Abily Markova D6 [fin]

I am seventeen years old , yet I have been unable to remember longer than a day since I was five - as if my mind suddenly became stuck in the canopy of leaves that I know I once lived in, yet my body kept moving. That image of green that flickers before my eyes (bottomless pits that swallow my memories whole) forces me to realize that I do not belong in District 6. If only these walls that shut me inside the abyss of broken pictures would open. Yet alas, my memories keep swirling down, down, down, farther toward the bottomless pit - never to be seen, or remembered again.

White walls. White desks. White floors... white skin. My life has become so attached to the simplicity of the hospital room - my home - that the color has dripped steadily onto my flesh. The white drapes of the room seem to wrap around me as the sun rises and it tightens, tightens until I can no longer breathe, and my full pink lips part in a silent scream of frustration, revealing the slightly bucked teeth that are usually hidden well behind a blank line. Too much to learn. Too much! Yet as always, clipboards stare back into my blue gaze (a blank, stiff stare that is no longer used to see, but to remember), the sound of pens scratching against white paper being the only answer to my pleas.

The drapes wrap tighter around my frail form as more information is crammed into my rounded head, and my hands fly up to my short crop of hair. My fingers run down the length of strands until they find the end and they slip away - like the memories that can no longer stay, leaving with the faintest whisper of farewell. So long, I'll miss you (never a 'see ya later!') A memory is not like the blonde hair that covers the many surgery marks on my head, for I cannot just keep bringing my fingers back to run the length of the hairs. They are gone forever, lost in the black hole that swallows me whole. I cannot even remember where the two long red lines that travel the length of the back of my head came from - marks that I like to believe are the openings to the vault of broken images. If only my long fingers were fast enough to tear apart the red lines before the doctors come and stop me. Why stop me? I'm trying to help!

The drapes tighten

Sometimes I imagine my memories are hidden behind a thick wall. My long neck is barely able to stretch enough, yet glimpses of what is over the wall are seen. Thick canopies of green leaves, warm rays of sun beaming down onto tan skin... a smile. Yet suddenly, my body becomes too much for my long legs to hold, and I fall, fall, fall and I'm screaming, my long arms reaching up to try and get a grasp on the sturdy wall. If only my hands weren't so sweaty. "Wait!" a voice screams, yet there's no one there to help (The doctors claim they are helping, yet why am I still falling?) and I hit the white tiled floors. My form is too frail to be helped. I am broken.

"You're getting better," they say. I know better. I can feel the drapes loosening it's hold, my breath beginning to find it's way back into the lungs that hide behind an immensely small chest and prominent ribs -cages of starvation that fail to be from lack of food, but lack of the longing to eat it. Brows furrow together as they see me losing my grip on what I have learned, statements of encouragement failing at keeping the flickering images in place. Waves of facts are spit out at me, yet they slip away as fast as they come, becoming lost in the sea of forgotten thoughts.

The drapes lose their hold on me

My long, skinny form curls up on the tiled floors, damaged head pressed tightly against my bony knees. More white has flooded into my eyes, yet that is all I see. Only the sound of ringing finds my ears - or maybe it's just the sound of my life ending on the heart monitor. They pick me up gently, my white gown falling loosely around my crumpled form, the same gown that has fallen across my body since the moment I reached this hell hospital. "We'll start again tomorrow," they say, disappointed voices fading away behind the tiled walls. Start, start, start. Never continue.

I walk up to the white drapes and wrap them around me, trying to bring the memories back. The only answer is the beep, beep on the monitor, and the salty liquid that flows down my rosy cheeks.

"A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, I'm tired of this."

The sound of pens scratching against papers stops, replaced with the sighs of men who are "only trying to help." Yet, I fail to see the help they are giving me. Please tell me how the alphabet compares to where I came from, the names of my parents, where they went - years of memories that now lie deep in the abyss of my damaged mind. They tell me that I am giving up. "Be strong, Abily. All hard work comes with a reward," they say, yet I sit here for hours, laboring over the letters that a five year-old would know, and I just can't, can't, can't. I claim that I am tired, yet we all know that's not the true reason. I know what everyone's thinking. Hopeless case. Permanent. Poor thing.

I truly am giving up. I can feel the hopelessness running through my veins - like a snake that slithers through the grass, spitting poison into the wound of it's victim, immobilizing it until it finishes the dying creature. I can't remember a time when I actually tried to improve, yet I'm told that I once was a girl who looked forward with bright eyes - never able to look back. How much I long to go back tot hat young girl and tell her to just give up. You will achieve nothing. You are a failure. So I lay in my bed, watching as my thoughts begin to diminish because I know there is nothing I can do. Suddenly, I am left with a blank outlook on the room. White walls. White desks. White floors. They mean nothing to me.

