Memory 590. Memory 591. Memory 592.
I do not know where they went. Perhaps they were swallowed by the haze of illusions that were never mine to remember. So I borrowed memories from other people, and somewhere along the way, misplaced the few that had truly belonged to me.
The night passes with unsaid words, unshed tears, unheard echoes, and an unforgiven me.
Me? The one who forgot that borrowing is no sin - but failing to return what was borrowed is. I had only one hand with which to take. The other had been severed, and I cannot remember when.
Perhaps I had no name to answer to, no story worth telling, and nowhere left to go but the place where thorns grow, roses wither, and crows never spare a glance -
Home.
I walk as the thorns pierce my skin. I wince, yet the pain never reaches the room where my memories are kept, as though even suffering has been denied permission to exist. I smile at a crow. It answers with a glare sharp enough to wound. I hum a melody beneath my breath, but the House of memories refuses me once more.
I step into the living room. People decide to speak before they listen. Before I can even blink, their eyes wander over me - my weight beneath oversized spectacles, robes worn thin, hair more tangled than a bird's abandoned nest.
I suppose first impressions survive longer than first conversations.
The light refuses to awaken. Perhaps it, too, despises my touch. So I sit quietly in the corner, where dams crack, yet never enough to break. Perhaps the opinions of those who never cared were never meant to matter.
Or perhaps...
I have simply forgotten how to tell the difference between those who cared and those who merely watched.
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142,249 Literary Works • 677,084 Reviews
Hi Aster! I wanted to check out your work, and this blew me away as the first piece you've posted on here! This is a lovely piece that deals in abject imagery to show how a speaker losing their own memories means they have no identity or home, and how this represents a person who feels that no one really sees them. It's a brilliant piece, and at times relies too heavily on metaphors but I don't think that's so bad in a short piece like this.
Observations whilst reading:
I love the idea of numbering memories, turning them into something you categorise specifically. Usually, memory is a fluid thing, but this instantly sets the tone for the piece, something a bit unusual and unsettling, perhaps. It makes the loss feel administrative.
I love this idea here, especially the idea of borrowing other people's memories. I guess my slight confusion here is that you say you don't know when they went, that they weren't yours, but then you say, 'so I borrowed memories from other people, and somewhere along the way, misplaced the few that had truly belonged to me,' which makes me think that this borrowing happened after you'd already misplaced the memories, but is also the reason you misplaced them in the first place? This could be exactly what you intended, but to me, it would make sense if instead of 'so', you said, 'maybe '? Just an idea; obviously you should play around with this yourself!
I also think 'the haze of illusions that were never mine to remember' verges on explaining the emotions more than it shows it.
These are fragments that don't make sentences on their own. This is a great device to use, and it really makes an impact here. I love this idea. I think the second part could flow a little better since you say that you 'forgot' that borrowing is no sin, you should also link the second part of the sentence should also relate to that. Something like: Me? The one who forgot that borrowing is no sin, and that failing to return what was borrowed is.
This is such a lovely description!
A very astute observation
The 'where dams crack' is a striking image, but it arrives a bit suddenly. The narrator is sitting in a corner and then, all at once, there are dams. Just one line of setup for this metaphor would help.
Aww thank you so much for such detailed feedback! I'll make sure to work on them <3
I enjoyed this piece. It has a distinct literary voice, and I appreciated the recurring imagery. The severed hand is an effective image; it connects naturally to the idea of taking without being able to return. The description of “Home” establishes a fittingly bleak atmosphere. The prose maintains a cohesive and compelling tone.
Some of the metaphors compete with one another. I would consider trimming a few of the less essential images so the strongest ones have more room to stand out. The narrator's repeated use of “perhaps” fits their uncertainty, but could become repetitive if used this frequently throughout a longer work. The piece's strongest quality is its voice, notably when the surreal imagery is connected to the narrator's struggle with memory and identity.
Thank you for this read.
Thank you soo much!
I'll work on the feedback 🫡