Sometimes I run into walls—mentally, emotionally, or even physically. When I edge closer to remembering what happened all those years ago, I tense. It feels like it's there then it's gone.
Frustration boils underneath my skin as I chuck a rock out into the frothing sea. The smell of salt stings my nose, and I don't get to hear the satisfying plop sound. I can't hear anything over the roaring tide, crackling thunder, and incessant seagulls. Despite my draw to the sea, right now, in this moment, I hate it.
The scents taunt me with the sensations of the past and nothing more. I remember the gut-wrenching heartache and pain. But, no matter how many scents and feelings the beach conjures, it never lets me know what happened.
Why was I left here? What happened to the others of my kind? Did I do something wrong? Was I the cause of my parents death?
"And why won't the one person who does know tell me!" I yell, throwing another rock as hard as I can. Lightning flashes and thunder clashes. I scream over the noise. I pull at my hair, and fall to my knees.
"Why don't I remember who I am?"
In a whisper, I hear a word, a simple name. Nothing more, nothing less.
Meri.