Cupboard Love

Cupboard Love

The market place looms up ahead of me, as I stand still observing my
surroundings. The cool wind blows my hair out of my face, and blows a
smile onto my face, momentarily relieving me of the sweltering heat. It
passes and I stand again, solemn and unnerved by a place I know nothing
of: confused by the brightness, the sounds - overwhelmed by it all,
like I have just awoken in this world.
I hear laughter to my right, and turn my head abruptly to find its
source. There are children, three of them. They are playing in the
street, covered in dust, content with what little they have, full of
joy and innocence, unknowing what I? but I can't recall knowledge of
anything. Yet, I feel privileged - like I had so much more at their
age.
A doll, I can remember a small doll now, which is carried around by a
small child in white stockings and a tartan dress. The doll is
delicate, fragile but still strong. Its golden ringlets hang down past
its pale china face, past its cherry-red lips and down past its
shoulders and only stopping at its elbows. It wears white stockings and
a tartan dress. The child smiles in my memory and I realise that I am
her - she is me, but I look in on these memories like they are not
mine. I am a stranger in my own past.
She cries now. The doll is broken. She yearns for another, but is
refused, and told that she should have been more careful with the last,
that she doesn't deserve another. Maybe if she had never known of such
niceties, like the children near me, she would not have been so upset.
She would have been content with nothing, if something hadn't got there
first.
My privileged feelings turn to jealousy of such a simple life. I wish I
could roll around in the dirt, but I fear the girl in my vision would
not have been allowed, in case she ruined her pretty dress, the one, I
remember, made especially for her, to match the dolls.
Beads of sweat roll down my face, it is high noon. I suddenly become
aware of my pale skin burning as I stand exposed on the dust road. I
think nothing of it for minutes more, wanting to remain still and
peaceful, but with great effort I move into the shadow sluggishly, and
only because I know it's in my best interest. I close my eyes as the
coolness surrounds me, wrapping me in a blanket of soothing
darkness.
When I open them again, I am no longer in the barren, brittle, dried
out country, but a lush wet one. The girl is there again, but she is
older and without any doll. She leans over a pan, in which there is a
scorching hot liquid - milk, I think. She draws away, but at the same
time upsets the pan, and it falls onto the bare skin of her arms and
face, burning and scorching. She yells out, crying for help, clutching
at her wounds. She collapses to the ground; no one answers her cries.
Her nanny eventually comes to sooth the hurt, but her late arrival
means that the skin blisters and peels painfully, revealing the red
raw, itchy and uncomfortable layers beneath. Weeks later her face has
healed perfectly, but on her arms deep scars remain.
My eyes snap open properly now, I'm back in the real world. I find that
my breathing is quick and uneasy, and I have been crying from the
vision. I examine my arms desperately and find that my fears were true:
long, deep scars run up my arms, and I gulp, leaning out one of my arms
to steady myself.
It comes to rest on a fruit and vegetable stall, and realising what it
is, I have a sudden urge to be with my parents. I dig down deep into my
memory and suddenly recollect that they owned a chain of organic
supermarkets. They were very profitable, and I used to stack the fruit
and vegetable shelves on Saturdays. Another smile spreads across my
face, as I reminisce: I had such a great time, fooling around with all
my friends who also worked there. We had such a laugh.
But now I wonder what happened to those days. How I came to be here,
not there. What happened in between?
I take a step closer towards the stall, hoping that if can get closer,
perhaps to feel the smooth surface of the apples or carefully examine
the pineapples, I might be able to remember more. As I make my way
slowly, something brushes against my hair, and I snap my hair up to see
what. Hanging down above my head is a purple flower. Its long, long
elegant leaves surround it, and line the shoot which leads up to the
tree from which it grows. They are exotic and beautiful, unlike
anything I'd ever seen before. They deep, royal purple petals overlap
each other, creating a long, thin tube-like structure, before bursting
apart at the opening, revealing a delicate yellow structure. Taking one
of the flowers in my fingers I observe every inch with my curious eyes,
sucking in the detail - wanting to know all, if not more, there is to
know, as though I had never seen such marvel before. I stretch to smell
the scent, but instead catch another more pungent aroma: spices.
I sniff thrice more, trying to distinguish where the smell originated.
I catch sight of something on the ground. On closer inspection I find
it is a thin line of saffron, and I follow it, one foot in front of the
other, crushing the spice as I go, until I find the stall to which it
belongs.
