It's All There

“What was your earliest memory?”

In my mind I am going down the hallway, it's all white and the doors are white and never ending. And if I open a door there may be a memory or it might be more white walls. Some of rooms of black. Others hold actual memories.

“Kristen, earliest memory.”

Right, I am looking for something in a world of unlabeled doors and unordered. I would have expected that distance in the mind would be similar to the real world. It’s more like chaos theory in here with that brilliant mixture of predictability that ends out of nowhere. The mind may be more like the Winchester mystery house than anyone wants to admit. Doors leading to dead ends or a room. Anything to throw the ghosts off. Or anything to avoid the memory that’s on the other side.

“Are you still there?”

I am laying on her table wondering why she is asking. I am clearly still here searching with my eyes closed. I tried to say something and then I noticed my face felt numb. My tongue is swollen. And I cannot move. I try to move my head.

“Ahh it’s kicking in. There is nothing else I can do for you. This space is yours for the next 45 minutes and I would advise you to spend it looking for what you wanted to find. Best of luck finding those memories.”

The last place I want to go must be the first place to look. If I go there, will I ever come back? What does coming back look like anyways? There is no assistance except for some drugs and constraints on my rests and feet so I don’t destroy the room in a fit of rage.

I don’t think it’s wise to have a trauma center handle people this way. But I guess that’s what happens after you throw a conference table out of the window from the 10th floor.

I didn’t even know I could lift it.

Anger and fear can make anyone strong.

Down the hall there is a door with scratch marks.

I open the door and there is a child playing happily. She is enjoying the sun beaming in from the window then a tall figure steps in. He hits her head hard. She tries to rebalance and he hits her again. She stays still. She is unsure of what to do next.

He leaves and I look at the clock this time. It's 3:02pm and I know this isn’t enough information. So I leave and try to reopen the door.

This door is normal like the other doors. I am ashamed I didn’t look at the clock the first time nor did I wander around to see if I could go into another room and find a calendar. I need specific details. They won’t prosecute without them.

When I open the normal door, I see my cousins playing. I closed the door as nothing ever happened when they were home.

I go running down the hall searching for a scratched up door as that surely must be where a memory is that I tried hiding with other memories.

My breath catches a little. This door is almost non-existent. I can hear the screams, yells, and cries. There is no knob to turn, just a little push and the nearly shredded structure will fall apart.

It falls down and the scene continues at 8:09pm. And the little girl is on the floor like a crumpled up doll. And her mom pushes the man off of him. He falls to the ground and she picks up the girl. They go to the car at 8:12pm.

Then there was the door that was boarded up and the memories here was the first time he ever used a knife. It was 1985 and no screams, no fighting, not a thing would stop him. It went on for 25 minutes from 7:04pm-7:29pm on a Tuesday, May 14th.

This is the critical memory and if I could stay here the rest would unfold. I just have to make a mental note of the time, place, date, and duration. Then the court case won’t fall apart.

“How are you doing? Are you awake yet?”

No, no, no, no. I cannot be waking up this fast. I just got here. I finally found the place I had been looking for to succeed.

“I am sorry. The session is over.”

I put my arms down and lift myself up. I turn and face the door.

It’s non-existent.