Vignette: Sometimes Pain

She felt the first prickling of memory disturb her peace as she stared at the pink balloon that drifted outside her window. It took its time moving upwards, seeming to stop for a moment right in front of her before casually disappearing from her sight. By the time it had gone, it was too late. She had started to remember.

Slowly, she put down the red crayon she had been using back with its unused brothers and sisters. And then she sat straight and still – waiting. (Nic said that she should avoid remembering, but if she did, there was nothing to be done about it but to embrace it and Nic was smart about these things.)

It was unclear at first. The visions were more a bright colorful haze of yellow, orange, and pink than anything else. She started taking deep breaths to keep herself from panicking (Nic said deep breathing stopped people from panicking and Nic knew these things.) Clasping her hands together on her lap, she waited for the sounds of memory to come. Inevitably, they did, bringing with them a bittersweet smile to her face.

“Ring around the rosie, a pocket full of posies, ashes, ashes they all fall down.”

A vague pink balloon reappeared before her and without thinking, she reached out and grabbed it. Instantly, the fuzziness dropped and now, the sight, sound, smell and feel of the memory enveloped her. (Nic said to count to ten when you feel like being overwhelmed, and Nic was always right about these things). One. Two.

Children. There were children, little girls, playing across from the street where she stood. They were dressed in pretty colors, yellow, orange and pink. They were dancing and twirling and singing nursery rhymes and they were... happy.

Three. Four.

Slowly, she looked down on her hand. It seemed unfamiliar, even more unfamiliar than the pink balloon. She wondered about that. About why her own hand seemed stranger than the pink balloon. But then, a scream disturbed her thoughts and abruptly, she looked back at the children. A child – one of the little girls was gone.

Five.

She started to run. The scream had died down now, replaced by sounds of crying from the remaining girls. There were many houses…. Too many houses, and little alleyways. Was that her shouting?

“WHERE DID THEY GO?”

Six.

One of the children sobbed and pointed to a direction and she ran. And ran. She didn’t know where she was headed and the place became blurry again. Gray. Black. And then…. Red.

Seven.

It was the girl. Her pink dress was stained with blood and she was … No… she couldn’t be….

Eight.

“Mommy?” It was whispered weakly and suddenly, the realization hit her hard. She dropped to her knees near the girl as she let go of the pink balloon. She remembered then. She remembered well.

Nine.

Nic appeared in front of her. Nic looked angry and harsh as she pointed to a drunken man sobering by her feet. She knew what to do. Nic was never wrong with these things.

Ten.

Suddenly, there was nothing but red. She was vaguely aware of a great struggle, but Nic was there to help her. She fought him with all her might. And she killed him. Again, again, and again…

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“Poor woman.” A dignified-looking lady dressed in white said to her companion, a young well built man, similarly attired, as they both stared at the recently sedated body of Liza Reyes through the barred window of her room.

“It’s not easy to see your daughter raped.” The man said, his face hard, but his eyes sympathetic.

“Yes, but the daughter survived and recovered. It’s been 20 years, and it seems she hasn’t.”

“Her daughter didn’t kill a man.” The man rubbed his arms, raw from the struggle he had to put up with when Liza Reyes had her episode. “It would have been easier if she remembered everything, but as it is, she just remembers sometimes. It’s painful when she does.”

They both turned and walked away. “You think she’ll remember tomorrow?”

“Nah….” The man said, his voice echoing in the white walled hall. “I don’t think so.”