Fiction Short Story: Betraying Memories (Fiction Short Story)

I wish there was a way to remove unwanted memories. How is it that I can choose to register certain experiences, but our brains have not evolved to a point where I can successfully unregister them? As life seems to enjoy ironies, the unwanted memories tend to get immense airtime in our brains. The places, smells, tastes, views, and people that I long to forget continuously reappear in my conscious and subconscious. In my attempt to forget them, I find myself unknowingly drawn to – obsessed with – them. They become like an unwanted drug to which I have become addicted. If I was granted one wish of deleting a set of memories, I would choose to delete Him.

I met Him at a food festival – it was one of those summer afternoons that I delegated as “me time”. After my recent divorce from my husband of 3 years, I begin to passionately dedicate endless days to solely myself. I was determined to find happiness with my own company that season – it was the season I was choosing me. As part of my healing from the divorce, I wasn’t seeking companionship. I needed to enjoy loneliness. I was desperate to convince myself that being alone was better than being in misery with the source itself. On that hot Saturday, I stood in line waiting to have my taste of Jamaican jerk chicken and coco bread until he rudely intercepted me and then charmed me into a whirlwind Summer romance.

We spent 5 hours together after settling our dispute about what our true positions in the jerk chicken queue were. With his disarming smile, he unlocked so many secrets of my heart. He was the first person with whom I could honestly share the true reasons I chose to walk away from a marriage that seemed alright from the outside. He understood my need for emotional support, the emptiness that consumed our home though two people resided in it, the suffocating loneliness I endured because my husband refused to attend to the root of his avoidant attachment style, and even my reasons for finally cheating on my husband and refusing to fix our marriage despite his willingness to forgive me. He listened intently with great understanding and without one ounce of judgement. Those precious 5 hours unlocked the door for a Summer that would open my eyes to true intimacy, but also leave me wondering if I would ever establish such an emotional connection with another again. 

I think I have logically accepted that we couldn’t be, but I hate my memory for always triggering some emotion in me every single time I see something that reminds me of Him or that era. When I hear Lucky Daye, I cringe because I want to enjoy the song but the song itself betrays me by reminding me of the nights we spent mouthing the words, using those words to connect. When I drive by the thrift store, I detest the fact that I can’t even purchase the beautiful items I see constantly in the display windows, because I am not strong enough to withstand the musky smell because we made so many jokes together about how much he hated that smell. I hate that I see his street address and instantly picture myself driving and parking in his garage. I did it so often that I almost have to resist the urge to make that left turn instead of going straight. I hate that my social media algorithm keeps reading my mind and constantly flashes his profile, as if to taunt me emotionally. The most heart-breaking memory is his scent. When I’d hug him, when I’d kiss him, when he’d hold me, when he’d wrap me in his blanket as we fell asleep, I would take large sniffs of his delightful scent as if to never forget. They say smell is the strongest sense related to memory. Damn science.

More importantly, I wish the earth would open up and swallow his home. I have tried so many attempts to uncover other routes that get me to work without me having to pass his street, but it seems like forces are working against my yearning for peace and recovery. I have to see that grey house – the same grey house I unintentionally fell in love. The grey house surrounded by beautiful flowers whose flourishing I grew accustomed to monitoring. This grey house where my lips found the courage to speak of past evil that had been committed on my body. The grey house where I felt like I had finally been seen by a man. Oh, I hate this grey house so much. I want to be able to see the house and feel nothing but my memories are determined to unfailingly betray me.  

Over time, I made emotional progress and found myself being able to smile genuinely when I passed the house. I found myself being at peace with the memories that his grey house rekindled everytime I passed it. I even hoped I would see him outside on his lawn during my drive by; I imagined that I would give a friendly wave and polite smile, showing him that I was not broken by our demise. 

Today, I did see him on his lawn on my drive back from work. The experience was not as I imagined. I bore witness to him passionately kissing another woman on the porch of the grey house, the same way he’d done with me in the summer. Just when I thought I made peace with my memories, I now find myself re-battling my memories. I am begging my memories to be rid of him, his smell, his house, and our love, but my emotions have joined the party and I find myself right back to the end of summer, nursing a heartbreak that is incomparable to that which came with my divorce.