JOURNEY OF A ROGUE MEMORY

By Lubhavni Gupta

“Imagine what could happen in a lifetime,” Mother said as she drove me in her old, run-down

car. “Imagine what could happen if you kept getting better and better.”

She was taking me to the ballet auditions for the show coming up on Broadway - auditioning for background dancer. It was too hard, I knew I wasn’t going to get it, I didn’t want to try. “It’s not about winning, Juliet,” my mom said. “It’s about experiences. Experiences are what matter the most.”

“So you want me to remember the day that judges criticize me and -“

Crash. The car collided against another.

It upturned.

Petrol leaked all over the car.

It was in ruins, broken, glass everywhere.

“Get out!” Mom screamed as she struggled against the window.

I was small enough to squeeze through.

I ran out, running away from the car as fast as I could.

I turned back after twenty meters. Looked back.

My mother trying desperately to break through the jammed window.

But it was too small.

I watched her struggling against the glass.

And then it all blew into flames.

***

I am just a memory. A rogue memory of a traumatic accident. I knew from the second I was created that I did not belong. This mind was too positive, too happy, too loving. I hated these memories with a kind of feral loathing. I just wanted to disappear from this unknown landscape, but I was much too colossal in Juliet’s mind. So I decided to take a journey across the realms. If I was not granted kinship, I would establish supremacy. I am by far the most traumatic memory this young girl has ever had, and I want nothing more to inflict the damage, misery and suffering that I am made of.

Oh, my. This land reeks of joy. Memories of happiness and fun engulfed me in their merciless laughter. A particularly joyful memory came up to me: going to the park on Sundays, getting ice cream, talking about the girl’s dreams of becoming a famous ballerina. How awful. “Do you think your mother really believed in your dreams?” I was taunted. “She just did it to distract you, to pretend everything was perfect when there were bills sitting at home, waiting to be paid.” That’s more like it. Now I sensed doubts, the development of skepticism, and hints of isolation. Immediately I felt more at home. Her past was duller, but I was getting stronger. 

I felt nauseated here. Pride and accomplishment. It is truly humorous the way little girls think they are capable of anything worthwhile. “The first time I landed a perfect pirouette, Mom hugged me tightly, and I felt like I could conquer anything,” a memory called to me. Blind young

Juliet. “If you hadn’t been so obsessed with ballet, your mother wouldn’t be driving to the audition. Maybe, if you had been smarter, she would still be here. Right now. Holding your hand.” She was transforming from a confident optimist to an insecure, self-critical and overwhelming regretful person who was consumed with guilt. Her personality was shattered, but I was getting stronger. 

The horrors in this mind never seem to cease. I felt a pang of distastefulness as I entered the land where memories of love and companionship reside. A reassuring memory told me, “Whenever I felt nervous about my ballet auditions, Mom would hold my hands and tell me I was good enough. She always made me feel safe.” What a mistaken young lady. “If she really thought you were good enough, why didn’t she fight harder to stay? Maybe she didn’t love you as much as you thought she did. Otherwise she would still be here.” I sensed the beginnings of deep abandonment and rejection, seeing the love and support she experienced being interpreted as a failed promise. Her relationships were fading, but I was getting stronger. 

Hope. Dreams. Such a positive outlook towards the future. Her ambitions, her wishes. It was a pathetic sight. Dreams about becoming famous, dancing in front of large audiences, starring in big productions. These memories weren’t just accounts of the past; they were dreams in the form of memories. “You thought ballet would take you places. But what’s the point now? You were fooling yourself if you thought you could get anywhere. The only thing that ever mattered is gone, and it’s all due to you.” Her optimistic view of herself was erased and turned into helplessness. Her hopes were destroyed, but I was getting stronger. 

I changed her past. 

Her memories are the only account she had of her past. I turned her joyful times into pointless moments, her loving relationships into feelings of rejection and guilt, her accomplishments into hopeless dreams. Her happy childhood had become a fountain of despair. I changed her personality. 

I made her cynical and guarded, questioning the sincerity of all relationships. I made her insecure and guilt-ridden, internalizing blame. I made her reclusive and self-doubting. I made her apathetic and disillusioned, having given up the future she once dreamed of. 

I am just a memory. A rogue memory of a traumatic accident, placed in a young mind where I did not belong. Created to terrorize, to haunt, to torment. And I can only do that if I am allowed to by the person whose mind in which I reside. 

This entire thought process lasted about five minutes. 

Imagine what could happen in a lifetime.