things you don’t remember, part 1:

“there was a crash. i saw the glass shatter into shards — the kind that slice your shaking fingers into neat little slivers. i felt the metallic tang under my tongue and grief crushing me to the ground like an uneasy aftertaste. i taste dirt every time my eyes find the sky now.”

“you said it was cold.”

“there was an avalanche, i think. it packed me into the frigid earth till i heard my heart rustle with every tremor. aren’t cryogenic chambers the new thing? they’re ridiculous. all i wanted was to shake free till my dusty cheeks filled with blood.”

“you clawed your way out of your skin.”

“no. they made a forest fire, they tried to burn me out, do you remember? my skin charred and froze till i was brittle. i don’t remember much else. please finish my story, i don’t think it’s a very happy one.”

“you cried when they scooped you out of the earth’s embrace. i remember because you looked through me like i wasn’t even there.”

“ah. my first bath must’ve felt great.”

“i shook as i held my palm to your cheek, i shook as they took you away. you don’t remember, do you?”

“no. is it time for lunch yet?”

“the first time you saw me, you told me it was pitch black. every shaky breath would be the last one, you promised yourself. i kissed your eyelids every night and tried to bottle up sunlight to leave at your bedside. eventually, we settled for a nightlight.”

“i’m tired of this story.”

“it was dark and you were cold and the silence almost shattered your eardrums-”

“i take it back. i don’t want to remember.”

“that’s the end of the story, then. you became better. you smile a lot more now. you don’t sleep with the lights on anymore. ”

“why are you crying?”

“look, lunch is here.”