My body stays stiff in the bed as my eyes shut closed, trying to grasp anything that might come to me. Only flickers of green. Fear eases it's way into me (the realization that my head is empty in the most literal sense is rather terrifying) and I scream, scream, scream, my fingers clawing at my face. Scarlet drops of liquid drip steadily onto the white sheets. How prominent the color is compared to the blank room. They run in, hands raised as they slowly speak soothing words, cringing as I spit out words of hatred.

District 6: The brains of Panem.

"Give me back my brain!" I cry out, stumbling slightly as I stand on the mattress of my bed. They stare at something in my hand, and I see it's a pen. Bloodied fingers grip the object in surprise, yet somehow I know that I despise this pen. I can almost hear the scratching. The writing utensil points toward them with a murderous intent, yet when I look at them, I only feel fear and confusion - two emotions that I mistake for anger - and I slowly collapse down to my knees, the weapon falling with a clatter. They continue to speak soothing words, telling me the condition that I have, yet all I hear is how dead I am. In a world without memories... I'd rather be dead.

They let me sleep, yet none finds my wide eyes. I can hear them, though, as they stand outside of my door. "Getting worse... never this bad... hopeless... poor thing... could have killed." I roll over and clamp my hands over my ears as a salty liquid runs from my closed eyes. It's one thing to think you're a failure, yet to hear it as a fact from others seems to wipe away every fiber of your being - if there was anything even left to take from me.

Despite how much I have given up, there's always that sadness that propels me forward when a visitor comes in. The look in their eyes as they see that I still cannot remember them reminds me this isn't just for me. I stare helplessly at them as they try to dislodge something in my head; get me to remember all of the great things we did together. Just like the boy that takes my hand (I would say each day, yet alas, I only remember this moment), overwhelming sadness in his gaze as he assures me no harm. He is a friend. It's at these moments - when the sadness seems to push against my throat and choke me - that I know I am failing not just me, but them too. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I just can't!

I run, run, run as the screaming voice tells me to. Green flashes by me, twigs scratching against my legs and drawing more of the scarlet liquid. I can hear his footsteps behind me, the sound of it stomping against the ground matching with the beat of my heart and the blood rushing in my ears. My small legs won't move fast enough, for the steps are getting closer. I can feel his breath on the back of my neck, and suddenly I'm being pushed against a tree. My small dagger isn't enough to protect me from this man dressed all in white. The last thing I see is a fist raised, a murderous gaze staring down at me before everything is black.

I wake with a scream, sweat covering me from head to toe as I try to grasp onto the dream - the images so vivid that I'm forced to believe that they are real. Doctors run in with charts, immediately beginning to ask me questions, yet only words are all I can manage. I can already feel it slipping away. "Running, trees, blood, man in white... black" is all I choke out, tears streaming once again down my scarred cheeks as the colorful memory slips entirely out of reach, where it will patiently wait to creep out and attack.

"How did I get here?" My voice forms the words immediately, as if some force drove me to ask it. Clipboards are set down and words spill out of their lips - as if they had practiced this a million times... or if I had just asked it that frequently. The story is a simple one, yet confusion still plants itself deep within the depths of my empty mind. My head strains to remember more, yet the only result is a tired mind and distorted images. If only I could get over that wall.

According to the doctors, I was brought to them. A boy of the age of eight brought me in his small arms. A trail of blood led to the forest. A damaged head full of black and blue called for immediate attention (the wound that would be the cause of all my pain and suffering.) The surgery lasted hours, yet all that came back was my life. I left my memories behind. I wasn't strong enough then, just as I am now. It seems that what replaced them were just failure and weakness, two qualities that I can never seem to leave behind.

The doctors waited for improvement. They waited for someone to claim me. They waited for me to remember at least something. It seems that every expectation of me is never fulfilled, leading to the realization that I will forever be encased in the cement that keeps me still. Hopes were crushed and dreams were shattered. They leave me. Only one remains fully committed to helping me (or so I'm told), the same boy who wrapped his arms around me and brought me to safety. In a way, I despise him. He should have left me for dead. Yet, he visits me. I can see years of first meetings as I look into his eyes. Much hurt and pain exists in his eyes from telling your best friend your own name. Another example of my inadequacy.

Long-term Memory Loss: The ability to recall what happened far in the past, yet unable to remember something that occurred recently. Usually associated with immense brain trauma. This is what I have been diagnosed with. It's a disorder that should have only lasted a few weeks maximum. It's been eleven years. I'm forced to cling to the hope that maybe the wall will soon break down - yet the white drapes continue to slip away from my body.

All that I'm left with is hope. Yet even that has already begun to drift farther down into the abyss, causing me to collapse further within myself, leaving only echos to bounce against the enclosures of my mind. That hope comes in the form of my visitor, his fingers stretched out to my skinny bones, gripping them tightly - the same grasp that I long to obtain, instead of the weak hold that lets the memories rush through the cracks of my fingers. It shows that, despite how much I have already given up, there are still people who long for me to succeed. He just might have to hope for me.