Chapter 3
Emily
Do you ever question reality?
Do you ever wonder if everything around you is real?
Lately, I have doubted everything around me. What I see. What I hear. I doubt every decision and step I make. At this point, do I even really exist?
Everything seems too much– My feelings– I either feel too much, or nothing at all. Colors were too bright, sounds were too loud, and my skin felt too tight. My thoughts ping ponged off the walls of my brain.
I’m not sure if I’m sane or a maniac.
What if I’m a ghost? Maybe I just need a therapist, but then again, if I AM real, it would only add character to my already charming personality.
It’s very possible that I’m just finally losing my mind, but I can’t even remember the last time I talked to someone who wasn’t myself.
Well, myself or Trevor.
He’s been by my side since I woke up in the hospital. Other than him, it’s almost as if people don’t see me. They walk past without acknowledging me, like I’m translucent, invisible to the world around me.
Last week, someone bumped into me and acted like it didn’t happen. Hence, why I’m starting to believe I’m either a ghost, or a figment of my own imagination. How cool would that be, to think yourself into existence?
It doesn’t help that I have no memory of how I got to the hospital, or why I was actually there.
Maybe I died and I’m simply roaming the Earth.
It would make a great story.
If only it were true.
I continue my path down the over-crowded sidewalk while I try to make sure I’m only talking to myself inside of my head, and not out loud.
If I’m real and people CAN see me, I’d rather them not know I talk to myself, or hear the type of conversation that I have. They’d probably think I was on drugs or something.
You know, I never liked how busy this part of the city is. It makes me feel weird. Somewhere between my skin itching, and wanting to throw up.
I don’t really do people well. If that makes sense? It always feels forced or like I’m pulling teeth. I think it’s probably just anxiety but, who has time for that?
I start thinking about what I can remember about my life.
I vividly remember my mother telling me I had an overactive imagination growing up, that could be why I feel this way.
I can hear her southern drawl in my head, “Emily, I swear the only friends you make are them fictional ones you read bout in these books.” She never said it with heat or anger.
I don’t even think she meant it in a bad way.
I was always antisocial, an introvert. I preferred burying my nose in a book over hanging out with people who added very little substance or meaning to my life.
What was the point of pretending to be someone I wasn’t?
They would just talk about me the moment I left the room, so why would I waste time and energy, yet still never be good enough?
Kids in school were mean, there’s no reason to put attention on myself if I could fly under the radar instead. Given my current situation, it would’ve been nice to have at least one friend.
Having someone who’ll always be there for you sounds pretty nice. While the conversations I have with myself are riveting, it gets lonely sometimes. Trevor tries, but it always feels forced around him.
I have a lot of blanks in my memory recently.
I woke up in a hospital bed and Trevor was just sitting there.
It’s all very confusing. He claimed the hospital called him to pick me up because my surgery was finished.
I don’t remember having surgery, but my foot was in a boot, so I tried to piece the clues together.
He keeps telling me everything’s fine, and the doctor told him it was a possible side effect of the anesthesia.
I couldn’t think of a reason not to believe him, so I went along with it.
What reason would he have to lie about that?
I have memories of us together, so I know he isn’t lying about that part.
Something still feels off, though.
I get this nagging feeling that I’m forgetting something very important. I just wish I knew what’s going on. I’m missing about a year’s worth of events, and no one but me knows that.
I honestly just pretend I remember whatever events Trevor talks about, hoping my memories come back soon. I feel less like myself each day that they don’t. It feels like my soul is displaced.
When I first woke up, Trevor would seem tense or angry every time I asked about what happened.
He, in fact, showed me medical files that corroborate his story.
Based on the paperwork, doctors had to surgically repair my ankle, but it didn’t say why.
The doctor wouldn’t tell me and neither would Trevor.
He’d brush off my concern like I was being childish, like my feelings were invalid. So I stopped asking. I’m not sure what he’s hiding or why, but I have enough shit to worry about.
I was so preoccupied with my monologue, I didn’t even realize how far I walked– or limped would be more accurate– until I smelled that familiar scent.
There was this cute little coffee shop nestled into the corner of the shopping plaza. You could smell the ground coffee beans and the sweet smell of fresh baked blueberry muffins. Those were to die for.
Honestly, anything Mrs. Carter made was delicious.
It also happened to be the place I started working at after I was cleared by my doctor to work again.
