I wake up to the sun’s blistering blaze slicing through my curtains, a massive hangover, and the sense that I’d aroused myself out of a euphoria. My name is Mara, or at least that is the name tattooed in cursive along the length of my pinkie. There’s this soft cooing in my head, so sweet and delicate that it reminds me of ruby red roses and a mother’s lullaby, egging me on to follow the standard routine. I almost succumb to it, but as I stare at the name branded on my finger, a frightening revelation gobbles up the saccharine voice: I can’t remember anything about myself.
Hastily, I toss away my bed sheets, streak across the hallway into the bathroom, and I nearly wretch at the sight of the foreign girl in the mirror. She has blindingly gold curls, crystal blue eyes with lengthy, curvy lashes, sharp angular cheekbones that did not have a trace of baby fat, an eerily scarless complexion, and a perfect bow-shaped mouth. It is as if she’s a flawless figure made primarily of makeup, cosmetics, and hair spray. Massaging my temples gingerly, I blink repetitively at the deceptive reflection, waiting for the façade to melt and reveal the honest jungle girl underneath. Ten seconds go by. Thirty seconds. Sixty seconds. She still remains, with the identical look of stupefaction that I wear. I cannot register the fact that I have seemingly aged five years over night. Moreover, all of my childhood imperfections have been vanquished. I used to have a rat’s nest on my head, lips that were chapped no matter how much ChapStick was applied, bloated cheeks that could stretched out as easily as pizza dough, and little mountain ranges of acne that scaled upward from one end of my jaw to the other. This is not possible, I think. In some shape or form, humans will have blemishes and scabs and irregularities. The girl standing before me is the oversized twin of one of those Barbie-doll collectables available around Christmas time. She is beautiful regardless of the expression of pure, utter terror she broadcasted. Pulling ruthlessly at the silk-like cloth stretched across my face, small rouges blotches emerge from the idyllic porcelain skin. I welcome them, for they make me appear and feel more real.
Half an hour later, I finally sag back, landing on the lid of the toilet and burrow my tender face into the palms of my hands. My head is pounding like a lioness banging against the impenetrable bars of her cage. The soft cooing crawls out from the burial grounds of my mind where I had temporarily silenced it, and once again attempts to seduce me into doing its bidding. I can’t fight it, for the promise of peace that it pleasures me with is too tempting compared to the distress of not recognizing myself. My worries begin to crumble and disintegrate into a feathery fog, filtering out blissfully through my body’s orifices as I slowly give in. But then, I perceive a high-pitched voice summon me to the kitchen for “my favorite breakfast,” and a droplet of curiosity that’d latched onto something of my train wreck of a noggin croaks feebly: What is my favorite breakfast? Abruptly, the stupor ceases, causing all the fog to be vacuumed back and my entire brain is agonizingly engulfed by various inquires. What is my favorite movie? My favorite band? My favorite type of music? My favorite animal? My favorite book? My favorite thing to do? Do I even have any favorites?
Grasping at my head, my fingernails scrape fiercely into my scalp and my eyes practically jut out of their sockets. There are the flimsiest strings of memory tangled up somewhere in the back of my mind, and I try to pluck one free, but it is futile. Biting down on my full lower lip to suppress my screaming, these outstanding surges of recollection, where snippets of (what I assume to be) the past, tricycle rapidly before my eyes. They are vibrant and invigorating and pulse with dynamic emotion. I entreat them to freeze so I can admire them, but my strenuous effort turns out to be worthless as they eventually recede back into the vast ocean of glimmering yarn, too far to reach. I moan miserably, evidently knowing that my brain has been tampered with and that, for whatever reason, my memories are inaccessible.
For a few minutes, I merely stare at the hideous yellow and black tiles beneath my bare feet, embracing the sensation of familiarity they grant me with. I feel the tickle of a memory endeavor to present itself – a blurry figure cutting some sort of denim cloth – but it is gone before I can fully seize it. Garnering enough strength to rise onto my wobbly legs, I strictly avoid looking at my reflection and maneuver my way cautiously down the staircase, this persistent uncanny knot mustering in the pit of my stomach. Every one of my senses are on high alert, perhaps even maximized to overdrive, for the blood cells swimming through my veins and capillaries feel like hot pieces of charcoal. By the time I arrive at the final step, I am ready to splinter into a mound of black bones and trepidus residue.
