Saryu's Dark Memory

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Chapter 1

She was brought here as a child so long ago. Days. Months. Years. Who can even say anymore?
The reliefs carved on the outer walls seem to deny all who would dare seek entry to this place.
The wooden door creaks ominously whenever it opens.
Each time, she sees a corridor shimmering with sunlit beauty as
all the colors of the rainbow filter in through stained glass.

This is the school of magick. It has always been thus, and thus will it always be.
With everyone at rest this holiday morning, the school lies quiet as a grave.
But one student is up and about. It is the wavy-haired girl,
who has abandoned the possibility of sleep in order to sneak into the school kitchens.
Once there, she sets her bag on a table and reaches up for a nearby shelf.

One by one, she begins pulling down utensils. She takes each item and carefully sets
it next to a pile of ingredients and a recipe book. When this task is complete,
she wipes a bit of sweat from her eyes and dons an apron. By their own kind of magick,
the girl's assembled ingredients eventually become a thin, flat disc of dough.
She takes a heart-shaped cutter and begins to stamp out smaller pieces from it.
Once ready, her cookies slide into a warm oven.

After a minute of waiting, a sweet, gentle scent drifts across the empty kitchen.
The girl kneels down and peers through the glass oven door,
watching as her treats slowly turn a golden brown. "I hope you taste good," she whispers.

The children at the school of magick all live together. With a sizeable roster of students,
there are always a couple dozen sharing birth months in any given term.
Next month is the wavy-haired girl's turn, along with one of her friends from class.
The wavy-haired girl is practicing making the gift she intends to give her,
because she wants it to be perfect. She pulls a cookie from the oven and bites into an edge.
Flavors dance on her tongue, as well as an almost indescribably subtle sweetness.

Her mouth bends into a smile. These will work, she thinks. These are good.
Now she just needs to practice her wrapping skills. Still smiling, she tidies up the kitchen,
picks up her cookies, and returns to the dorm. She places her bag on her desk and waits for
the special gift-wrapping fabric she had ordered to arrive. She would use some of
it to wrap her practice batch of cookies and give the entire thing to her best friend,
the bespectacled girl who lives next door.
Suddenly, the soft sound of a bell echoes through the room.

My fabric! Delighted, she flings the door wide...only to find her teacher standing there.
She looks her teacher in the eye and smiles calmly, hoping her expression does not betray
the butterflies that suddenly race inside her stomach. "Yes?" she asks. "What is it?"

Excuses for her recent kitchen excursion race through her mind. With an indecipherable look,
the teacher slowly reaches out and hands her an envelope.
She pauses, unable to process what is happening. Finally, she manages to speak.
"Is that...a letter?" There is a slight tinge in her voice. Relief, perhaps?

Regardless, her teacher does not notice. "Yes. A letter. Come find me once you've read it."
As she takes it with a puzzled look, her teacher turns around and departs.
She closes the door and stares at her new prize. The crisp white envelope has been closed with
a wax seal. It's so formal, she wonders. What could it be?

She withdraws an opener from a drawer and slips it under the wax seal.
When she pulls the letter free, she sees that it is from the hospital in her hometown.
...The hospital? But why? She begins to read the words on the page,
her eyes darting back and forth like moths before a flame. The writing is clinical. The message brief.

Her mother has been admitted. As she ruminates over this new information, she feels the tips of
her fingers grow cold. What should her response be?
What would it be if she came from a normal family? The moment the thought enters her mind,
she knows her reaction is wrong. Her mother is ill. Perhaps dying. Yet she does not lose composure.
She feels no sadness. No worry. She simply stands in place,
reading the same scant words over and over and over again.

Chapter 2

After passing through the stonework city, the girl's vision fills with green.
The air on her skin feels different somehow. Brisker. She is making her way back to her hometown.
A few days earlier, she went to her teacher and revealed the contents of the letter.
She told how her mother had taken ill.
And she explained that the hospital had asked her to come out so they could go over the issue in person.

After hearing this, her teacher granted permission for the journey.
As the scenery continues to change, the girl begins to recognize more and more of her old home.
A sense of nostalgia weighs heavy on her heart.
She had been nervous in the days leading up to her departure.
So much so that her teacher had given her some kind words as she departed: "Try not to worry.
I'm certain everything will be all right. And I know your mother will be thrilled to see you."

But her mother is the very thing casting the shadow on the girl's heart. Not because she is sick.
Oh no. That is not it at all. It is because of what she did.
The girl does not think of the woman who birthed her as her mother. To tell the truth,
she barely thinks of her at all.
Because she also remembers something else her mother once told her:

"I wish you had never been born."

