Mel Torrefranca - Memory Minefield

Memory Minefield

Copyright 2022 Mel Torrefranca

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021924658

ISBN 979-8-9850102-1-3 (paperback)

ISBN 979-8-9850102-2-0 (hardcover)

ISBN 979-8-9850102-0-6 (ebook)

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, businesses, companies, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published by Lost Island Press

San Jose, California

www.lostislandpress.com

O n a strange November afternoon, I woke up with my eyes already opened.

I was sitting on a furry beanbag in my bedroom with an incomplete psychology worksheet on the desk in front of me.

The hippocampus, a brain structure responsible for learning and memory, is located in which part of the brain?

After skimming the four possible answers, I circled Btemporal lobe. Only then did I notice the blood dripping from my fingertips.

With a sharp gasp, I dropped my yellow pencil and extended my right arm to get a clearer view of my wounds. The feeling of warm blood trickling down my palm dissipated as I realized that my nails were simply coated in a pomegranate-colored polish.

Weird. I relaxed my shaky hands, resting them by the worksheet on my desk. I dont remember painting them.

My eyes widened as I read the name Ari Cortez in the corner of the page.

I dont remember anything at all.

I sprung from the beanbag, stumbling to face the middle of the bedroom and nearly falling in the process. With heavy breaths, I searched for a dangerous facefor the villain who had made me a stranger in my own body.

But I was alone.

The bed in the corner had a burnt-orange duvet cover peeled back as though someone had been sleeping there a matter of hours ago. Against the opposite wall stood a dresser that matched the mahogany wood of my deskits drawers half-open, overflowing with warm-colored fabrics.

I took a few steps forward and caught a glimpse of movement through the corner of my eye. My head shot over my left shoulder just in time to catch a strangers face staring at me through a window.

At first I assumed that the girl was another person, but when my fingers met with the curly brown hair resting on my shoulders, the girl in the glass reached for her hair too.

Its not a window. My heart rate settled as I walked toward my reflection, the girl in the glass copying me in sync. Its a mirror.

Our dark eyes met like we were two separate entities crossing paths, infatuated with the matching patterns of freckles on our faces, yet also afraid of such a strong coincidence.

Hello?

Although Id seen the lips of my reflection move, I struggled to believe that the foreign voice had been my own. I pressed my fingers against my hot neckthe skin right under my chinand spoke again.

Hello? I said, louder this time. My vocal cords vibrated in confirmation.

Desperate for something less creepy than this mirror to focus on, I parted from the glass to discover a collage above my desk that Id been too stunned to notice earlier. A collection of film photos and handwritten quotes had been taped onto the wall with thin strips of decorative tape.

I recognized my own face in the photos. In some Id even been wearing the same outfit I wore nowbrown linen pants, a cream t-shirt, and a golden necklace chain with a seahorse pendant. The faces accompanying mine varied, but it didnt take long to spot a pattern.

Apart from myself, the only consistent character was a blond girl with wide blue eyes. Her hairstyle changed dramatically from photo to photostraight to curly, long to short, up to downbut her plaid jacket and sparkly smile never changed.

Stop thanking me. I squinted at the message written on the only photo of us two alone. Im always here for you.

The message on the photo implied that the girl in the plaid jacket had somehow helped me in the past. Perhaps the necklace I wore also had something to do with her, because my fingers fumbled instinctively for the seahorse pendant that dangled against my shirt.

Its like I grabbed it out of habit.

I shook my head and let go of the necklace before yanking open the first drawer of my desk. There had to be something hidden in this room that could help me understand why Id lost my memories.

Inside the drawer I found a short stack of papers marked with scattered numbers, words written so sloppily I could hardly read them, andin a much higher ratio than the two previously mentionedlines and lines of endless scribbles. I spread the pages across my desk, grabbed a random page, and brought it toward my nose to study the markings closer.

Looks like a birds-eye view of a building.

My eyes jolted to the door as footsteps echoed from another room, heading in my direction. I stumbled left and right, my eyes flying from wall to wall in search of a place to hidebut before I could part from my desk, the footsteps came to a halt.

Sweetie?

The door swung open to reveal a woman in a flowing teal dress. Her tender smile loosened my tight grip on the page.

Did I hear you call? she asked.

I opened my mouth to speak, but when the womans eyes landed on the floor plans spread across my desk, the smile tumbled off her face, and the words got caught in my throat. With every step she took in my direction, the air grew colder.

I thought you were done with this, Ari.

I stumbled away from her, wincing as my back slammed into the wall.

The woman whom I assumed was my mother snatched the page from my grip, and I held my palms out in front of me, lips trembling.

What I stammered, the words struggling to leave my throat. What happened to me?

My panic must have been contagious, because her jaw dropped, and the mountainous folds across her forehead settled into flat land.

Oh no. No, not you too. The corners of her lips twisted downward into a pout as she said, Youve forgotten.

I couldnt tell if she was asking a question or making a statement.

I believe so. I crossed my stiff arms, an attempt to cloak the defensive guard I still wasnt wiling to let down completely. But why?

My mother glanced at the page in her hand one final time before pulling me away from the wall and into her suffocating embrace.

Well work through this together, she whispered into my ear, okay?

And although working through thiswhatever that vague word representedwasnt exactly a concern to me, her soft voice eased my stress, and I finally let my guard down. The mystery of why I didnt remember myself vanished, my confusion morphing into pure curiosity now that I wouldnt have to solve this alone.

What did you say I was done with? I asked.

She stepped away from me and raised her brows.

I was holding thatI pointed at the paper in her handand you said you thought I was done with something.

Done with procrastinating on your homework to draw these floor plans. She pulled at one of my curls and released the strand to watch it recoil. Youve always dreamed of becoming a structural engineer.