Never Forget

It had been twenty-four years since she’d last seen it, but the place looked exactly the same. The god-forsaken house: the ramshackle building in which Marianne had spent her childhood. It was the same goddamn building.

Marianne was twelve years old when the men took her away from her home. It was a long, long time ago. Still, the place had stuck in her mind, a memory of a time she would just as well forget. She knew now she couldn’t forget it. She had to face it to put it behind her. 

For all the time it had weathered, the house looked the same. No better, no worse; that was surprising. The boards were still rotting away, though the rot had not spread. The shingles nearly all washed away. And still, it stood, a decrepit memory of a time both awful and memorable.

A thousand memories struggled to break free, nearly every single one something she had tried to forget. Something she had repressed. But the memories had never left. They never would; she would have to recognize them. She would have to know, in her heart, that they still affected her.

Every day, these memories pushed on her makeshift walls, trying to send her into another depression. Each screamed at her something else; she wasn’t good enough. She wasn’t worth enough to enjoy what she did. The world would be better off without her. That wasn’t true, she thought. She hoped. The memories always came, bleeding into her everyday life.

For the first time in over two decades, her mother, whom she had long since forced herself to forget, was coming back to life.

Marianne’s mother was awful. She had so many problems, so many issues… issues she had never been enough a person to work through. She was an addict, taking just about whatever pill she could get her hands on. She would claim her alimony and use all of it to fuel that addiction, leaving Marianne to struggle for what little food she could afford. She was employed as early as eight years old, taking her first job only a month after her father had left. When her mother made it clear that she would never put forth the effort to be better.

Her father was divorced; not just from his family, but from his emotions. He didn’t care about his daughter, about his own child going hungry nearly every night. He would show up once a week, drop off his check, and leave without anything but what the law required. She hated the man more than her mother. The total apathy had worn on her, telling her that she wasn’t even worthy of a minute of his time.

With a wary gait, as though afraid her long-dead mother would come to take her, Marianne stepped into her old house. The door creaked under her softest touch, warning her that it could topple over under anything more than a stiff breeze. Even inside, the damned place was exactly the same. Sure, there was more dirt on the floor. Years of abandon had treated it poorly, though it could have fared a lot worse. The off-balance table had finally fallen, the lamp shattering against the floor. It still lay there, the lightbulb in a thousand pieces. But it was the same place.

The carpet was dulled by the years, though the horrible color still stood out amongst the bland walls. The same television, now old and broken beyond use, sat on one side of the room, a long-forgotten relic of the past. Marianne reached into her mind, letting the memories flood back. They came sharper, twenty-four years of repression undone in an instant.

Her mother was skeletal, her skin stretched across her body. She looked like she had died years ago. She stood in front of the door, some paper-thin door weight keeping the suited man from leaving.

Her father was in a cheap suit, his hair slicked to his head. The envelope, half a thousand dollars of wasted money, rested on the floor by his feet. “Sara, I don’t have time for this.”

“You used to.”

“Things change, alright? You’ve got your money. I’m leaving.” The envelope lay on the ground, the alimony that would do no good.

“I just want to be with you again. Is that too much to ask?”

“I don’t have the time to deal with your problems. Step aside.”

“No,” she whispered. Desperation bled into her voice, a quiet pleading that told Marianne that there was no hope left. Her father would leave again, leaving the skeleton-woman to her decay and death.

“Dad, please.”

He spared me a glance at that moment, the first time he’d acknowledged me in so many months. He had always done his best to pretend I didn’t exist. Quickly, as though trying to forget he had seen me, he wrenched his gaze back to the skeleton.

No more time for words, he grabbed her by the shoulder, roughly throwing her to the ground. She let out a shout, whatever surprise dulled by the painkillers that ran through her blood. “Don’t get in my way. You’re getting enough of my hide.”

Then he left, the door creaking shut behind him. With animalistic fury, Marianne’s mother dove to the envelope, tearing it in half to get at the money inside. And that was where the memory ended. Whatever came next was truly lost to the years.

Marianne gave a faint smile, breathing in the sour air. Her father always had delusions of grandeur. She hadn’t seen it- she was far too young to recognize the faults in her parents. He had tried so hard to make his mark in the world, but he never got anywhere. He struggled against a rising tide, hoping to make it fresh land. And for his efforts, he forgot to breathe. There was some grim satisfaction in that- he had thought his daughter would only hold him back, but she had gotten further than he ever had.

No. That was petty. She had to forgive; to accept that the people who she had looked up to for so long were just people. She couldn’t look at them with anger nor disgust. Just acceptance. They were people with their own problems, their own faults. She had idolized them; perhaps she had once needed to, but no longer. Their memories shouldn’t terrorize her. They were both dead, as far as she was concerned. The only person who could tell her she was worthless was herself. She had to recognize that.

Another memory clawed its way to the surface. This one wasn’t about her parents. It was about the man next door- the man who had taken her almost as his own. He asked to be called Mr. Bradley, but she had always just called him brad. He never seemed to mind.

She had come to him, seeking a job. He knew about her family, and he was kind. He offered a job- one that paid far more than her efforts were worth. He owned a farm, thirty-some acres of land. She helped the farmhands, doing thousands of inane chores a day.

Five-hundred dollars a week, he paid. She was certain she wasn’t worth half that much. He was kind. The one beacon of light in a world that had only sought to bring her down. He was dead now- that was the first thing she had checked. But she was certain he would be happy with her. She had finally made her way in this world. She had finally started to give, rather than just taking.

Four years after her father left, her mother finally took something too strong, even for her. She died on the couch, some childish show playing on the television. Marianne had run to get Brad, and he called for an ambulance. But it was far too late for the woman.

Brad slept in this house for two nights, until the men finally showed to take her away. Those were the best two days she had ever spent in that house. For once, she wasn’t looked at with apathy or resentment. He actually cared, though Marianne hadn’t understood why for years. Now she knew; she knew he was just a good person. He wasn’t expecting anything from her, he wasn’t planning to take advantage of her. He just wanted to help.

He was good. Her parents were bad. The world hadn’t been fair in that manner, but his memory had carried her through the next dozen years. Then she had forgotten him, though her parents held on.

She couldn’t forget them. None of them. She had to know they meant nothing; they weren’t gods. They were just people who had their faults. She had to stop thinking of them like something more.

She had moved on. Time passed, and her own family had grown. She had moved on, even if her mind stayed behind. She had excelled; her parents had faded. She had to focus on the good; and even in the bad, if she was to look hard enough, she could find some glimmer of hope.

She took one last breath of the decaying air, leaving the house behind. She was better now than she had ever been. And that was all that mattered.