For these reasons, the thought of returning home fills the girl with a quiet, gnawing dread.
The closer she gets to her destination, the heavier her legs grow.
The image of her mother—so successfully pushed down for so long—begins to
take unwelcome root in her mind. And awful memories start roiling in the deepest crevices of her heart.
Despite the sunlight beaming down on her, the girl's sweat is cold.
The straps of her damp leather bag are stained a dusky brown.
The hospital looms before her like a challenge. And her mother awaits inside.

Trees rustle in the breeze outside the hospital doors.
Bright orange fruit hangs heavy from thin branches.
The girls stares at it and recalls a time, long ago, when she came here with her mother.
This fruit was ripe then, too.
It caught my eye, so I reached out to grab one that had fallen to the ground.
But when my mother noticed, she smacked me in the hand with her cane.
I cried. No, I didn't cry. I sobbed. And all my mother could do was glare at me.

A ghostly pain from that long-ago day flashes through the back of her hand,
and she quickly shakes it off. She wraps her fingers around the doorknob and pulls it open.
An empty reception desk sits sadly in the lobby. Not knowing what else to do,
she begins wandering the halls in search of her mother's room.
But the rest of the building is as empty as the lobby.
The entire hospital stands cold and forgotten,
almost as if it is ready to dry up and blow away in the breeze.

She walks from one hallway to the next, opening doors and peering around corners,
but finds only solitude. All that moves in this place are the thin white curtains on the windows.
The girl begins to feel as though she has been left behind, and unease wells up inside her.
The afternoon is warm. Languid. Tranquil. If the breeze were to stop,
there would be no way to tell that time was still passing.

She makes her way down a long corridor, counting numbers as she goes.

103, 104, 105, 106...
107.

Her mother's room—or at least the room where she is supposed to be.
The girl gently pushes a door that swings on silent hinges and peers into the room.
A lone woman sits upright in bed, facing away from her as she gazes out the window.
Her mother. Despite the grim news contained in the letter, her posture seems firm.
Though her figure seems to have diminished a bit since the girl had seen her last.
Or perhaps it is simply that she herself has grown.

Her imagination begins to whirl. She pictures what her mother will look like
when she finally turns around. How she will sound. What she might say.
With her head hanging low, she braces herself for whatever is to come.
It's all right, she thinks. There's nothing to be afraid of.
There's nothing to be afraid of. There's nothing to be afraid of.

But the girl knows she cannot stand in place forever. She slowly moves forward,
sliding her feet across the floor in an attempt to hide their sound.

One step.
......
And another.
......
After another step, her mother starts to rotate her head.

Another step later and now she is facing her. It is nothing at all like the girl imagined.
Her mother's face is calm. After a moment, a childlike expression of glee moves
across her features and she begins to speak. "Oh, Grandma! I'm so happy you're here!"

Chapter 3

Gentle sunlight fills the white room. Thin curtains dance on the wind. Alone,
the girl and her mother face each other. The older woman's expression is the pure joy of a child.
It is so, so different from the image the girl has carried heavy in her memory for all this time.
She wonders briefly if this is even her real mother, and the thought makes ice run in her veins.

The mother of her memory is stern. Cold. Unfeeling. The thought of a smile from such a woman is folly.
Even when the girl truly needed help, her mother would turn away and walk off without a word.
Never had she reached down to help her up. Not once. But now...

"I'm sorry," says a sudden voice from behind the girl. She whirls around to find an elderly man clad in
a crisp doctor's coat. "I'm sorry I could not be here to meet you in person," he continues.
"We've just been so very understaffed lately."

"Oh, um, that's all right," manages the girl. Before she can say more, the doctor takes a breath and
begins to explain her mother's condition. Something had gone terribly wrong with
the cognitive functions in her brain, causing her to collapse. She had been discovered in
her home a few days prior. But by the time they found her, she was too far gone.
Despite the best treatment they could muster, her brain function had not recovered.

Her state of mind had reverted to that of her own childhood. The more the doctor tells her,
the more the girl's mind reels. He seems to sense her discomfort, but his profession demands
a certain clinical nature, so he soldiers on. "It is perhaps a bit cruel to say this to a child,
but I feel you have the right to know." He takes a breath, then another.
"We do not know how much time your mother has left. And if it is possible...
We would like you to stay with her until the end."

He stops talking then and waits. After a pause the length of an age, the girl tells him
she will need some time to think. He nods and leaves her alone with her thoughts.
And alone with her mother.

Origami stars and animals are taped to the walls. Balloons hang brightly in one corner.
Her mother's room has been decorated like the play area of a child.
The girl stares at one of the stars. Did my mother make this? Did she make all of these?
Behind her, her mother opens a desk drawer. After a bit of rustling,
she pulls out a few sheets of origami paper. "Let's make something!" she cries happily.
"I'm so good at it! Come on, please?" She tugs on her daughter's clothing as she speaks.

