Photographic Memory
I have a photographic memory. It has been both a blessing and a curse. The curse might be the mind around the memories, though, and there is not much I can do about that.
I would often revisit these memories for comfort. Recently, I was sitting at my desk at work and it was a very slow day. Nothing was happening. No one was coming in; employees were doing their own thing, and it was just silent overall. I looked down at the pencil on my desk and I remembered what it was like to be in elementary school. What my fifth-grade classroom looked like, down to the books on the shelves and the pencil shavings on the floor near the counter-mounted pencil sharpener. I could see the freckles on the face of the girl who sat next to me. Her name was Robin. I remembered her name because I could see the assignment on her desk with it messily scrawled in the top right corner. I recalled the teacher sitting down on the floor with us to read aloud the novel “Hatchet” by Gary Paulson. I hated that book and how it was written. There were so many repetitive sentences.
As I mentally moved throughout a day in the fifth grade, I was comforted and entertained by the kaleidoscope of memories. With a photographic memory, I could see it all, but not necessarily remember how I felt at the time. Looking back, I saw it all through rose-coloured glasses because I missed being a child with a huge sense of wonderment, the feeling that something amazing and magical could happen at any moment, and no real responsibilities. I knew that I was quite miserable and lonely a lot of the time and worried about bullies frequently. I had a lot of nightmares, too. I dreamt of people and monsters creeping around corners, waiting to snatch me up. Dark silhouettes of the blackest pitch lurked under the slide on the playground, watched me, dared me to take the slide.
I returned to reality when my boss approached my desk to let me know I could leave early for the weekend. He knew my plan was to be camping immediately after work ended, so I was very appreciative of the gesture. I grabbed my purse and drove home to pack up the last of the items and drive out to the mountains.
When I got to the campsite I setup my tent, built a fire, and readied myself for nature’s healing ways. I listened to the trees and the birds and relaxed into my camping chair. I decided I’d go for a walk to explore around the campground and find some trails for later. I had rented the site for two nights, so the next day would be all for hiking. I waited for the fire to die down a bit before walking off into the trees, because it would soon get too dark to go out at all. I took it all in with joy and peace in my heart. The trees, tall and friendly with moss growing on their sides and branches. The ground, so soft and spongy under my hiking shoes. Small animals scurried along the forest floor towards their very important dates. I looked at the sun through the trees when it began to lower and enjoyed the warmth on my face. I found a trail nearby and briefly looked at the sign. I would remember what it said and where it was later. I headed back to my campsite and restocked the fire for my dinner of fire-roasted sausages. I ate quickly and found myself exhausted, so I doused the fire and crawled into my tent for my night’s rest.
Next morning, I awoke slightly drained. I’d had some unsettling dreams but forced them out of mind because I had a trail to hike and beautiful things to see. I ate a quick and easy breakfast of oatmeal and instant coffee, then brushed my teeth. I was ready for my hike!
Off I went, into the woods, found my trailhead and began the trek. It was amazing. There were at least five different types of berries growing on the sides of the trail and up the steep hills. The wildflowers were interspersed throughout meadows and forested areas alike. I could hear the wind in the trees and the sun shone through the forest canopy onto certain parts of the ground like a magical spotlight. Seeing that type of thing made you realize why people believed in fairies and woodland nymphs. The forest was a magical place. It took me about six hours to do the whole circuit and when I got back to my campsite, I was ready to eat and reflect on my wonderful day. I had prepared sandwiches in advance for that meal, so I just grabbed them out of the cooler and munched while I sat at the picnic table allocated to my site. Evening began to tiptoe in, and I stoked the fire. I sat in my camping chair and started replaying my hike in my mind with a smile on my face.
I was back at the trailhead looking at the sign, but there was a shadow behind the sign I didn’t see originally when I went on the hike. The sun had been out and shining brightly and there was so much openness behind the sign that it seemed impossible for any shadows to have been there, save that of the pole on which the sign hung. My brow furrowed, but I continued through my memories to retrace my hike. I recalled a particularly lovely moment where I looked closely at the purple and white wildflowers decorating the side of the trail.
As I knelt, I made out a blackened hoof-like footprint that crushed some of the flowers. Where they had been stomped, they were also darkened and burnt like someone had put a red-hot pan on them. The ground was likewise inky with ashy parts. I really didn’t remember that. I hadn’t felt at all uncomfortable or disturbed on the hike. Everything had been majestic, unblemished! I was beginning to sweat. My inner eye stared at those burnt hoof prints that I could see led into the forest and stopped behind a large tree. I began to frantically flip through the photographs in my mind of my hike, worried. I got back to the memory where the sun was beaming down through the trees, but instead of a tranquil sight, the sun appeared like a jagged hole in the sky and the beam was transformed into one of shadow and darkness. It looked oily and heavy.
I looked closely at it and there were two large, round, silvery eyes reflected at me in the middle of the beam. I audibly gasped in my camp chair. I was afraid to go on through my own memories, but I couldn’t stop. I approached a scene where I was looking out over many trees and there were black, greasy beams everywhere between the greenery. Some with eyes, some with visibly humanoid body shapes. All tall, all oriented towards me. I was so disturbed by this point that I skipped ahead to the part where I walked back into my camp site and I looked down at the watch on my wrist. The watch read 3:33 p.m., but in the memory, I saw my upper arm gripped firmly by a claw-like hand. A blackened hoof with dead, smoking grass beneath it was also just to the left of me.
I snapped back to reality again. This time to shoot up out of my chair and look around the camp site desperately. It was empty and bright, and I could still feel that sense of comfort I usually got from looking at nature. But something was clearly wrong! I wasn’t alone. I was surrounded, even. I began to shake and dashed into my tent. I sat in there trying to get my bearings. How was I going to get through this? I decided it might calm me down to revisit my memories of school again. I stared at the tent wall in front of me and could see myself as a child in that fifth-grade classroom. I checked for those pencil shavings on the ground and they were there, but they were curled up and burning. There was a darkness behind that counter that was just out of view and a black, clawed hand gripped the top of the counter like something was stooped back there.
I began hyperventilating in the tent. In my mind, I looked over at Robin and there was something under her desk, chewing on her legs, getting blood and bone and muscle everywhere. It was looking at me with those orb-like silvery eyes while its bloody, needle-like teeth flashed in and out of view. Robin was not responding to what was happening to her. I saw the children sitting on the ground with the teacher at their helm, reading. The teacher’s lower jaw was torn off and his tongue was dangling halfway down to his chest as he appeared to be trying to continue the reading of “Hatchet.” The incoherent, wet sound of the tongue clicking distracted from the toothy jaw that sat neatly in his lap. The facial muscles dripped bright red blood onto his shirt with each wag of the tongue.
I tried to escape my photo album of terror, but I realized that I couldn’t see the tent anymore. I was still in my memory, silently watching, but feeling everything. I couldn’t make any sounds, but I was hysterical. I couldn’t stop any of it, but I was unraveling. My mind, my prison, flashed through memories of my whole life like one of those flip-books, and in every image was this tall and sentient darkness, with eyes that shone like liquid mercury, seeking me from behind desks, under beds, in the trees, under the waters of lakes. It had been everywhere. They had been everywhere, always.
I’m still in here, somewhere. I don’t know where my body is or how to get back to it. All I have is this picture-book of my life steadily being consumed by shadows. Now I can see and feel everything. I can hear chewing.
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