Forgotten

My life began much like any other. I knew a warm home, loving parents, friends, neighbours - comfort, support. That all changed. It started at school. I'd raised my hand in class and was ignored. They stopped calling my name on the register. Then my friends rebuffed me, refusing to acknowledge my presence. When I got home, I met much the same from my parents. My bedroom stood empty. Photographs of me were taken off the walls. My toys and clothes were gone. I cried out, begging to understand. But no one knew me. I hadn't died. I wasn't abandoned. It was as if I'd simply ceased to exist.

And that was my life from then on. Though I saw myself in mirrors, others apparently could not. Rain passed through me. Animals wouldn't flee on my approach. It was strange. When people walked by, they recognised an obstacle in their path, avoiding me, but all worry of their actions would disperse within a breath. Dogs barked at nothingness. Alarms tripped at my touch. Cameras would switch on to catch empty space. I was not real.

I thought about dying. Every car that approached would ignite my desire to step forward into its path. Sometimes my foot left the curb, sometimes I would stand on train tracks and wait for something to come along and strike me. But I would always hesitate. I always retreated to safety. I no longer had need to eat, drink, or sleep, so I simply assumed I was unable to die. It wasn't worth risking inescapable pain to test my mortality.

I went on in this world. Alone. Silent. I visited any country I could reach. I sat beside the banks of the mightiest rivers. I climbed the tallest mountains. Swam the vast oceans. I felt no cold or heat, and when exhausted, I would rest only a moment before carrying on. One year, I snuck onto a shuttle into space. At fifteen, I would have been the world's youngest astronaut. Though the cramped quarters, exposed piping and porthole windows did not impress me as much as I'd dreamed. I was happy to return to my home planet, and explore whatever there was left to see.

What kept me sane? Well, I asked myself that question every day. I suppose, I made friends. The sun was my father. The moon was my mother. The stars were my siblings. The trees, the flowers, the air and earth and water - all mine to know. They were always there with me, whether they acknowledged my presence or not. Whatever I had become. I often asked if I was even human anymore. What was my purpose? Who would I become? I did not know, and they would not answer me.

I penned stories that would not be read. I sang songs no one could hear. I painted and crafted. Sculpted and wove. Forged and built. Broke and mended. The world was mine to mould. Yet it wasn't enough. I wished to make something real, something that would stick and be seen. That was when I got the idea to scatter seeds. I gathered fallen acorns, conkers, and pine cones in autumn, laying them carefully in the ground. I planted entire forests in barren fields, and transformed patches of bare ground into woodland.

Then I carved new channels into rivers. I made them bend and sway, with areas that were shallow, and those that were deep. I waded in with bulbs to sink in the bed, and stuck deadwood into the sand for birds to perch. I collected pebbles to reinforce the banks, but did not leave a footprint when I left.

And then, people came and ruined it all. My forests were flattened. My rivers were straightened. Each time I reached out and fought to define myself - to say I was here, it was erased. I watched my saplings get cut down and burned. The waters I'd cleaned were once more choked by pollution. They took more time and put in more effort each day to expunge my existence. And I hated them for it.

I was in my forties then. After so long, I grew tired. I was weary of myself, and humanity on the whole. I crossed the sea to find an island where I would be left alone. I wanted to be ignored, I wished to be abandoned, but they would always find me. I'd scream, "Go away!" They could not hear me. I planted weeds beneath their streets that could rip through steel and concrete. They poisoned them. They did not see when I threw things at them. They would not leave when I filled their lives with intolerable nuisances. I became hateful and bitter, and I despised myself.

My last effort. I was in my sixties, and I made a careful plan. I took all the seeds I'd gathered, and I planted them in a way that they would grow to shape a work of art - my name. It was hard work, and took more out of me than I'd anticipated. I wanted to be acknowledged just one last time. And as if fate were sneering at me, a great storm came. My trees were killed off. The few that remained were grazed by deer. There was no proof left that I'd ever been real. And I was done trying.

In my final years, I led beneath a brilliant, open sky, and simply watched as time passed. Sunrises and sunsets came and went. Humans were born, lived and died. None of it mattered to me anymore. I had nothing, I was nothing. I drifted off to sleep one last time.

And then I woke up. I was home, in my childhood bed, surrounded by my belongings. I looked in a mirror, and I was young again. I raced downstairs. To the kitchen. My mother stood there, making coffee. She noticed me. I suppose I must have been in tears, because before I could speak, I was wrapped up in her arms. She remembered me.