There is a no-boobs, all-booty woman in the kitchen, sprinkling confectioner’s sugar onto a stack of fluffy pancakes. As I approach the lady with vigilant steps, I scrutinize her features: short auburn hair that spirals just above her shoulders, thin lips smothered in shiny pink gloss, and angelic blue eyes that undoubtedly matched mine. Immediately, my brain identifies as “Mother” and my strained shoulders slacken slightly, relieved to see an acquainted face.
“Hello, darling,” Mother says with a smile that could have been lovely, if not marred by the many wrinkles rippling off the corners of her mouth.
“Hi,” I reply, languidly taking a seat at the counter. ‘She is your mother,’ the soft cooing informs me another time. ‘You can trust her.’ I hold onto the side of head, groaning. Why are my insides still prickling with apprehension?
Mother places the delicious plate of buttermilk chocolate chip pancakes in front of me, cleaning her hands of the white powder with a paper towel. “Your favorite”, she states knowingly, casting a wink in my direction before walking over to the sink and turning on the faucet. “Did you sleep well last night?”
“Uh…” I watch as she robotically grabs a greasy pan off the stove and scrubs it rhythmically with a sponge. Five inches up, five inches down. Five inches up, five inches down. I avert my gaze down to my breakfast and pick up a fork, although my appetite has dissolved into a profound tsunami of nausea. “Not really.”
“That’s good,” Mother says nonchalantly. I shoot her a look of absolute confuzzlement, a forkful of pancake mid-way to my mouth. When she swivels around to face me, a replica of that perturbing smile again is smacked distractingly onto her face. I feel compelled to tell her to stop it, but I also have the strangest suspicion that she won’t really hear me. She seems unswayed by my staggered expression. “A girl needs her beauty sleep.”
Oh, yeah. I am thoroughly creeped out, and my uneaten breakfast dish is starting to look like a very inviting place to vomit. Mother then stares at me considerably as if I am saying the most amazing thing into the world, notwithstanding the fact my mouth is actually zipped up tight. The soft cooing persists, telling me defiantly, ‘She is your mother. Trust her. Trust her. Trust her,’ but every other part of my being is screaming at me to GET OUT! Pushing away from the counter, I jump down from my seat and say unsteadily, “You know what? I’m not that hungry, so—“
She busts out into a fit of hysterically chirpy laughter, making me fall backwards as ungracefully onto my butt as slipping on a banana peel would. Mother bares all of her white teeth, doubling over exaggeratedly. My heart must think that it is in the company of a rabid maniacal monkey, because it is racing faster than a bunny’s when scampering through the woods, striving to escape from a predator. Wiping away an imaginary tear from her right eye, Mother clutches at her chest and respires breathlessly, “Oh, Mara! You are too funny!”
‘Trust her. Trust her.’ I adamantly ignore the soft cooing. Using the soles of my feet, I press up against the timber floorboards and slide hurriedly toward the nearest exit. Next to it, a black-and-white coat hangs up on a hook, and there is an assortment of shoes lined up adjacent to the wall. Clasping the doorknob, I clamber off the ground and slip on the heavy coat.
Tentatively, as I lodge on a pair of gray snow boots, I glimpse back at Mother, who had regained her unnaturally formal composure. She beams brightly as she snags my untouched dish. Apparently oblivious to the substance still leftover, she dumps the plate into the sink, pancakes and all. Ecstatically, she shouts “Don’t forget to take your pills before you go, sweetie!” in the same instant I unsecure the door, and the icy breeze of winter nibbles at my elegantly flush cheeks. Daring one last look back, I spot a bottle of sickly yellow pills situated at the left edge of the kitchen counter. I dart out of the door in the nick of time to spew out into a bush all the undigested food that I don’t remember eating.
(to be continued…)
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Woah!
Very interesting, I don’t know if I completely understood, which sucks because this was written very well, but I’ll tell you what I did understand. So the main character wakes up and does not recognize herself. I’m guessing inwardly she is the awkward, not as pretty, younger version of herself who wakes up in the older, more attractive body, and in this portion she is trying to continue the older version’s routine of the morning, but is freaked out because everything is vaguely familiar. Forgive me if some of this is wrong.
Your imagery is right on point. I was definitely amazed by your descriptions and they were so vivid to the point I might steal them for my own writing. Lol. But there was so much of them that I tended to get lost in the vivid description and I found it difficult to pick back up the story. This could just be a me thing, but this was just one of my concerns. But other than that it was very well written and I look forward to your next installment.