Standing on the threshold, fingers on rusty metal, you wonder whether to take that last step. Once you go forward, there is no turning back.
You have forgotten everything: family, friends, love, loss. Every moment from birth until five days ago is a blank, a haze of impenetrable gray.
The memories have slithered away like eels from a net. (This metaphor comes easily. Were you a fisherman? A marine biologist? Or just weird?)
You do not know your name, first or last. You do not know whether you have ever loved, whether your mother ever held you in her arms, whether you have ever felt your heart shatter like porcelain.
You know only what was in the note: It has all been wiped clean, brain scrubbed until it gleamed, fresh and new as a baby’s. You have been destroyed, burned in the fire. Take your new birth. Embrace it. Move forward.
The Truth is behind a locked door. If you want to know, you must open it.
But once you know, you can never forget. You cannot be made clean again.
So you stand on the threshold and you wonder: Is it worth it?
Word Count: 194
This is for Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner. Thanks to rogershipp for running the challenge!
