Memory

Memory was my Gift. We all had one— gifts, I mean, but mine was on the rarer side. As far as I knew, I was the only person in the whole world who had it. It made me feel special, and needed, but in the end I had grown to hate it. 

You see, when my parents found out what my Gift was, they had hatched a plan to make it suit their own goal, and it turned out their goal was money. So they spent what little savings they had on a tiny little building on Main Street, and set up shop. “Marie’s Memory shoppe,” they said, tricking my naive little mind into thinking that it was going to be fun, or that it wouldn’t rob me of my soul. You know, I hardly remember  why I had agreed. Maybe somewhere deep down I wanted to please them? Or maybe I was just afraid, afraid of what they would do. It doesn’t really matter now, anyway. I simply forgot most of my days there. Well, that’s not actually true; I remember one day in particular. It was the day I met Her. 

...

I swung my feet out of bed, placing them on the cold wooden floor upstairs from the shoppe. I needed to be open thirty minutes ago.

Shit

I raced over to my dresser, and pulled on a shirt and simple, plain shorts. It was the middle of summer, after all, and being this far South, it was almost a death sentence to wear anything else. Still, it was a shame that I couldn’t do anything about my hair. On the best of days it was an unruly mess, but today? Well, let’s just say that a family of birds would find it quite suitable. One of these days I was going to shave it all off (Not that my mother would let me, as it would “scare the customers off, Marie.” And I wouldn’t want that, would I?)

Regardless, I flew down the stairs as fast as I could, flinging the door open. The shoppe was quaint enough, in a rustic brown theme. We sold vitamins to increase memory retention, “ancient” herbal remedies to cure memory affecting ailments, (really they were leaves with no more power than that of the mind) and we sold books solely focused on that of memory. (we really settled on a theme, didn’t we?) But what we really sold, what was our  crowning achievement, and what really brought fortune to our family, was me. I would use my Gift to remember. 

My first customer that day was a woman around the age of forty. She had forgotten where she left an antique watch of her father’s, and looked so worried that I thought she might have broken down right there at the table. I clutched her hand in mine, and I immediately saw where she had left it. Well, saw is a bit of a misnomer, actually. What I really did was become her. For a brief moment I was her; I felt everything she felt at that moment, from the cold wall to the shoes she had on. Backing the memory up, I saw that she had tucked it away in a large storage building. 

I unclenched her hand and wrote down exactly where the watch was on a piece of paper. 

“It’s going to be $17.55, okay?” 

“Really? Last time I was here it was still only five. Well, I guess it can’t be helped.” She said, pulling out a gaudy designer handbag. “Do you accept American Express?” 

“Yes.” I replied, typing in the amount on the POS terminal. I turned it over to her, she paid, and the rest of the day went pretty much the same as that. Well, except for Her. 

She came in with the brightest smile I had ever seen, her beautiful dark brown skin almost glowing in the bright sunlight. Her hair was natural, a thick tuft pulled into a tight bun, secured with a bright yellow ribbon. Her body was covered with a pinafore dress in the colour of a bright and solid yellow. I smiled at her, and spoke.

“Welcome to Marie’s memory shoppe,” I greeted, “what would you like?” 

She stared, confused. “Oh! I’m sorry, but I totally thought this was a florist’s.” I was confused as mother and father had payed quite a bit for some decent signage around the building, but nevertheless I continued.

“Well, that’s fair. There are quite a few flowers around this part of town. I take it you’re a tourist?” 

“Well, not really. I live here, kinda. I’m out visiting my dad for the summer, and I thought I’d go out to get some flowers for my date today.” She smirked, walking further into the store.

“Oh. Well I’m sure that there’s a florist somewhere around here. Did you try looking on Maps?” I said, leaning on the counter. 

“Well, no. I just thought I’d try to find it myself. Back home, I was the best navigator there was.” She said, slowly walking through some of the shelves we had up front. They weren’t anything impressive. Games, mostly. 

“Is that your Gift then?” I said, absentmindedly doodling on a receipt from earlier. 

