Ever since I’ve been here they’ve asked me lots of questions. So many I’d be able to cover the Great Wall of China with them. Pretty cursive letters written in blood on old stone. Is that how my life will be remembered? By the questions they ask and that I rarely have coherent answers for?
The questions began with simple things about my human life. The one that I remembered of course. Who was I? What did I do? What did I like? Was I in love? I was me. I did what I did. No, didn’t love anyone. I could have given them answers at the time, but I had chosen not too. Out of fear they wouldn’t love my bland old self, maybe. Maybe I never wanted to go back. Who knows? Certainly not me, I can’t even remember my mother’s own name.
The questions then began to expand from present to past. They’d show me things. Little things. Like the painting in the Grand Hall of History. Or the music box I supposedly received as a small child. They’d hold my hands and sing to me, bringing back memories from times I didn’t know existed. After that, the questions delved into the realm of a time behind us all. Do you remember that day, May? The day when we had tea in the garden with Gemma? How about when Mother died? Do you remember the pain? No, not really. Maybe so. I don’t really know.
Then I became nostalgic myself. I suddenly went from embracing this new life to exiling myself from what I had been thrown into. I missed my human mother. My human bed. The simpleness that only that world could understand. They didn’t understand it. They’d even get angry with me. More frustrated, maybe. Why them May? Why do you even love them? Must you miss them now? For reasons unknown. Unexplainable emotions, I guess. Why not?
Sadly after that it came close to all of our deaths. What was it like, dying that is? What’s it like coming back to live? Living and living and never ending? Is it nice?
That’s when I was truly stumped. I truly realized then that I had lost everything. This self, my old self… the self that had existed somewhere in the middle. Gone. All gone.
Dying? From what I remember it was sad. All I could see and hear were people asking for me not to go. Coming back? I didn’t really know I was coming back until someone pointed it out. Picture being somewhere in your 30’s and trying to remember your childhood. You only really remember when people remind you what happened. Living forever until you end it yourself? I wouldn’t know, because it never felt like I lived forever. Is it nice? Not at all.
