Chapter 1
Alara - Two years later
I ’ve spent the last two years feeling like my world is constantly imploding with no idea why. Maybe somewhere along the way I broke a mirror, walked under a ladder, or had a black cat cross my path. Hell, it might have even been all of the above for all I know.
One struggle after another seems to pile up at my expense with no end in sight. Moving to Los Angeles was supposed to be a fresh start, but I’m starting to wonder if it was a mistake. Maybe I should pack up and go back to Phoenix with my tail between my legs.
Three weeks ago, I was laid off. They gave me some excuse about downsizing and claimed my position was no longer needed.
Yeah, okay. What kind of office doesn’t need a receptionist?
I’m willing to bet the real reason they let me go is because the owner hit on me in front of his wife last week.
Either way, I was expendable and have been on the hunt for a new job ever since.
Today's interview did not go well. None of them have been going well; top that off with the fact that my savings are rapidly depleting. It only adds to the sheer pressure of life at the moment. Pulling up the banking app on my phone, I glance at the screen and hope something will fall into place soon. It’s the only way I’ll be able to afford my rent.
I sigh, tossing my phone on the table and letting my face fall into my hands. My fingers slide back, gripping a fistful of my black and purple-streaked hair as I squeeze my eyes shut. This whole living paycheck to paycheck shit is getting old. My life as a whole lately has been getting old.
Two years ago, I woke up in the hospital, alone and terrified, to the sound of beeping machines. I was told someone brought me to the emergency room, nearly unresponsive with lacerations, brain swelling, and a bunch of other words that just started to jumble together after a while.
My body was sore and bruised, and there were several broken bones. Don’t forget to add in the retrograde amnesia. This diagnosis has haunted me ever since I first heard them say those two words. They told me I was lucky to be alive. Luck. If only I had some of that right about now.
For a while, they didn’t know who I was.
I didn’t know who I was, but bits and pieces came back along the way.
Flashes of memories from my childhood allowed me to piece together that I grew up in foster care.
After some research, I found out I was in a group home when I aged out with no real people to consider family, at least not on paper.
I don’t know if there was anyone important in my life because I couldn’t remember most of it.
Whatever phone I had was lost and not backed up.
It seemed to be a never-ending stream of misfortune .
I bounced in and out of the hospital, doing rehabilitation and working with doctors to regain as many memories as I could before hitting a plateau about six months ago. It was like my brain healed to a certain point, and all progress stopped.
Retrograde amnesia is unpredictable, and there was a possibility my missing years would never come back. I was told I should be happy with the memories I was able to reclaim. I guess some people don’t even get that.
That was a bitter pill to swallow, and part of the reason I decided to leave Phoenix and move to Los Angeles. It just felt like there was nothing left for me outside of my doctors, and virtual visits are way easier at this point in my healing journey.
My fingers rub my temples as I try to focus, the ghostly feeling of another migraine tugging at the edges of my mind. Work. Money. Living. I need to channel this stressful energy into something a bit more enjoyable.
Taking a breath, I stand and head to the desk in my bedroom.
I’m not sure if I liked poetry before my accident, but I use it now as a form of expression.
When I need a break from intense emotions, I like to let the words flow.
It provides a sense of relief, grounding me in something besides my spiraling thoughts.
I pull open the top drawer, grabbing a notebook before sitting down. Once I grab my notebook, I jot down one word at a time, and a new story forms on the page. Small verses of my soul that hold pain and beg for relief, so I let them out.
Whispered Wing s
Shatter me in your memory.
Holding tight to what once was but never knowing.
I’ve waited for you, but got lost in the sea,
the darkness shrouding my mind.
Can you see me?
It’s lonely in the dark.
Will you come for me?
Be mine.
Rescue me from what’s become.
Will you shatter me in what once was,
or let the success of the unknown consume us?
Just tell me if this fracture can be mended.
I’d give anything to heal.
Can you see me?
It’s lonely in the dark.
Will you come for me?
To be mine.
Ours.
Your broken buried history.
A whisper on a wing, floating but never finding solid ground.
We are a blimp out of reach.
And I'm holding my breath.
As we yearn to remember what we’ve become,
tell me you will prevail.
Can you see me?
Will you come for me ?
Dropping my pen, I stare at the words. It’s a beautiful story of someone waiting to be found.
They feel blinded, craving what is lost. Something about this hits deeper than it should, like part of me recognizes this feeling.
I don’t know why. Poetry usually brings me peace, but this one feels different.
Tapping the pen on the desk, I scan the words. Absent-mindedly, I read it to the beat of my pen, realizing it would make a beautiful song. There’s pain and mystery alongside so much depth. I sing the words softly, focusing a little extra on the more emotional lines, as I read it the second time.
A brief image of myself on stage floods my mind.
People cheer as I pour everything I have into the microphone, and I belt out, ‘into our end, forever.’ As quick as it appeared, the memory is over, leaving my heart racing.
This is the first memory I’ve had since leaving Phoenix, and somehow, it’s related to music. I have to call Rayne.
Clicking my best friend’s name, it only rings twice before she answers. "Hey, is everything okay?"
Rayne has been looking out for me from the very first moment we met.
I was at my first job after moving out here, and we were both cashiers.
There was this customer who had a history of accusing cashiers of giving him the wrong change.
Apparently, he was banned, but he still snuck in to prey on new employees.
She spotted him and kicked him out of the store when he tried his lies on me.
My thank you to her was a night out where I ended up drunk enough to tell her my story.
From that day on, she insisted she’d have my back because, apparently, having amnesia made me a badass. I definitely don't feel like a badass.
“Helloooo. Earth to Alara.”
"Sorry. Yes, everything's fine. I had a memory. I was on stage singing to people.”
"No fucking way!!" She squeals so loud I have to pull the phone away from my ear to keep from going deaf. "I always thought you had such a pretty voice."
“You’ve only heard me sing once, and I was drunk at karaoke."
“Do you know what this means?” she interjects.
“What?” I ask, cautiously.
“You could be a musician. What if that’s what you did before… You know… you lost your mind. I mean memories.” She chuckles to herself.
“Funny.”
“Thank you. I’m bringing my guitar over tonight, and we can test this theory over wine.”
"I don’t know. It’s been a shit day." I glance down at the poem again.
“Sounds like you need wine. Singgggg to me, temptress.”
“That’s not very convincing,” I tease.
“Pleaseeeee. Serenade me.”
"Fine, but you have to bring my favorite red wine this time. I didn't like the kind you brought before," I concede .
"That's because you don't like things with sugar. You’re basically a serial killer.” She laughs. “Are you sure you never murdered anyone and forgot about it?"
"Because I don't like sweet things?"
"Yes, because of that. And you hate chocolate." She sighs. "And apple pie. You have to be some kind of criminal. Who the hell doesn’t like pie?"
"Ha. Ha. Ha. If I’m a killer, you should be nicer to me so I don't murder you." I roll my eyes.
"I'm kidding! You know I love you. Please don't stab me."
"I’ll consider your request." I shake my head.
"Give me an hour to grab everything, and I'll be over, guitar in hand!" she exclaimed.
"Okay, see you then." I end the call and toss my phone back on the desk.
I could be a musician. It’s not that far-fetched. Anything is possible.