I pretend. I have a knack for charging the void with little mind plays, where I can be anything and do anything.

This morning, I decided to pretend my apple juice was a mind eraser. I chugged it, took a nap, and woke up with my memory erased.

Scarcely knowing where I am, I find myself wrapped in scratchy green sheets in the middle of a cream-colored room. It’s quite homey, but there is this chill running through the interiors and seeping into my bones.

I stand up and start wandering around. I assume it’s a teenager’s room from the overabundance of posters marring the walls. I reach over to touch the face of this brunette woman on the wall, wondering if she holds a deeper significance to the owner of this room. I pick up a white shirt from the pile on the floor. It’s yellowing around the pits, and going down the sides, it seems to be shredded. You can’t really tell. I guess the owner is a creative person, restyling their clothes, making cutouts, and breathing new life into the fabric.

The clutter suffocates. I’ve stepped into a hoarder’s space. I suggest a remodeling and ‘a good riddance’ ritual to be held by a dumpster for all the worthless goods—except for this soccer player figurine. The way the red color of his jersey fades—because of the sweat from the owner’s once little palms—means it was cared for and played with a lot.

I exit the room, dragging my feet across the cold tiles. They are ceramic, rose, and cream-colored, having a glass-like layer applied on their surface that isn’t glossy enough. They make a cracking noise beneath  my soles  as if they’ve debonded in that spot.

Oh… a grand staircase, too.

Climbing down and stepping into a spacious living room, I let out a loud sound, hoping it would create an echo. 

I run my hands through the soft and bouncy cushions scattered along the blue couch and the adjacent armchair. I try to imagine people filling this room with laughter, arguments, stolen kisses, cuddles. There are some food crumbs stuck inside of the carpet; they are definitely filling it with… something.

The other side of the living room, where the dining table should be, is stacked with empty brown boxes. On the actual table, there are several packages of toothbrushes covered in red ‘on sale’ stickers and razors. A lot of razors. There is no empty space on the table to place a plate and eat like a normal person. It seems like the owner of this house is using this clutter to replace something… an absence. Of a person, maybe.

I catch a whiff of something… a malodor of some sort. Something burning. Burnt toast or coffee. It’s there for a second, then gone the next. Like a phantom smell, a hallucination.

Walking down a long corridor to a sunny room at the end, I pass by multiple crayon marks on the wall. The wall is covered in wet patches, peeling paint, and rising surfaces. I press on one of them, and more crumpled paint falls to the floor.

Does the teenager have siblings? It seems like someone has been measuring their height for years. I trace the carvings with my fingertip, wondering if I can pick up the memory like frequency. Can I touch an object and feel its story undulate—gently or brutally—through my being? Like a borrowed sense of experience?

Down the corridor and closer to the light, some splotches of red cover the walls. They are quite a stark color against the creamy paint. I want to say it could be wine stains, but the color is richer than that. A shudder runs through me, trying to picture what could have happened. Endless possibilities of children running with crayons, a nail polish going rogue, a wine bottle spilled, a wine bottle thrown against the wall in anger,  and cutting an innocent passerby.

My fingers twitch against the dots. The chill is more intense in this area. The sound of keys resonates through the house, followed by a heavy door shutting.

“Can you help me with these groceries, Mel?”

“Of course.”