If Memory Serves Right
By Joy Schumtz
Content warning: mentions of suicide, abuse, childhood trauma, and gruesome descriptions
15(1) pills. That’s all it takes, to end this. 15 pills, down the hatch. The cold floor of the bathroom seems more welcoming than ever. More than those nights full of crying. More than childhood nights of the stomach flu. Those 15 pills made the floor seem soft, comfier than any bed no matter how tired. I’ve never been this tired before. Tired enough to sleep forever.(2)
As my eyes open I’m standing on a wide red line. Like a red carpet a celebrity would stand on. The room is less than glamorous though. It is dark, my body on the floor, slumped over on itself, leaning on the bathtub, eyes closed and drooling out the side of my mouth. It looks peaceful. Stepping forward the room shifts. In a quick movement I stand looking at myself sneaking out of my room with a bottle of pills. It’s obvious it’s in my pocket, but no one is in the hall. I’m still on the line looking at myself from an hour ago. Past me seems unfazed, unaware of my presence, of our success. Past me looks like they still need that hour to psyche themselves into my current state. I step forward.
Another jump in time. I see an even younger version of myself getting off the bus. Tired from school. The pajamas I’m wearing are the ones I wore exclusively months ago. Low saturation colorful pajama pants with little cats on them and an oversized black sweatshirt with monkeys on the sleeves. Both have sauce stains that have been poorly wiped off. It’s clear I’d been wearing them for days as the sweat stains are clear even from across the street where I stand. I look like I smell. Hair was unbrushed and thrown into something you could argue is a bun, but the mats make it unclear. As the younger me approached I could tell I had been crying. My eyes didn’t seem too puffy, but mascara traced the sides of my cheeks. At least I had tried to look nice that day, but that never seems to end well for me.
Another step on the red pathway. I wanted to leave after I saw my sorry state. At least I was able to clean up today without any issues. I thought it would be easier if I just wore what I wanted to be buried in. I don’t really want to be buried, but I know it’s a family tradition to be put in the old mausoleum. Eternally trapped in the red brick on one of the cold marble benches. I’d rather be in the ground, damp and with the bugs, rather than the other deceased. I’ve always liked bugs, especially worms. Puddles on the ground and worms on the high points of the cement. They just want to survive the flooding, and yet people step on them, crushing them, pushing them to the ground, flat, dead.
I stop walking forward. Years have flashed by. I stood in the old chapel, family and friends all around. I step off the path. I wasn’t sure where I was going, but muscle memory kicked in. I walked through the crowd, phasing through people. Time doesn’t move unless I’m walking on the path. I go behind my past self, next to the casket. My hair was so long then, and had been styled even though the days before I remember refusing to move out of bed. I remember the pain of pulling all the tangles out for that… this day. The younger me was sobbing, but as I looked in the casket the face seemed less pale than I remembered.
(1) Not based on my life, but written in first person to seem more informal and personal, along with keeping the protagonist androganist to make them more relatable to more people.
(2) Psyche dies before her rebirth, and has died before the ending. Literal death and rebirth/resurrection. It also relates 44 | RUSHLIGHT to Psyche’s constant attempts of suicide.
(Continuing on page 45 of the Rushlight magazine)
