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He wakes up in the middle of the night, the darkness of the room was too familiar yet foreign at the same time. He could still make out the silhouettes of the keychains that hung against his pegboard, the glow-in-the-dark one radiating a soft green hue. It was the one Thomas had gifted him last October, won at some carnival game on Halloween night. As his eyes began adjusting to the dark he could begin to make out a few more shapes. The fur coat that poked out of his closet because it was always too full. The pair of shoes that always sat by the side of the door instead of the shoe rack because it was his favorite. The big rectangular shape that was his monitor with an always blinking orange light on the bottom right.
The objects were too familiar yet it felt like he was in a stranger’s room, a stranger's body. As if he were an interloper, dressed in a piece of skin that wasn’t his, sneaking around trying to not get caught.
He couldn’t move. Which is the only reason he bothers looking around for objects that reminded him of his identity. If he could move, he would have opted to skinning himself alive already; the skin that sat on top of his flesh felt too heavy, the hair that obscured his view poked his skin too sharply. Closing his eyes only heightens the experience. The feeling of someone breathing on top of him, not sure if they were trying to kill or protect him.
Sometimes there would be a dark shadow in a corner of the room. It would have two eyes with whites that omitted a dim light. Beneath those eyes would be a crooked smile, the teeth occasionally remind him of stalactites.
Other times the shadow is next to him, sitting to his right on the edge of the bed. It would stay until he could finally snap his head in the shadows direction.
The flowers that sat on his night stand would soon begin to wilt. Cyclamens that once glowed beautiful purple hues shed their light, turning into fragile pieces of nothingness.
On rare occasions the shadow wouldn’t be a shadow but instead a ray of light, although dim it would brighten up the room, letting him observe every object in detail before he fell back to a state of slumber.
On days where he had a hard time naming the objects he thought about the people in his life. Cynikka, his sister, who had taken care of him despite being the same age. Thomas, his close friend that always brought laughter out of him. Rotation, the face that’d greet him every Saturday when they went to fencing classes. Gotoga, the person that would mess with the rest of his friend group with him. Snowbird, a friendly face that helped him through these dark times. Lastly—Saparata. That name burned in the back of his head. It spread like a virus, snaking its way deeper and deeper into his brain, consuming him from the inside out.
Some days he would dream to see a bouquet of flowers left at the front doorstep, and when the morning sun woke him, he would run out his room to look for any signs of pink carnations on the pebbled doorstep. When he would find nothing left at the door and ask Cynikka, she would claim there was no such bouquet left for him.
When he has the time to go out, he sometimes spots sparks of light in shadows, and shadows that’d grow in a sunny patch of grass.
And when he would have the courage to go back to the flower shop again, he would only be able to keep his eyes on the pink petals that sat in the far corner of the shop as everything else burned to oblivion. It was late spring after all. He couldn’t find the usual flowers he buys, for anywhere else he looked was a smoldering flame that prevented him from seeing. With the crumpled bills he finds in his pockets he’ll be able to pay for a small bouquet of them, pink, beautiful, and perfect carnations that would remind him way too much of a friend or lover or enemy. Someone he wished to forget yet couldn’t. Something that has made its way so deep into his head it’s probably engraved into his dna.
As time passes on, he won’t remember his own name. What was it again? It probably started with a F or maybe the letter after that. The letter before T could’ve been it, too. Though that seemed like an initial more fitting for the shadow that has been visiting him more frequently. It wasn’t like he could recall what that letter was. He’ll soon forget the order of the alphabet anyways.
Someone would walk around the house, she said her name was Cyn. He couldn’t remember the second half of her name. She would clean his room. She’ll tuck the fur coat that stuck out of his tightly packed closet into the small enclosed space, filled with shirts that belonged to someone else and pants that felt too long or too short. She’d put the shoes that always sat at his room's door instead of the spruce shoe rack for some reason back in its own cubby. Eventually, she’d shut down the monitor and the obnoxious blinking of an orange light would finally stop.
At times he couldn’t figure out what certain items in the house were or what their purpose was. He’d find shelves packed with paper of a color he could not quite name, filled with lines and shapes that no longer made sense. He’d see books with titles he couldn’t read, and pens he doesn’t recall holding. He’d throw out a collection of these spheres that contained a white powder and miniature people inside, these objects meant nothing to a forgetful head.
When he wakes up in the middle of the night, there’s no longer a shadow. Not at the doorway, not hiding, not next to him at the side of his bed. The only thing left is a burning feeling whenever he closes his eyes. A small area of contact on his forehead. A lingering touch from an entity too familiar to be unsettling.
He’ll soon stop seeing the pink carnations at the doorstep. He couldn’t go check if he’s bedridden all day. The other person that roamed the house didn’t mention any flowers either. Maybe they never existed after all.
Sometimes there’s someone that visits him. He doesn’t remember the name or gender of the person. They had dark hair and dark eyes. They wore a purple jacket sometimes.
He still remembers purple. Everything in his room was purple.
The person that visited him talked a lot. Probably because they noticed his lack of talking. Not about a carnival nor about a glow-in-the-dark keychain. He had asked the girl in his house to throw it out. It was slowly becoming bothersome to see at night while trying to fall asleep.
Once, the person asked him if they could bring him anything.
He told them he wanted pink carnations. Or was it cyclamens? He couldn’t remember anymore.
Flowers were flowers, and they meant nothing to him.
The next day the person would come back with an assortment of bright colored petals bundled together by their stems. They would sit in this clear bottle next to his bed, watching over him as he slept.
When he woke up the following week he’ll find himself in a room deprived of any decoration. Unlike his old room which had many pieces of paper on the walls and different plastic shapes that were attached to some board. Not that those decorations held a particular memory or purpose to him. He has long forgotten the stories behind them.
Flowers would still sit next to him on a block beside his bed. They were bright and blinding. They would also soon fade and crumple up. There was no one here to take care of them
He no longer sees the person that roamed his house and the other that visited him a few times. Instead he wakes up in the middle of the night, from a dream involving flowers and colors he cannot name to a bright figure. A glowing figure with extensions on the back that were big and fluffy. He looks at the figure for a long time, trying to recall if he’s seen them somewhere. He remembers that these things were called angels, or was it angles? He cannot remember the difference between the two. Whichever it was, that must be what he has been seeing all those past months.
The being visits him more often: morning, noon, evening, night. There was always a strand of this blinding white glow somewhere. The being talks to him, albeit he can’t really make out a lot from the mumbling of the angel except for faint syllables. Ss…ppp…tttt…aa.
In the following years he spends the day with the being. It talks to him. It keeps him company. It kisses him goodnight, and when he wakes up in the morning he can still feel the burning sensation on his forehead and the lingering touch of a loving other against his skin. He no longer wakes up in the middle of the night to see the shadow for he has grown to be constantly tired. He no longer thinks about the days before the repetitive life of waking up and going back to sleep in the off-white room. He no longer tries to remember memories that no longer exist.
For eventually, he barely remembers anything except for a meaningless word engraved so deep into his memory it could only be scrubbed out through the destruction of himself: Saparata.