Butterfly

Stephanie is a 15-year old girl, living in London. Her mum died, when Stephanie was only 3 years old. Though, Stephanie has lost her memory. Not because of the loss of her mum, but... Something else. Nobody knows why exactly. But someday, Stephanie finds a strange picture, of her mum and... Another baby. A baby, that isn't Stephanie.
From that point on, Stephanie is haunted by horrifying dreams and strange visions.

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1. Memories

Memories… Reminiscences… Shattered… Never to be whole again… I lost my memory at a very young age. Why, I don’t know. Most people think it’s due to a very traumatic experience. Most people would probably think it’s the fact that my mother died from a disease when I was 2. But I remembered. I remembered at that time. I remembered all the way back, till the age of 5. All that I know before that point of my life is things that I’ve been told from my father. I can’t remember my mother. I’ve seen pictures. Pictures taken with my father. She looked happy. All, I can recall from my mother, is her hair, and the scent of her perfume. It smelt like… Cherry.

What disease she had, was never cleared. Her last note is framed on my wall. Never to be forgotten. A line, I can never forget is: “it’s my entire fault”. I know she cared for me. But I can’t help but to feel… That it was my fault. That I was the reason she died. When I’ve seen pictures from after I was born, she looked. Heartbroken. Hurt. As if something – or someone – was bringing her down. Could it be me? My memories of my time with my mother and father, was never clear, and now – 10 years after I lost my memory – they’re even vaguer.

My father has been heartbroken after my mother’s incident. Even 13 years after. He loved my mother higher than life itself. My mother was hospitalized the last one year before she died. I remember my dad reading her diaries for me after I lost my memory. Stories about him and my mom, about how I changed her life, and stories and poems she had written herself. They were beautiful. I had kept her diaries, as a memorial of her. One poem especially, I like to read, over and over again, starring a butterfly. A purple and golden butterfly. I’ve been told that the story is about me. But I doubt it once in a while. As the story progresses, the butterfly gets an illness, and has to fly away for all eternity. I have never had a disease of any kind. I have never even had the flu, which actually is quite remarkable. I’ve read the poem at least a hundred times, and that part wonders me every time. I’ve had the thought that it isn’t about me. But who else could it be?

I’ve also wondered why the butterfly is purple and gold. According to my father, my mother’s favourite colour was green, because it reminded her of the nature, and her Irish roots. I’ve never been big on purple myself either. And my father hates purple more than he hates telemarketers.

Another thing I’ve got from my mother is her engagement ring. A white gold ring, with an emerald, shaped as a shamrock. It never leaves my finger. When I got a ring, it was in a small white heart-shaped case, eventually its original package. It was specially addressed to me from my mother. I got it from my father when I turned 10. It was my mother’s wish, he said. When I opened the box, except for the ring, a lock of my mother’s black hair was in the box, along with a note.

 

“Dear Stephanie.

By the time you read this, you will be 10, and I will eventually be dead. I’m sorry I’m not there to celebrate your 10th year with you. I wish this disease hadn’t taken over so much. Must your life be filled with happiness, even though I’m not with you physically. I will always be in your heart, and you will be in mine, along with your father.

Sincerely, Your mother.”

 

At the part with my father, it looked like something had been erased. As if she had written another name at first. A lover? No. It couldn’t be. She would never have done that. I want to restore my memory. It’s like a part of me missing. I’ve been at several psychologists, but none can explain it. Or restore my memory. All have tried, and all have failed. I guess I’m just not meant to remember.

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