Mrs. Carter was the only person who ever acknowledged me.
I also find it funny we have the same last name even though I’m pretty sure we’re not related.
She still treats me as if I’m her granddaughter, and would want to talk if I went inside to order something.
While I love her dearly, I wasn’t in a people mood today.
It’s my day off anyways and she’d probably scold me again for coming in when I should enjoy my time off.
I didn’t have the heart to tell her, her shop was one of the only two places in this world that allowed me to breathe normally.
Instead of going in, I walked past the little blue shop and stepped into the door next to it.
I exhale a breath I didn’t realize I was holding the moment the bell on the door chimes above my head. This place feels more like home than anywhere else, and Mrs. Carter’s bakery was a close second. I come here every time I need a break.
When my thoughts get too heavy, this is the only place that makes me feel better.
Something about the smell of books makes my soul feel lighter.
I’ve been coming to Pages at least once a week for the last two months.
I stumbled upon this gem of a hidden bookstore after one of my shifts, and now every time I visit this place, I don’t want to leave.
Life has been hard lately.
I’ve been hiding from Trevor, trying to avoid him when I can. He acts the way a loving boyfriend would, but it doesn’t feel real. It feels like he’s putting on a show. Shit, if I’m being completely honest, I was running from myself too.
I was trying to outrun the thoughts in my head. I’m missing too many memories and can’t figure out why. The panic attacks started two days after I got released. Every time I try to piece the missing parts of my life together, it happens, the panic takes over.
I’m not saying this place cured me, because it hasn’t. All I’m saying is my mind is a little nicer to me when it’s confined in these four walls.
It gave me a PLACE to run to when I didn’t have SOMEONE to run to.
It’s the one place in this world where the quiet doesn’t seem so silent. My own thoughts can’t take over when the books and pages whisper to me, they always have. If I could live here I probably would.
Books have always been my safe place.
They don’t judge me like people do.
Like I judge myself.
It’s always a good kind of silence here.
As I walk to my normal spot in the darkened corner, I notice something about today feels different.
For some reason, I decided to stop midstep and listen, like I would be able to hear what was different today.
But the only sounds I can hear are the pages turning in a book, the scratch of a pen gliding across paper, and the clacking of computer keys.
Huh, it sounded the same as every other time… what could it be? Damn, maybe I’m finally going crazy. I press play on my imaginary pause button and resume my trot to my favorite spot.
While this corner of this bookstore isn’t much to most people, it’s sometimes the ONLY thing to me. It has become my safe spot. The owner said as long as I didn’t disturb anyone, I could make this my little space.
It’s cozy, decked out with a beanbag chair on a SUPER fuzzy carpet, with a small table. I have a cute reading lamp, and a cup of highlighters and pens, so I can annotate any of the books I end up buying or reading here.
It’s not like I own this corner, but the regulars know this is my spot and tend to leave it alone. Maybe I should put up a velvet rope so no one’ll bother my space.
The moment I plop onto the big bean bag chair, the warning bells go off in my head. I freeze, something not feeling right. I can’t quite name it, but the feeling is there.
Someone’s been in my spot I’m sure of it. I don’t know why something like this rattles me. I inhale deeply to calm my nerves, but it has the opposite effect.
There’s a smell that’s different than when I normally sit here. It’s woodsy and sweet, kind of like oranges and… clove? Is that even a normal scent combination? Is it a candle? Air freshener? Cleaning supplies? None of those options seems right.
Then it hit me. What if it’s someone’s cologne or perfume?
My eyes dart around for any other signs someone has desecrated my sacred spot. I know I’m being dramatic– Shoot me.
My eyes flick from the lamp, to the rug, back to the lamp again. Everything seemed fine, that is, until my eyes landed on my cup of pens. I snatch the cup off the table and dump them on the floor and, as I suspected, my favorite pen is missing.
So someone has been here. Great.
I take some calming breaths coming to the conclusion, someone sitting in my spot isn’t the end of the world.
Like I said earlier, I don’t actually own the spot.
Maybe this spot is a safe place for someone else as well.
If this spot can help someone else feel a little less crazy, then who am I to stop them.
I would like to have my pen back though.
The odd thing about this entire situation isn’t someone sitting here; it’s the fact that the scent makes my brain feel fuzzy. I’m not sure why, but I know this scent. I can’t pin down the memory, but I’m not a stranger to the feeling it provokes. It feels safe.