At night, I like to roam the mansion of my memory. Let me try to describe it to you.
The entrance is hard to miss, and walking through the door is as easy as losing your balance on a deceptively wide curb. I see the simple runner and stacks of shoes by the door, then my eyes drift up to the wall. Upon it hangs a certificate that I never remember receiving. Confused, I reach my fingers up to touch.
My body starts to burn. The heat spreads to my arms and I let it infuse my body before I realize that it’s not warmth at all. I close my eyes and feel the heat evaporate into an ache that makes my chest want to burst. The primitive expression of pain.
I take a right and see a humble bookshelf, containing gifts I wish I knew the owners of. I reach for the closest one, a colorful paper crane, and I’m struck by anger. My own hand destroys the item I once cherished, and the burn in my chest ignites once more. My anger dissolves, and I look at the mangled shape in my palm, of the bird that once stood as an emblem of love, of permanence. I touch my hand to my heart in a pledge of pain, a plea of apology.
I don’t remember there being a staircase in this room. It’s grand and proud, and beautiful in a way that my sore eyes need. I look up, and on the second landing is everyone my heart begs for, and who is trapped in my mind. My eyes widen and I scramble up the stairs, my arms outstretched and my mouth breaking out in the broadest smile this cursed place remembers seeing.
I embrace emptiness, and my smile lingers while I realize that in my arms is the coldness of nothing. I look around, and I am alone. Out of my mouth comes a sound, the birthing of raw, crude pain. My knees sink to the floor, and finally, I let go.