The girl can't believe her eyes. Her mother—the same woman to whom a smile was
a forbidden thing—was now pleading for attention. It's too much. It's all just too much.
With a sudden cry, the girl smacks her mother's hand away. The reaction makes the older
woman burst into tears. THIS is who I was afraid of all these years? This pathetic creature?
The girl's bewilderment finally gives way to rage.

Her mother had caused her so much grief. So much pain. And for what purpose? To what end?
As she stares at the sobbing thing before her, she wishes it would just hurry up and die.
Am I a terrible daughter? A terrible person?
The girl does not know the answers to these questions; she knows only that
she cannot come up with even a single kind word for her mother. So instead she stands in
place and listens to the sound of her weeping echo off the stale hospital walls.

Chapter 4

The girl sits in a rough wooden chair and stares out the window. Days have passed since the shocking
meeting with her mother, and she has yet to fully grasp the reality of the situation.
But after speaking with the doctor, it was decided that
she would stay at the hospital, at least for a little while.
A letter was drafted to explain the circumstances and sent to her school.
And against all odds, the doctor's kind and continuous treatment begins to have an effect.

Her mother's mind begins to age, moving from that of a child to that of an adult.
And though it is a strange and bewildering time for the girl, she sits by her mother's side through it all.
At first, it seemed as though there was no hope. But after a week, her expression changes.
It becomes more mature, and she begins to speak of romance. Over the span of a few weeks,
the girl watches her mother gradually grow up. She now has the mental age of a young adult.

Her mother loved origami as a child. Her mother hated bugs as a teenager.
Her mother still hates carrots as an adult. The woman before her is always soft.
Always kind. But it is not the sort of kindness a mother shows her daughter.

One day, her mother awakens in a terrible state.
Her voice is the picture of confusion and helplessness.
"Stay with me, Grandma! Please stay with me!" The girl meets her mother's gaze calmly.
She summons her courage. "Of course," she finally replies. "I'll be right here."

Her mother has never called her anything but "Grandma."
Perhaps, in her mind, she is not even a mother yet.
Which means that, in her mind, the girl does not actually exist. All of this lies heavy on the girl's mind.
I hated my mother. And I thought she hated me. Did I ever want to be close to her?
And did she ever want to be close to me? But the answers remain always out of reach.

Another week goes by, and her mother's condition takes a turn for the worse.
Her arms are as weak and thin as the branches of the fruit tree outside the hospital.
She slips in and out of consciousness.
The doctor pulls the girl aside and says he does not expect her to live through the night.
So the girl stays by her side through the long dark,
holding her wrinkled hand all the while.

The only light is the dim glow of an indifferent moon.
It illuminates her mother's pained expression as she moans in her sleep.
Suddenly, her eyelids twitch open.
"Do you want some water?" asks the girl. Her mother shakes her head.

She opens her mouth as if to speak. Something is clearly troubling her.
"I have to talk to you, Grandma," she says finally. Though weak,
her mature voice carries the air of a childhood secret.
The girl merely nods, waiting for her to continue.
She begins to speak of children, and how conflicted she is by the idea.

"I don't want a baby," she says. There it is...
There it is. Her mother had never wanted her. Not ever.

If her mother notices the pained expression and lowered head of her daughter,
she pays it no mind and continues to speak. She tells of how she began having problems when
she was a young woman. After a while, she finally sought medical help.
And in time, she was diagnosed with a mental illness.
It was this diagnosis that caused her husband to abandon her.
The girl raises her head. She had no idea about this—about any of it.

She had spent but a short time with her mother, and had not been nearly old enough to
understand the truth of complex adult affairs. Even now, the story is so complicated that
it threatens to blow away from her at any moment.
She talks of how her illness will eat away at her.
How it will change her. How it will hurt her and everyone she cares for.
She worries abut this. She worries without ceasing or pause.

If she were to ever have a child, she would surely hurt them as well. Despite how much...
Despite how very much... She loves the child that lies inside her now.

Wet heat drips down the girl's cheeks. It falls to the floor like slow rain.
As she listens to her mother's confession, the girl's anger and hatred finally begin to
escape her body in the form of small drops at the corners of her eyes.

Finally, her mother sighs and lays back. She closes her eyes.
Every worry of a life—every worry of a million lifetimes—seems to have contained itself
in the dark circles beneath her eyes. The room grows silent as the girl squeezes her hand.
And for the first time since she came to the hospital...
For the first time in so long, she says... "Mom."

Dawn breaks after an endless night. It is the girl's birthday.
Bright, cheerful sunlight pours over her hometown.
The girl blocks it out with one unsteady hand as she stares out the window.
She has changed since she came here. Grown.
Matured. Today, the girl's birthday will be celebrated in the form of a farewell.
She dons a pure white dress of mourning...and prepares to see her mom for the very last time.

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