Dementia Catalogue

“File B294, met a snobbish girl.”

I put the cue card into my red cabinet. I shut one drawer and then it shuddered. The knobs twisted up to show it was locked. I ran my fingers over the spines of my older cards with small mementos of my past, like the time I pulled that guy from fifth grade’s hair, for bullying me. ..my first kiss…my first taste of a sour lemon meringue pie.

All of these memories were under A1- 20.

I had some issues deciding where to catalogue today’s experiences.

“Dex!” a shrill voice shouted.

It jeered the senses. I nearly dropped the cards I was reminiscing with. I hurriedly stuffed them in the box. A girl with scabby, rouge knees, a thin scratch below her nose and a weird gap in her front teeth trodded up to my metallic desk. I grimaced.

I took down my mud combat boots from the desk.

“Ryan, don’t you have some worms to look for?”

Ryan laughed heartily, her hands on her ironing board flat chest.

“Good one,Dex! Not today! My terrarium has plenty in it for now. Do you wanna play hopscotch?”

It was utterly senseless why she still returned to my room when I rejected her company day and day. I repeatedly chased her away…on New Year’s day, on Hanukkah, on Ground Hog day, on Saint Patrick’s day and on Easter; come rain or sunshine.

You get the point. She was just a kid who couldn’t mind her own business.

“No,” I said quietly fiddling with my pen.

“What about tomorrow?” she said, tilting her head. Her salt and pepper twisty waves beached on her shoulder.

My eye twitched. I smiled as pleasantly as I could.

“No, not tomorrow or today!”

She beamed.

“What about…”

I interjected: “What about never! Listen, kid I’m not one of your kindergartener friends; so buzz off!”

She frowned.

“I’m not in kindergarten. I’m in the second grade!” she exclaimed.

“Who cares?”

I stood, taking myself away from her. She stayed in my room, a room where I constructed inventions.

I went to the kitchen to get a glass of water. When I returned my home-made microwave’s clock had paused on twelve o’clock. My lazer watch had a cracked glass screen. My mechanical hound was on his back. There was ink scattered on the floor. Nuts and bolts were hither thither and the pristine strawberry red cabinet was opening and sealing uncontrollably.

There was an orange juice box spilt on my grey desk near my memento cabinet.

I screamed.

“No, no!” I knelt near the desk and tried to keep the drawers from moving.

“What have you done?” I yelled at her.

Her mouth was gaping open.

“This thing has all my memories up until today! Organised by colour-coding, date and time! My life was in this box!”

“Your life? But you’re only a year older than me and I’m nine.”

She was now standing beside me. I moved her aside. My eyesight was blurring. I sniffled. I tried to save my creation. I unscrewed the back and oil spurted out. A smoky stench withdrew from its miniature compartments. It had at least stopped moving. I connected the green and purple wire. There was a spark generated. Smoke bubbled from the hardware. A rumble came from the machine. Ryan dragged me away. She grabbed my long sleeve and dashed to the door. I mimed towards the automated colour cabinet. The cabinet caught fire.

“Aunt! Aunt Rose! Dexter’s room is on fire!”

My mother rushed in and used the extinguisher, which was in the kitchen to mute the fire. The fire had perished. The white ceiling was tarry and the brown shag carpeting were was now littered with scotch marks. Everything smelt like barbecued pork and cat whiskers.

Tears fell from my eyes.

“It’s ok, Dexter. We’ll fix your room. Let me just call the fire department and ensure nothing else has been damaged.”

Ryan kicked out her legs side to side. She was looking down shyly before gazing up at me with puppy dog eyes. She held onto her skirt with whitened fists.

“Dex, are you ok? Dex?” 

I looked at her green eyes with my dark, baggy eyes.

“Are you satisfied?” I croaked out, my throat scratchy.

She moved to my seat on the spinning kitchen chair. She pulled on my pants legs. I ignored her and she sat on the chair adjacent to me.

“Dex?” she said diminutively.

 “If you’re mad about your room being a mess I can fix it. I’ll just give you some of my allowances.”

How much was her allowance anyway?

“That box you ruined was my life.”

“That again?” she said.

I nodded silently.

“But it’s just a box!”

A cabinet actually.

“It wasn’t just a box to me. I have a problem remembering stuff already and I’m so young. My grandpop had dementia; my dad has early onset dementia too.”

“Do you know what that means?” I said.

Ryan looked befuddled.

“What’s dementia?” she asked me.

“Dementia is when you forget everything you knew and everyone you love. My family doctor said to my mama that I have a genetic propensity towards dementia. She said it was likely I would get it since I have two relatives with it.”

“And what’s propensity?”

Ryan looked at me. I scrunched my eyebrows.

“Huh, propensity is how likely something is to happen.”

“Everyone is worried about you. Y…you only ever play with your box ever since your grandpop got sick and your dad. I miss my neighbour! We used to be best buddies! Do you remember ? We used to play tacks and hopscotch!”

Ryan whined and her face became puffy and moist. I clenched my hands. The box had made me forget what was really important, my friend.

I was so obsessed with saving my memories frame by frame that I forgot about making new ones. That box had things I would have rather discarded but couldn’t…

And now the bitter recollections were sooty ash under my toasted quilt, fashioned by my grandma.

I held Ryan’s little brown hand.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. Can you forgive me, Rye?”

She smiled.

“Only if we can play hopscotch!” she said with a toothy smile.