There is every variety imaginable, from chilli to curry powder and
beyond, each giving off its particular flavour, before they all mix
together in an interesting and yet somehow pleasant smell. I take a
pinch of saffron and taste it, mimicking the few around me. The taste
is pleasing, and I suddenly become very hungry. I was unaware until now
of the rumblings from my famished stomach and decided to go in search
of something wholesome to satisfy my hunger.
But as I queue up at the nearest food stall, surrounded by natives, I
suddenly become very aware of myself. I feel? out of place, as if
everything belongs except for me. I'm different to the others: they
laugh and smile, run around freely in the barren landscape. They know
each other, but I am alone. Yet, if I don't belong, why am I here? How
did I get here? Millions of questions flood my conscience, overwhelming
me, distracting me from my hunger. All I know is that I need to get out
- out from the crowd that surrounds me, out of this village I am in. I
want to feel safe, like I have before.
I start to run form the food queue, only to find myself running deeper
into the community. Moe and more people surround me, stepping swiftly
out of my way as I hurtle through. As suddenly as I had started, I stop
running, and double over, with a sharp pain searing through my upper
body, as I try to regain my breath.
As I stand back up I find I am in front of a pottery stall. There are
jugs and jars, bowls and dishes of all variety, shape, form, pattern
and colour. My eye comes to rest upon a shiny blue flower pot. It's
very simple looking, but amazingly beautiful, and I reach my hand out
to feel the smooth edges. As I do so I also catch sight of a strange
thing: my reflection. I see myself for what seems like the first time
in a long while and I see how much the little girl in my visions has
changed. My hair, once bouncy and glossy now lies greasy and limply
down by my face, which is pale and blotchy. I touch my skin, before
brushing the hair out of my face, revealing my expression clearly. It's
dazed and confused, but as I realise how ridiculous I must appear to
onlookers, I smile, and then wince as I see the look of peace which
comes with the smile, as if unable to believe it.
The next thing I notice in the pot is my clothes. It's of local origin,
light and floaty. The colour is rich and creamy and lengths of material
criss-cross over me tightly around the bodice, before flaring out
loosely, so that when I spin around, the skirt fills with air and puffs
out. It surrounds me and rubs against my skin gently and wonderfully,
unlike anything I ever knew before.
My shoes are also very different to the type I'd normally wear; in fact
they are entirely peculiar. They're very plain and unshapely, heavy and
masculine, with NO HEEL! I always wear heels. With everything assessed,
I come to the conclusion that someone must have dressed me. After all,
I certainly can't remember putting these clothes on, they're not to my
taste, more like? I vaguely remember someone, but the more I dig down
into my memory, the more I forget. In the end I give up, the identity
of my dresser will have to remain anonymous; I don't have the energy to
work it out.
Instead I fiddle with something around my neck. It's cold to the touch,
but so delicate you can barely feel it. I find the catch and unhook the
chain, and place it onto the palm of my hand. I find that it is a
silver crucifix on a silver chain. The detail is so fine that you can
see the expression on Jesus' face, as he hangs from the seemingly
elegant cross. So, I know what this object is for, I know it is
religious, but I don't know why I have it. I can never remember being
particularly religious, I never learnt to be. Only, I was christened,
not that it's a particular oddity in this day and age. As far as I can
tell, for most people it isn't a particularly religious action now,
only that it's done so that a child is officially named. To most
people, the promises they make in the church are quickly forgotten. If
that's so, why do I have it? There must be some rational explanation
for everything that seems so abnormal to me.
As I am now fairly wary of this necklace, I feel reluctant to put it
back about my neck, and instead search for a pocket in the flowing
material. I find one in the skirt, and as I push the chain far down
into it, a piece f paper rumples beneath my stiff fingers. I draw it
out and hold it in front of my face, wincing as I try to make out the
smudged, typed script.
Eventually I manage and discover the card is from a hospital.
Surprised, I eagerly turn it over, hoping to find something out - the
missing link to reveal why I feel so ignorant, that maybe this void of
missing memories will be filled if I can remember why I have a card
from a hospital.
There is a hand written message scribbled on the back reading: 'Come
back if you need us Marge, we are always here.'
I suddenly have the most overwhelming urge to return to this hospital -
it seems so friendly and welcoming. Only fear overtakes, uncertainty
keeps me held to the ground, unable to move, speak (not that I was
doing much of that in the first place) or change my facial expression
to show those around me what I am feeling, if they care to look.