“Gift? Oh, no. I actually don’t have one.” She said, crouching down to look at a physical copy of concentration. I gasped; for someone to not have an ability was unheard of, and for someone to be so forthcoming was spectacular.

“I’ve never heard someone without  an ability before.” I said, leaving my pencil behind to come out from behind the counter. “Sure, late bloomers. But 100% sure of not having a Gift? That must have been devastating.”

She got up, brushing her knees. “Devastating? Not really. I’d never seen a real need to have one. What’s the point, really? Ease? All gifts do is make it easier to do things you can learn in a few years.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” I said, grimacing. “I don’t think you can learn to relive memories.”

“That’s your gift, then?” She said, walking up to me. “Reliving memories?” 

“Yep. That’s what we sell here, anyway. People aren’t big on the whole forgetting things. Say, do you want me to recall a memory of yours?”

She looked at me, sighed, and replied. “No. I don’t think so.”

I looked on in abject shock, everyone wanted to remember something, didn’t they? And even if they didn’t know they wanted to remember something, maybe they forgot something a long time ago that maybe they wanted to remember. 

“May I ask why?” 

“Well, let me put it like this. Everything I know is just that. It’s everything I know, and so far I’ve been doing fine. So why would I want to remember things I’ve forgotten? There’s no use dwelling in the past, and even if it would be nice knowing where I’d left my keys, it’s replaceable. Everything I’ve ever forgotten is replaceable; replaceable with something different, something better, something worth remembering.” 

“I’ve never seen it like that.” I said, “to me, memory is all I know. It’s my bread and butter, my lifeline.” 

“Is that why you do it, then?” She asked, taking a small step forward, “for money?” 

I was taken aback, did this girl really just ask a total stranger why they worked? “I do it because of fear,” I said, a red blush already inching its way across my face. “Fear of the unknown, what would happen to me if I didn’t do this anymore.” 

“Fear, huh? Well, I don’t think you should be afraid.” She said, walking up to me so that her face was only inches away from mine. “You know, fear is funny. It rears its ugly head all the time, but it’s harmless, most of the time, and I don’t quite think your fear is any different.” 

I was acutely aware of her now, her dark brown eyes, manicured eyebrows, and perfume intoxicating me ever more. But I turned around, because I’d only get hurt. 

She’s not even gay, I told myself, cursing myself for thinking otherwise. 

She coughed, and stalked away. “You know, I wasn’t even flirting with you that much. All you straights are the same.” 

And, before I knew what I was thinking, I ran after her, and planted a kiss on her perfect lips. 

...

She came to the shoppe everyday that summer, and our relationship grew until I was determined to move in with her. I was only 17 at the time, so I didn’t have the ability to, but I was determined to make it work. I had saved for seven years all the tips and wages my parents had so graciously given me for my work, and hired a lawyer. He started the emancipation procedure, and, on the 23rd of August, it was official. I was on my own. Well, not on my own. I had Nevaeh. We moved upstate a bit, where I pursued an education in psychology. She majored in English. (a fact that she said she regretted ever since the first class.)

My first job was at a run-down therapist’s office downtown from the city I’d lived in at the time, where I used my Gift to help people confront their memories. Nevaeh became quite a successful author, after dropping out of college, that is, and to be honest, we had more wealth than we knew what to do with. We built our first house together, and adopted three beautiful and strong children. The oldest went on to research Gifts and was able to determine the exact cause of why his mother was unable to procure her own. She refused to know of course, but said he could publish the research regardless. He didn’t, and switched course to treatment of those inflicted with GRD, Gift Remission Disorder. The disorder, occurring later in life, robbed someone of their Gift and left them with lesions all across their body. 

Neveah died soon after, complications from a brain surgery. I was devastated and grew to hate the house we’d lived in. I sold it a couple months after, and moved into a small condo in the city of my oldest son. It was there I developed GRD, and it is here I remain. My Gift is gone, at the ripe old age of 83, and I’m left with nothing. Well, nothing except memories. Because me and Neveah, that’s something worth remembering