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I Don't Remember

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For my whole life, amnesia has been a significant part of it. Attempting to understand the brisk disorientation and confusion I suffer upon daylight is nigh impossible, but some examples of what the utter silence inspires will provide clarification. Firstly, I will never recall my own heritage or kin, both inequities vibrant for the majority; to me, however, each fading increment, strung by a thin thread, is the only grasp I have to a passing moment. It is truly horrifying, considering the indiscernible thoughts, a stilted hole skewered to a blank canvas. Although futile, I do try to keep a log to document all recent activities, reminiscent of my losses.

My past identity searches for itself in desperation, hope its delusion, timidness a burden. I'm still walking slowly through each definition; results swelter, tear, each specialist wrong in their own way. Eventually, as time became too somber to bear, I refused their help: medicine, advice, the means from which the ends realise, justified my hopeless conception of that practice in futility. Triumphs left, negative attitudes scorched my mind, but a light stood firm in the darkness; writing, my only constant natural talent that overcame death, was all I had, turning a new corner at each improvement I made.

At night, the witching hour, an all-consuming nightmare begins, incoherent and unbound. As part of the pestilence, the imagined narrative is akin to a mist, but seeping details display consistent themes: a woman, a spider, a web. I can't perceive the connection that threads within the clear cracks; a woman dressed in red, her beauty striking me, a spider, deep black, piercing my skin to inject a volatile substance, a web, finely woven with unmatched skill, mapped together with unknown verity. While the interests of conscience baffle me, a fear of otherworldly patterns combines with observation to string together reality with the imagined, yet each surfacing revelation trembles and collapses upon minutes with a simple phrase. "It's all in your head."

Yet, amnesia persisting, I see them, the same process continuing in a cycle; if a woman in red passes me, I stop once my glimpse ends, my mind unlatching in horror, rationalisation then taking hold, and I ignore any further obscurities choosing to appear. Soon enough, relaxation surges in troves to ignite my sleep process, a window crystallises the nightmare, and an essence of confusion is all that's left. The ashes in my conscience are swept away by the hour, the engine is switched off, and the arrival of false assurance pours out once evening clocks in.

The past days, however, pertain to impossibility and uncertainty; hazy, formless upon recollection, I can't recall where I am, wondering, perplexed, in a home vastly different to my own. Exempt of furniture, the suburban house emits channels of horror and abandonment, the three paintings situated on a nearby wall conveying their ominous intentions: a woman in red, undignified in beauty, the spider, absorbed in darkness, and the web, a subtleness apparent.

The paintings, executed with artistic mastery, illicit a depraved stillness in my soul, unhinging a deep terror; that nightly construct of the mind, the nightmare.

A woman in red faces me, eyes exposing an inner longing, begins with a perfect voice. "I've always thought you were an interesting soul, and I do feel your sadness. But, please, remember that I never forced you to do this, asked you, nor wanted you to." She briefly stops, glancing at my hand. "I forgive you." A sharp pain, searing iron masking a central location, emerges on my palm. Following suit, I peer down, realisations forcing doubt. "The spider will help you, don't worry." The voice, mournful in tone, springs out of an abstract silence. The pain, unending, surges up my arm, tearing my entire fabric with grotesque ferocity; unknown, unspeakable, I soon become a chamber of torment, a slaughterhouse fit for the innocent. In that same moment, it suddenly dissipated, but a disgraceful whisper.

"That is what I felt, and what I became." The woman began anew. "Do you understand? Do you know why? If not, can you? I know you don't deserve this, but I drew you here for a reason." I then found myself facing a web, studying the intricacies weaved in fine precision. "This will subject you to suffering only known to the most wicked. You won't remember it, thankfully, but the scars will remain." The voice, hesitant, emanated with slight anguish.

"It's been a while, but just ask yourself, why don't you remember anything? What did you do?"

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