I held the key from a bag that had been handed to me, with claims that it opened the door to “my” apartment—an apartment I could not remember as mine. As I pushed open the door, a scene of chaos and neglect awaited me. Empty bottles and strewn cigarette butts testified to forgotten nights, and piles of dirty clothes lay neglected. The disarray shocked me. How could this be the life I had lived?
Moving deeper into the apartment, the bedroom was a carpet of discarded papers, some crumpled, others squared but all forgotten. Words like isolated cries for understanding were scrawled on them, hinting at a deeper story buried in the mess. This place, supposedly reflecting my past life, felt utterly alien now. Who was I before the accident that wiped my memory?
Amid the confusion, I decided to start piecing together my forgotten past. Dialing the number of the woman who claimed to be my mother, I learned from her gentle explanation that while I was not a professional author, I used to write extensively in journals to manage anxiety. Opting for solitude, I hung up, determined to find myself in these writings.
The papers revealed dark and haunting phrases: “depressed,” “overthink,” “fed up,” and chillingly, “I need to die.” The last phrase staggered me. Despite being in good health and having a stable career and family, these words suggested a depth of despair I could hardly fathom. Did I once wish to end my life? Was my accident an attempt on my own life?
Shaken but resolute, I began to clean the apartment, throwing away cigarettes and clearing the debris of my former life. It was a symbolic act of shedding the past and its burdens.
Finally, I called my mother again. “Mom, there’s no need for you to come. I’m coming to stay with you and Dad for a while,” I announced, my voice steadier with resolve. While solitude might help some recover, I realized I didn’t want to remember the life that led to such despair. I was ready to leave behind the shadow of my former self and embrace a new beginning, forging new memories free from the pain of the past.
© Oumaima Alileche 2024-04-30