endings may be predictable. I liked the thought of writing about one I myself have witnessed before. So, it is sort of based on a real story.
Septemper 22, 2001
I stood in my room puzzled as I checked the reflection of my features in the mirror; how they were easily recognizable among everything I have seen lately. Two wide, long-lashed, sapphire eyes. Coal-black straight long hair. An oval face drenched in ivory tint. A delicate nose and thin lips. The ability to know this self was the sparkle of hope that gleamed reflectively whenever I had a glimpse of it; it was a reminder that maybe one day, the past would flow spontaneously from my oozes, and the buried world inside me would be dusted.
I was informed that I wholly lost any remembrance of my past when I had had an injury in my head. My father started the first accident-related conversation with me. He looked like a good-tempered man; I could tell he was in his early sixties, bald, except for some hair that covered the both sides of his head above the ears, where the temples of his not-so-thin spectacles hung. Knowing that I hadn't had an enviable experience, he told me with a sympathetic tone what happened.
On what sounded like a peaceful summer day, during a camping trip both of my parents planned, I stayed from them into the woods. My father's voice shook when he reached this part. He said they found me with my face covered with blood. Unfortunately neither the doctors nor my parents could make guesses of how this had happened. After all, I was found in a forest where there were only deep rooted trees as far as the eye could see. In an area where the deadliest creature they could find was a squirrel, they would never be able to guess.
I looked around, a freshly smelling, sophisticatedly designed bedroom, a girly bed with berry red sheets. On the left night stand, a family framed picture of a couple with their blue eyed baby girl. A closet that matched the woody bed, fuzzily carpeted floor, white polished windows adorned with fragile daisies flowerpots, and light seeped plentifully through their transparent panes. All this pleaseing-to-the-eye furniture didn't stir my heart. Contrarily, their dumb, silent presence weighed upon it, but the weight soon diminished when I realized how the birds chirped as a background music to my thought which was now occupied of how I could make my way to the attic.
The attic was a very inviting place, at least to me. I felt like I was unknowingly attracted to be there. I thought I might had spent quite a lot of time there. Maybe. So, I wasn't hesitated when I climbed the stairs intending to explore it. Unsurprisingly, I saw many curiosity-stimulating boxes and tightened bags. Some had my name Lily on them. Others had mine with my mother's and father's name, Rose and Michael Cage. I stretched out my hand to open the Lily titled box. More pictures of a blue baby girl, supposedly me. Snapshots of her every movement: squeezed in white cloth like an innocent cocoon, frowning, on the verge of crying, crying, half smiling, smiling, diaper changing pose, thumb sucking, creeping, crawling, barely walking, walking. And another similar collection of the older version of the same girl. I failed to belong, even to the sickly thin, pale faced Rose whose amber eyes were an extension to a dull autumn day. As the thought mentally drained me and left me with blurry eyes, a differently shaped black leather case glowed under the sun rays of September skies. It beckoned to me and persisted to be noticed.