For today, we have a short story I wrote around the theme of self-image and how you might want other people to remember you. No real warnings to speak of, but it is a little bit sad. It actually has a very similar vibe to Lighter Fluid, my novella, which you can read for free here! But anyway, onto the short story!
This Is How I Want You To Remember Me
Broken. Delicate. To be handled with kid gloves. A shattered window pane. Petals falling from a rose, touched too roughly, unable to hold itself together. Fragile. On the verge of self-destruction. Errant sparks catching on hay, blossoming into an uncontrollable blaze.
The words glisten. Cherry-red ink, still wet, stains the lined page of my notebook. I don’t know why I’m using this pen. The plastic casing is chipped, the branding scattered and unreadable. This isn’t me.
But it is. Bold. Bright. Daring. Devious. Devious? No, I’m heading down fantastical lines of thought, keeping myself out of reality because I can’t bear to admit the truth to myself. I’m sitting in this toilet cubicle, with this pen and this notebook deposited on the tiled floor, red ink on my hands. It’s silent.
I should be in lesson. Stomach ache, that’s the excuse I gave her. Ms. Leigh. Kind face, kind heart. Naive. How can an old person be naive? It doesn’t make sense, but she believed the story. Swallowed it like a stupid fish nibbling at bait before being dragged out of the water. I should be in lesson.
I should be in lesson. Why did I write that? Why are my pale fingers clutching the pen once more? Only the buzzing of the air conditioning responds to me, dull and flat. A monotone, forever present. I’m not in lesson. Well, that’s even worse. Needless. Not needed. I’m not needed.
Now they’re spiralling out of control, those bulging red lines, fat with ink. Greedy. My fingers support them even as my brain chides them, telling them to stop, telling them they’re stupid. I’m stupid. That’s not what this is about.
“How would you like people to remember you, dear?” A phantom voice, drifting through the cubicle, belonging to a vivid memory. Not long ago. Days, weeks. Time has blurred into a meaningless cycle, but I think it’s days.
“What do you mean?” Although it’s my voice, my throat is still. Another phantom. Another ghost. Another memory–no, it’s the same as the last. I feel as if I’m eavesdropping, as my wrist fails and lets the pen scribble meaningless swirls onto the paper. “When I’m dead?”
“No, not quite.” Laughter, patronising. I hate you. Buried beneath scrawl, the words can barely be made out. I hate you. Again. They become bolder, but only visible to someone who’s looking for them. Like me. “Imagine if someone leaves your life, for whatever reason–like Rebecca.” Becca. Why did she have to leave? I know it’s childish to think like this, but everything was better before she went. “How would you want Rebecca to remember you?”
The phantoms end their speech, fading into obscurity. My blurry eyes look down at the paper, a mess of red. I don’t know why I’m writing with this pen. I don’t know why I do anything anymore. To be remembered?
I don’t know what you think of me. Ripping the old paper away, I start a new page. The scrunched-up ball, accompanied by a chemical stench, ends up in the toilet bowl. I can’t change what you think of me. This is all stupid. But I want you to know that whatever you think is wrong. You always said I was perfect. Not perfect, not always, but other words. You know what I mean. You said it. But it wasn’t true.
A single tear leaks out of the corner of my eye, running down my cheek. Slight nausea pinches my stomach. This is reality. Feeling sad, feeling sick, feeling useless. Hiding. Writing stupid words because a stupid counsellor said they’d make me feel better. I wish she could see me now, doing her stupid exercise.
Bitter liquid drips onto my trembling lips. I don’t know what I’m doing, but I never have. This is nothing new. Remember me as a human, Becca. Remember me as a person. Remember me as the one who tripped you up and sent you to A&E, but also the one who gave you my lunch when you had none. Remember us sharing energy drinks sat on the park, when I yelled at those little kids and made one of them cry, then you yelled at me. I’m not perfect. I’ve never been perfect. I don’t want you to remember me
“Leah Knowles, I saw you enter this bathroom twenty minutes ago–we’ve talked about your skiving before. Get out right now and come with me.”
That’s not a phantom. That’s the voice of authority, the one I can’t disobey here. Not unless I want more trouble.
I rub my face with a dark blazer sleeve, picking up the notebook as I struggle to my feet, legs cold and buzzing with pins and needles. I don’t want you to remember me. I didn’t mean to leave it like that.
But maybe it’s the truth.
Oskar Leonard 