This is a super rough draft, I just banged it out in half an hour. Any critique would be greatly apprciated.
--
Falling asleep--I remembered that much. It seemed so peaceful in comparison, with the gentle lull of the tires against the pavement underneath. The seats seemed softer than other cars, I guess they make them that way on purpose.
I was startled into reality by a vague falsehood in my mind; it had no real shape or purpose, just one of those in-between dreams that wake you up just as you were about to fall into the deepest part of sleep. My surroundings slowly crept back the way a thick stack of paper towels absorbs a mess. The feeling of being in an unknown location lingered; I had to blink a few times and turn my head around for a good minute before I realized I was in a car. The driver was balding, probably in his 40's and extremely tense.
"Just up here on Velvet?" he snapped back at me without moving his head.
I was glad my own mind had awoken me before that awful voice did, I was dealing with too many issues to be worried about being in danger as well. It was evident to me then that I was in a YellowTop cab, although I had no recollection of calling for one. Velvet Avenue echoed in my mind, my memory adding the latter half of the phrase. I recognized it, but could not remember why.
"What's it going to be, old man?" he seemed quite frustrated now, as if he had something to look foreword to later.
"Yes, I suppose that's right." My mouth jumped into action in my place. I was thankful.
The night air was cold and wet when I stepped onto the sidewalk. My hands dropped a wad of singles in the rude driver's. He sped off without a word. I had no bags in my hand, which returned me to the question I had been pondering in the dry comfort of the vehicle: where was I?
Up a block I could see two signs clearly marking the intersection to all drivers. I was indeed on Velvet Avenue, and the street up ahead was called Sigfreed Street. There was a nice sandwich place on the northeast corner, but that was all the significance the intersection mustered in my memory.
"Am I meeting Victoria?" I said aloud in the solitude of the rainy sidewalk.
Victoria was soft. She was beautiful and perfect, in every way I knew. I must have been coming home to her. Home. This is my home.
"Write it all down: your name, your address, your close family members, everything! Alzheimer's is a debilitating disease that will gradually deteriorate your memory without medication."
I pressed my hand against my back pocket. No wallet. I slowly slid my fingers in and pulled out a small card. On it were words written in familiar handwriting.
"NAME: Gordon Serrif
WIFE: Victoria Serrif
ADDRESS: 21 S. Velvet Avenue, #303"
I was home. After I thought about it, I thought to myself that I had known it all along, and I was just fooling myself into forgetting. Standing here in the rain all this time, how silly of me. I turned around and headed towards a silver "21" steadily dripping its tears into the grass.
The only real question was, where had I been? I strained my mind and came only to a picture of a box or a wood shop, but that had probably been in the dream. The first thing I noticed when I opened my apartment door was the distinct presence of flowers. There must have been hundreds of them, but they were not decorating. They were all on the floor near the door, pushed aside and crushed from ill-appreciation; not even removed from their packaging.
"Another puzzle piece." I had gotten into a habit of speaking when there was no one around to hear me. I found keeping my thoughts vocalized left more space up there for memory.
I concluded the flowers must be for Victoria, some new honor of the community, no doubt. I chose myself a gem among wives. I called to her just before remembering something she said in the very near past:
"Gordon, I'm going out for some groceries, I'll be back within the hour."
Had it been an hour? Had I gone out to look for her? I glanced at the time, but it didn't help; I had no idea when she said she was going out. I put my hand to my chin to think, and felt an unmistakable amount of growth. I hadn't shaved in at least three days. Had I been clean-shaven when Victoria went out? My heart and my mind were suddenly competing to see who could race faster. THe simple truth flooded back to me as easily as the water on the street flowed into the drains. Victoria was gone.
It was a car accident, three days ago. Victoria turned right on a red, and some young maniac came tearing up behind her without watching or slowing down. Critical condition didn't last long, and the funeral was quiet. Three days ago, my memory was improving. Three days ago I was writing things down. Three days ago I was taking my medicine. Three days ago, Victoria was alive.
I must have gone out for a bit of air before turning in, I couldn't think of any other reason. I decided it was about time to get to bed, having had my fresh air, with some water to go with it. I got to my room and saw a piece of paper on my bed. It must've been more direction from my past self, my healthy self. I walked over to it, but only had to read the first line to open the gates to a full memory. There was a reason I had made myself forget these three days. I reached into my pocket and sure enough, I felt a cold wooden handle, connected to a steel trigger.
It was everything I had. My proposal to my descendants. My escape from illness. My route to Victoria.
