Days gone by

"John Wicklow. Yes. My name is John Wicklow." he kept saying to himself while heading up to the cashdesk.

"And the cup is for...?" the waitress asked.

"John, uhm... John Wicklow. W-I-C-K-L-O-W." stuttered he.

"Gotcha.", she said, without a care.

"Okay, okay. I must not forget my name again. Just five more minutes."

John had always had his head in the clouds, and his fervent imagination was of no help. But writing fantasy stories - what he did best - had earned him a great fortune. Sadly, he'd been diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer's just a few days before. Until then, he'd been happy to be able to forget unpleasant stuff, which was something he'd always hoped for. He'd been yelled at by his teachers, bullied by his schoolmates, kicked out by his parents, left at the altar by the love of his life. Those memories were not only unpleasant, but plain painful, and had made him sink into depression. Imagine what a diagnosis like that meant for a 29-year-young guy. He was never going to retain any memory again, not even the good ones. But he didn't know that yet. He thought the doctors had given him somebody else's diagnosis, so he kept his phone near him all day, hoping they would phone him and admit their unforgivable mistake. He was totally delusional.

However, the social side of this illness was starting to kick him down there, as people thought he had some sort of mental retardation and left him alone all the time. He was used to being on his own, having learnt the lesson earlier in life.

John was trying all he could just to do the simplest things that required the tiniest bit of memory - buying stuff from the supermarket, scheduling and attending appointments, and even remembering his birthdate and name - and he would resort to sticky notes and walls for that purpose. He'd stick tens of those on his body before going out - forehead, cheeks, chin, neck, all the way down to his feet. He would get weird looks and insults from people, but it wasn't those that hurt him. What hurt him was their avoidant behaviour. He was a very funny guy, but many didn't get his sense of humour. The only thing that would make them laugh was his weirdness, and John often mistook their laughter for friendliness. However, upon inviting them over for a coffee and being turned down, he'd realise how mean they were.

And again, for good or ill, his short-term memory would sort things out in a matter of minutes. He was unable to work properly, but his skill was note-taking. He was starting to get so good at it that any interpretation agency wanted to hire him. The only problem was

he'd constantly need to be reminded what his job was, which would sometimes lead to more abuse. And when it happened, he'd keep his head down for some 2 or 3 minutes. And in the long run, a series of confused flashes from the day had started come to his mind at night, when he'd sink into his beanbag in front of the TV. He'd cry, not sure what over, but pure pain would flow down his eyes.

And then he'd stare at one long, orange wall he'd been using to write tally marks on. There were hundreds of them because he'd write 3 or 4 a day, given he'd forget how many times the sun had risen each day.

Strangely, he was always sure about the date. Always. No matter how many sunrises he thought he'd witnessed.

That wall was of vital importance to him. On it relied his last bit of medium-term memory. It was like a friend to him, a long-term one.

He took great care of it: he'd wash it, dry it with soft towels or a hairdryer, pet it like a dog. Oh, and he would only write on it with permanent markers.

His home was a true celebration of his personality: coloured walls, parquet floors, and a small pool at the centre of his huge living room. Thoughtlessness combined with a taste for elegance, which gave rise to an exquisitely extravagant atmosphere.

A true haven for the thieves in his area: they were devious and had no scruples, seeing how they'd break people's hearts by depriving them of their dearest possessions. No one knew where or who they would get such private information about the residents from. The whole neighbourhood would be made aware of a new burglary by the victims' screaming and blaspheming. The louder they were, the better: those heartless individuals would feed off their pain.

Upon learning about John's diagnosis, they wasted no time. They took advantage of one of his lengthy absences and broke into his apartment, and proceeded to stain it with coffee so dark his precious tally marks were made invisible. They took nothing else from the apartment, they just took a bath in the pool before leaving, leaving no trace behind.

As he entered the living room, John could feel something was wrong. A strong smell pervaded the place, and a human shadow stretched on one wall - it belonged to the clumsiest of the thieves, who had been left behind, on John's balcony.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?"

"Oooh. Oh my God, oh my God! Why does everything happen to me?". The guy was shaking, and had turned pale.

"Listen, mate. Some friends and I- well, we did something bad to ya."

"What? What did you do?!" John asked, with a cracked voice.

"Okay, I'll tell you. Do you promise you won't hurt me, though?"

"WHAT DID YOU DO?"

"Look at your favourite wall. Notice anything wrong?"

John turned to the wall. He started shaking. He turned pale. He passed out, hitting his head on the floor.

"Hey! Wake up mate!" the thief yelled, shaking John's head. "Oh my God! I gotta go! I gotta escape from this mess! I did nothing wrong, I swear!" And so he did.

John regained consciousness some twenty minutes later. The first thing on his mind was his wall. He cried some silent tears of pain. He took his head in his hands, and faced the horror all over again. His head hurt, his eyes were burning. On top of that, he couldn't remember what day it was anymore.

All of a sudden, the doorbell rang. It was a neighbour who'd come to check on him, having heard the noise.

"Are you okay, John? The whole building's having a party in a couple of hours. Remember?"

John gave him a weird look and then his face lit up. "Yes! Yes I do. You told me in the elevator. Oh my God! Thank you!" He hugged the man, who was a bit surprised.

Thanks to the floor, that was the day John regained his memory. Thus, a memorable one!