As I argue with my conscious, someone approaches, although I don't
realise until his shadow is cast upon me. I look up, scanning his tall
frame as I go, until my eyes settle on his dark brown ones. As I try to
remember him, his hand touches my cheek, before he embraces me tightly.
As I am surrounded by his arms, I feel at home again, safe even, like I
belong - but I cannot for the life of me remember why.
My face must have had a dazed look on it when he pulled away, because
he spoke to me angrily: "Come on Marge, snap out of it, we have a plane
to catch."
I notice that although his voice is angry, his heart is not really
annoyed with me, and his face shows signs of concern and sympathy for
me.
I look back down at the hospital card, and see the name Marge Nicholsen
on it. That must be me, after all 'Marge' is how he referred to me, and
surely it would be too much of a coincidence for me to have picked up a
card belonging to another woman of the same name.
Now my mind turns to my present situation, I now have an identity, but
that's it. Why was I in hospital? I need to know, I?
Suddenly everything falls into place. I must have had some kind of
accident. That would certainly explain the hospital and if it had been
serious, maybe those around me had turned to religion to pray for my
well being, and that would explain the crucifix.
Unfortunately, answering these questions only leads me to generate
more, and make the unanswered ones seem more poignant: Where am I? Who
am I? What accident did I have? Who's this stranger?
My thoughts came blurting out, as I cry desperately:
"Who am I? Where am I? What's happening? What's happened? Help me
please!" I desperately cling onto the stranger, and in my hysteria I
feel myself being dragged onto a plane and after that, no more.

The next time I open my eyes I find that I am in a bright, airy room,
with pine furnishing and large open windows. Sun streams in and I
smile. I know I'm home. Suddenly the door opens, and the man from what
I thought was a dream walks in, and I realise that it was, in fact,
reality. I stare intensely at him, trying to work out who he is, and
how he knew where I live. He notices that I have woken and the way I
look at him, and after raising an eyebrow in a surprised manner, he
speaks:
"My, my. The doctor said you might have some memory loss, but I didn't
think you'd forget who I was - I'm your husband silly. Well, I suppose
if you can't remember that, you're not likely to remember anything, are
you?" He paused, and looked down at me; I shook my head in reply. "I'll
tell you all then, but I warn you, you may not like everything you
hear.
"We were on our honeymoon on the small island of Tuvalu. It was a hot
day - hotter than usual that is - and we were on a rock climbing and
abseiling course, the climb to the top had exhausted you. I saw you
peer over the edge, leaning precariously, but it wasn't until the
descent that you?" he paused, pretending to be pained at remembering
the event, only instead an evil smile flickered over his face. "All I
could do was watch as the rope supporting you snapped, slackened and
fell away taking you with it. When we reached you at the bottom you
were unconscious and your head was bleeding." His face darkened and he
mumbled under his breath angrily, and as if he was disappointed. "You
lay comatose in the hospital for days. I thought you wouldn't wake up,"
I didn't want you to, I heard him say in his mind. I gasped audibly: I
remember it all now - and so clearly, he? I try to move away from him,
pushing back against the bed head, my eyes wide with fright. His eyes
light up as he realises I know.
"You cut the rope!" I cry. The image of a small blade working away at
the top of the cliff plays in my mind, I was the only one who noticed -
but why did he do it?
"Yes," he replies solemnly, "I cut it, and do you want to know why?
Because I hate you so much. Of course, that wasn't the only reason; I
also wanted your wealth. I'd been planning this event for ages: I made
you love me, and when you accepted my marriage proposal I knew that it
would all work out - that my plan would succeed. I waited a while, and
then when the time was right I made my move, cutting the rope from
above you, when no one was looking. Unfortunately I must have
miscalculated, so the fall wasn't to your death. However you may have
escaped death before, but now you won't be so lucky."
He produced a knife from his hand, and began to advance towards me,
walking closer and closer, a look of pure pleasure mixed with evil on
his face, I cry out in alarm:
"Please, no, you can't! You can have my money - whatever, just don't
kill me please!" Tears stream down my face and I try to run from him,
but my legs won't work. In desperation I try to tell him the secret I
was saving, to surprise him with before all this happened:
"I'm pre-"
Marge's husband thrust the knife into her heart, killing her instantly,
finally achieving his goal.
It was not until after the post mortem that he discovered that he had
not only killed his wife, but the child she was carrying - his
baby.