And The Satellite :: [Charlotte + Memory]

But I see traces of your thoughts out here
I see a sight; I hear a sound
My only comfort in the brittleness of days when I can
Hold what I just found

When she was small, Memory used to climb onto her mother’s lap as she worked, tangling her tiny, imperfect fingers in Mama’s yarn. She would be gently scolded for accidently ripping stitches out of the blanket Mama was crocheting, but this never deterred Memory from returning. The scolding was worth it, because afterwards, Mama would wrap her arms around Memory’s tiny frame, and whisper stories in her ear of when Memory had been a baby, and it was just the two of them against the world. Memory herself couldn’t remember a time before Mama had been married to Jim, so she stored the tales away, doing penance for a sin only she believed she had committed. At night, she used to repeat those stories to herself, intent on remembering them. That was what she was supposed to be, wasn’t it? The one who remembered. Why else would Mama give her this name?

But Memory was older now; when night came creeping through her window, she didn’t dare to recall the stories her mother had once recounted to her. Her mother had lied, or rather, omitted important truths, and while Memory could forgive her mother’s deception, it didn’t change the fact that the truth had turned Memory’s world upside down. These days, her nights were occupied with staring at a creased photograph, rather than recalling the details of her infancy. Tonight was no different. Despite the blackness crawling across the room, Memory refused to turn on a light. She didn’t want her family to know how many hours she spent lying awake in this bed, staring at the picture of her dead half-sister, pondering the life she could have had.

She was starting to get tired of having a dead sister. One could only grieve for so long, and Memory had been pushing the limits for a long time. But it wasn’t grief she felt – how could you grieve someone you’d never met? No, it was something else. What did you call it when your heart grew sore at the thought of a life you could have had, a friend you could have known? What did you call it when you were desperate for someone who could never be yours? Desperate to touch, to feel, to know? Whatever it was, that was what Memory felt. Despair. Perhaps that was the right word. She realized how ridiculous it was that she, the keeper of so many words, was now at a loss to describe what she felt.

“What’s wrong with you?” Caden had asked at dinner that night, staring across the table at Memory and her untouched plate of food. She couldn’t answer him. What would Caden know of this? He’d never lost anyone or anything, and besides, Memory had no right to mourn. It was foolish, and she did it anyway, because she’d never allowed herself to be foolish before in her life. While her parents had kept a careful distance since Memory stopped going to school, Caden had become irritable, and liable to start a fight with her over the smallest thing. She thought it would have been a relief for him, to no longer have a perfectionist sister to live up to. He was just scared, Memory knew. He thought he was losing her. Maybe he was.

Memory tucked the picture back into her pocket and pulled herself out of bed. The house was quiet as a tomb as she dressed herself in a cardigan and worn blue jeans. She didn’t want to be alone with her thoughts anymore. They rattled her, rocketing up to her low ceiling only to crash down and fracture her porcelain skin. It was too much, existing in this place where nothing ever changed and thoughts were forced to chase themselves in circles for want of a better pastime. She needed fresh air, and the cool harshness of an unforgiving night. She needed to get back to herself, but she couldn’t remember where she’d gone.

With quiet steps, Memory left her room and crept down the hallway to the front door. She paused by Caden’s door, resuming her escape as soon as she heard the heavy noise of his snores. The front door opened noiselessly, and Memory slipped into the street, her feet bare, and cold the second they touched the rough pavement. She wasn’t given to night wanderings; it wasn’t the kind of thing a good student did, or even had time for. Before, she’d spent long nights poring over textbooks, determined to be the best at whatever it was she wanted. How had it taken her so long to realize how directionless her dreams were? Stupid, silly girl. She walked without knowing where she headed, fancying herself a sort of ghost in the streets tonight. She was not Memory; she was a thoughtless head filled with snapshots of graveyards, carrying a dead girl around in her pocket. Was she going crazy? It felt like it these days. I’m not anyone. I am ghost with too much time on her hands.

When she arrived at the park, Memory stood at its edges, staring at the empty playground equipment. She wished there were a child here now, someone young enough to believe their trivial problems could lead to the end of the world. A problem like that, she could easily solve, and if she was successful, she might manage to find some of her self-worth along the way. But of course there were no children here tonight. After sunset, the park stopped being a place for children. It became a haven for disillusioned teenagers and outcasts, misfits with a past or a present they were trying to escape. I guess I’m one of those, now. She wandered through the empty ribcage of childhood, her fingers drifting over the rusted metal framework of her favorite haunts. I shouldn’t be here. There was something tragic about a playground at night, and she was afraid if she stayed any longer, she would start crying for some reason or another.

It was then that she heard the voice. It wasn’t loud, wasn’t seeking attention; it was small and soft, like a secret. Memory looked around her, seeking out the source of the noise. There was a girl under the jungle gym, hands stretched towards the sky, and in Memory’s mind, it looked like some sort of prayer or plea. She longed to be as desperately beautiful as that girl, longed to be as simple as a pair of hands reaching for the impossibility of the stars. But wasn’t she? Memory had wasted weeks and months stretching out her hands, trying to bridge the unbridgeable gap between herself and death. Things you can’t touch. Would you regret touching the stars if you somehow managed to do it? It wouldn’t be as beautiful and magical as you’d want it to be, and then you’d spend the rest of your life searching for a new, better star to reach for, and then it would start all over again. Maybe I was born to forget.

Memory stepped towards the girl, purposing making her footsteps loud so she wouldn’t startle the stranger. Her breath caught in her throat as she struggled to find words to say. She was so useless at this, at talking. Stalling for time, she glanced up at the stars, thought again of Enigma’s picture burning a hole in her pocket. “Why do we try to love the stars?” The words fell from her lips without her permission, and hung in the air, unwanted. She didn’t do this, the wandering at night, the talking to strangers in parks. But here she was, a question offered up like some animal sacrifice waiting patiently to be slaughtered.