Can You Remember?

“Do you remember me?”  The voice was soft. Unsure and hesitant. In front of him he could see the slim figure, hands twisted together with their eyes hiding behind thick, curly, blonde hair.

“I feel that I should,” he responded to the hazy figure. There was nothing around him, simply an emptiness that felt never ending. Everything was white, with the exception of the two people in the room. He could feel his own presence, but was unable to remember how he looked.

“It’s sad.. I’ve called your name so many times, but you never answer.” The voice dropped in a pitch, obviously upset. Their eyes searched for a hint of recognition, but what they searched for was not there. He was at a loss. Why was this person so upset to see his face? He couldn’t even recall his own appearance, let alone this stranger. “Your eyes tell me you remember nothing, but even so.. I’ll continue to call to you. Your heart will  hopefully listen.”

He could tell. The voice was pained. “Just tell me who you are. Can’t you do that?” He was desperate now. Who was this mysterious person? Why were they speaking to him as if he knew who they were? Their hair was tied up in a large ribbon, but still their bangs covered most of the face. Still, he could make out a scar covering half the face. Was it streaks of red he saw running down their cheek? He knew he was not permitted to know who this was, simply by being told. It was something he needed to figure out himself.

“I cannot.. You know that as well, but if I keep calling.. You’ll answer.” There was something in that answer that brought him a heavy feeling in his heart. He should already know, but he did not.

“And if I do not?” he asked with the shaky unsure tone his voice had been holding back. He watched the scarred face, hidden behind most of its hair.

A pause of silence. For a moment he felt himself slip away, the figure in front of him falling farther away. “I will call until my voice breaks on me.”

The sentence caused a chored of recognition to hit inside of him, but that was simply it. He was sure that he had heard the same sentence before. Somewhere along his life and it had meant much to him, but when? He parted his lips slightly, ready to ask for more, but the person in front of him spoke again, turning to the side.

“I hope that you will wake to my voice.. If time could reverse itself, I would change things..”

It was a hard impact that slammed into his chest. Suddenly his face was streaked with tears and his heart twisted painfully. What was the meaning of this? Why was he suddenly crying over a simple statement? He found himself falling to his knees, unable to breath as the tears continued to fall from his face. What did this mean? The question continued to repeat in his mind.

He woke with a gasp, his body flying forward as he struggled to breathe. Carefully, he brought a hand to his face, gently brushing away the tears. “I’ll remember,” he promised with a hushed whisper, the tears continuing to fall as he tried his best to control them.

Apocalypse

There was the sound of dripping water. The air was thick with ash, its blackened color covered everything in sight. The sun’s rays hardly reached over the horizon while the faint puff of white mist left his mouth. Worn out and torn wool blankets covered the trembling bodies. The fire’s orange glow slowly died down over the night, leaving only a further pile of ash and faint embers. It was the middle of the cold season and the world was dead. Trees bore no leaves, the snow that fell from the sky was mixed with black, and the bitter winds cut through the thickest of clothing.

Carefully, a young teen took away his blanket, placing it over the only of figure beside him, who did not stir. He watched the child sleep, watching as the blanket rose and fell with each breath. When the teen brought himself to move, he stepped away from the small huddle of a camp, walking towards the road. With the trees cleared, it was much easier to see the sun. Its shining yellowish glow barely peeking over the small town. Houses were burned to the ground and caved in, cars crashed into one another as well as other objects, trees had fallen over, and everything was covered with a black snow. The silence was painful to his hearing. Not a single sound was heard. The birds that normally chirped around this time were silent, the scurrying of a stray cat or dog was left unheard. There was simply no sound. It was the loudest his ears ever heard. Dimming eyes checked around before heading back to camp. He was not only the eyes for himself, but for the other.

The child was still sleeping even when he returned. He did not bother to wake him, for he needed his rest. The teen worked quickly on bringing the fire back to life, throwing in new wood and lighting it once again. He dug through the wagon, finally plucking off a small frying pan and the food that rested on top of everything., mainly canned foods. He opened up the aluminum container, peeling back its lid and pouring the contents in the pan. The sizzling pan woke the child up and he watched the body fly forward, blankets thrown about without a thought. A normal routine.

“I’m here,” he called to the child, watching the panicked expression quickly calmed. “Are you hungry?” he asked him,

“I’m always hungry,” the child pointed out.

The child was right, the question was foolish to ask. Food was hard to find and they needed to use it sparingly. The teen left the pan over the fire, taking the blankets the child had thrown and put them on top of the wagon. He pulled out two cups as well as a spoon before walking over to the child. He took his hand and led him to the fire. It was colder this morning and the fire would prevent the fragile boy from freezing.

“Here, keep yourself warm,” he commented lightly. The teen focused back on the food, taking it off the fire and pouring an even amount into each cup. He left to spoon for the child, taking his hand and gently placing it around the mug, leading his other hand to the spoon.

“I can do it myself,” the child spoke.

“I know that,” was all the teen said.

Silence followed after and the pair quickly finished off their meal. It was not long before they continued moving again. Trailing behind them was a faded red wagon, its paint chipped off and its wheels squeaking every few moments. Nailed to the sides were planks of wood, rising the sides so that they were able to carry more items. The teen held the handle of the wagon in one hand and in the other hand he held onto the child’s.

The whistling wind cut through the worn coats. It had started to snow again, black and white flakes mixed together as they became slush hitting the ground. Every few moments, he found his eyes searching behind them. Nothing was there. Nothing was ever there, but the feeling of being followed was difficult to shake off.

“It’s cold.” The boy’s voice cracked as he spoke.

“I know.” His voice weary as he spoke.

“Can we rest?”

“We’ve only gotten started.”

“What do you see?”

The conversation happened each day, several times a day. With the boy’s eyesight stolen from him the day he was born, he learned to depend on other senses. It amazed him to see this child interact with the world. The dimmed, almost hopeless eyes, met with the child’s own, dead eyes. For a moment, they simply stared at one another, although the boy unaware of what he was looking at.