Carter

Where am I? Who are you? Who am I? Why am I here and what am I doing?

Those were questions I often found myself asking: to those who were once close to me, others who were a mere memory locked somewhere in my subconscious, and others I never knew in the first place. Nothing seemed real anymore, and recollections that had once been true and just slipped from my psych with ease. There were times, even, when I would peer into the fogged mirror above the sink and wonder who was staring back. Those, however, were the bad days, when the sunlit mornings were short and night fell more quickly than it should. Or maybe that was all in my head. Such was the curse hindering us elderly.

Today was one of those days; the rays slicing through the curtains would not last long, I knew. From my bed, I could barely visualize the grass and blue skies polka-dotted with clouds. The grass I used to work with, plowing fields of grain and riding horseback. And the sky I played under, dancing and twirling, driving and whispering. There was a lot of whispering, I remembered. There were always so many secrets to share, and words of love and hate to spread like wildfire across our small town. Another quick glance blessed me with the sight of a mourning dove, a frequent visitor of mine. She glided to the sill and cooed her low, haunting sound. Before I had the chance to speak back to it, the grey bird ruffled its wings and flew off into the orange and red leaves of autumn. Unconsciously, I reached out my bony hand to the retreating fowl, praying for its return. It didn’t come back.

The room was silent, as was customary. Outside beyond my open door, few of the other grams tottered down the halls with their canes for breakfast. They mumbled to themselves in low murmurs, once in awhile questioning those around them where they were going. None of them I recognized.

My eyes drifted to the end of my bed, where my crooked feet were bundled in socks and alike plump sausages under the wool blanket. A grimace formed on my lips and I scrunched my nose; however, ignoring my better judgment, I slipped out of my bed gingerly and landed on my knotted toes. Groaning at the joint pains, I wobbled toward the wooden desk beside the television set and grabbed the lone book. Without bothering to change form my white nightgown, I slipped into a black sweater and woolen slippers, and hobbled out of my room. I had to grope the wall to stay upright, and nodded to those who passed by. Some of the nurses smiled at me, and greeted me with a warm hello, to which I said so back. It was only proper to do so, even if I didn’t know who they were.

Though part of me wasn’t sure what I was doing, where I was going or what book I was holding, a subconscious fraction led me down the winding halls and out the backdoor. Bitter air greeted my exposed face and legs and a tremble flew up my spine. Glancing around the greens, I saw a few elderly men and women were scattered around, with their families, in groups, or by themselves feeding birds. Shoving the book under my arm, I crossed my arms over my chest and started for a bench near the bank of the Souhegan River. Around me, a few of the tenants and their company waved and greeted me, with cheerful smiles decorating their chapped lips. I would smile back, but they’re identities confused me for I had no recollection of them. The breeze whipped my short, white hair and tickled my frigid calves as I continued on my trek.

“Bails!” a gruff voice called from behind me. I blinked, before shuffling around to meet two burgundy eyes and an unkempt beard. Spectacles balanced on the bridge of his nose, black rimmed and square. Who was this man? “What are you doing this early? Going for a walk?”

I didn’t want to be rude, seeing as this man seemed to know me, but I was still skeptical. In a soft voice, I answered, “Reading.” The man nodded, his excited eyes dulling at my response.

“It’s nice to see you, Bails,” he continued, taking a step toward me. I stumbled back, and he stopped. The two of us watched each other, different emotions flooding our minds. It seemed as though everyone around us had gone silent, even if they were still chattering away. Somewhere in the distance, a crow cawed.

“Bailey.” His voice was stern now. I didn’t answer, instead pressed my lips into a line. “Bailey, please tell me you know who I am. Please.” Silence.

His brown eyes were hurt when I didn’t answer him, but I wasn’t going to lie to a man I didn’t know. The unnamed person sent me a fragile smile and, with a salute and a “Have fun reading”, he was off. The man trudged toward the backdoor I had arrived from, and before entering the Home he glanced back at me. We exchanged a glance, both opposite and the same, before he disappeared behind the door. His eyes had looked glassy, I realized, but thought nothing more of it.

By the time I had reached the bench, even my brittle bones were chilled. It was as if a layer of ice had formed around me, and I regretted not putting on something warmer. But it was too late to turn back at this point, I thought as I sank into the wooden bench, book in hand. Only on closer inspection did I realize it was a diary, not a book. Its cover was old and torn, and the pages from what I could see were yellow with age. Somewhat like me. I skimmed the pages as I flipped aimlessly through the entries; some were short, while others took up pages. There were drawings too, taking the place of what would have been a long description. When I closed it, my eyes trailed over the front cover again. Across the front was a single word, begging me to begin my story:

Carter.