In writing.
--
Falling asleep--I remembered that much. It seemed so peaceful in comparison, with the gentle lull of the tires against the pavement underneath. The seats seemed softer than other cars, I guess they make them that way on purpose.
I was startled into reality by a vague falsehood in my mind; it had no real shape or purpose, just one of those in-between dreams that wake you up just as you were about to fall into the deepest part of sleep. My surroundings slowly crept back the way a thick stack of paper towels absorbs a mess. The feeling of being in an unknown location lingered; I had to blink a few times and turn my head around for a good minute before I realized I was in a car. The driver was balding, probably in his 40's and extremely tense.
"Just up here on Velvet?" he snapped back at me without moving his head.
I was glad my own mind had awoken me before that awful voice did, I was dealing with too many issues to be worried about being in danger as well. It was evident to me then that I was in a YellowTop cab, although I had no recollection of calling for one. Velvet Avenue echoed in my mind, my memory adding the latter half of the phrase. I recognized it, but could not remember why.
"What's it going to be, old man?" he seemed quite frustrated now, as if he had something to look foreword to later.
"Yes, I suppose that's right." My mouth jumped into action in my place. I was thankful.
The night air was cold and wet when I stepped onto the sidewalk. My hands dropped a wad of singles in the rude driver's. He sped off without a word. I had no bags in my hand, which returned me to the question I had been pondering in the dry comfort of the vehicle: where was I?
Up a block I could see two signs clearly marking the intersection to all drivers. I was indeed on Velvet Avenue, and the street up ahead was called Sigfreed Street. There was a nice sandwich place on the northeast corner, but that was all the significance the intersection mustered in my memory.
"Am I meeting Victoria?" I said aloud in the solitude of the rainy sidewalk.
Victoria was soft. She was beautiful and perfect, in every way I knew. I must have been coming home to her. Home. This is my home.
"Write it all down: your name, your address, your close family members, everything! Alzheimer's is a debilitating disease that will gradually deteriorate your memory without medication."
I pressed my hand against my back pocket. No wallet. I slowly slid my fingers in and pulled out a small card. On it were words written in familiar handwriting.
"NAME: Gordon Serrif
WIFE: Victoria Serrif
ADDRESS: 21 S. Velvet Avenue, #303"
I was home. After I thought about it, I thought to myself that I had known it all along, and I was just fooling myself into forgetting. Standing here in the rain all this time, how silly of me. I turned around and headed towards a silver "21" steadily dripping its tears into the grass.
The only real question was, where had I been? I strained my mind and came only to a picture of a box or a wood shop, but that had probably been in the dream. The first thing I noticed when I opened my apartment door was the distinct presence of flowers. There must have been hundreds of them, but they were not decorating. They were all on the floor near the door, pushed aside and crushed from ill-appreciation; not even removed from their packaging.
"Another puzzle piece." I had gotten into a habit of speaking when there was no one around to hear me. I found keeping my thoughts vocalized left more space up there for memory.
I concluded the flowers must be for Victoria, some new honor of the community, no doubt. I chose myself a gem among wives. I called to her just before remembering something she said in the very near past:
"Gordon, I'm going out for some groceries, I'll be back within the hour."
Had it been an hour? Had I gone out to look for her? I glanced at the time, but it didn't help; I had no idea when she said she was going out. I put my hand to my chin to think, and felt an unmistakable amount of growth. I hadn't shaved in at least three days. Had I been clean-shaven when Victoria went out? My heart and my mind were suddenly competing to see who could race faster. THe simple truth flooded back to me as easily as the water on the street flowed into the drains. Victoria was gone.
It was a car accident, three days ago. Victoria turned right on a red, and some young maniac came tearing up behind her without watching or slowing down. Critical condition didn't last long, and the funeral was quiet. Three days ago, my memory was improving. Three days ago I was writing things down. Three days ago I was taking my medicine. Three days ago, Victoria was alive.
I must have gone out for a bit of air before turning in, I couldn't think of any other reason. I decided it was about time to get to bed, having had my fresh air, with some water to go with it. I got to my room and saw a piece of paper on my bed. It must've been more direction from my past self, my healthy self. I walked over to it, but only had to read the first line to open the gates to a full memory. There was a reason I had made myself forget these three days. I reached into my pocket and sure enough, I felt a cold wooden handle, connected to a steel trigger.
It was everything I had. My proposal to my descendants. My escape from illness. My route to Victoria.
In writing.
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