Page 3 of Twisted Thorns

Throwing on some leggings and an oversized sweater, I tie up my sneakers and make my way to the woods behind my apartment building, pulling up my hair in a low ponytail as I walk.

Walking through the woods has become a sacred ritual for me, a reprieve from the darkness that haunts my sleepless nights. Ever since the car accident three months ago, nightmares plagued my sleep, leaving me breathless and drenched in sweat. Images of twisted metal and shattered glass startle me wide awake, but the memories remain elusive, slipping through my fingers like sand.

At the edge of the woods, my eyes search the horizon while my copper hair dances around my shoulders, tickled by the breeze. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath in, the rich scent of the loamy earth enveloping me. The beauty surrounding me wraps me in a cocoon, letting me just be.

If there's one thing I've come to appreciate since the accident, it's moments like this embraced by stillness and peace.

The damp soil falls beneath my shoes as I trek further through the woods, softened by yesterday evening's rain, a sign we're moving away from the hot days of summer into the crisp embrace of fall.

The trees, with their ancient wisdom, seem to whisper reassurances as I pass them by. They don't care about the gaps in my memories or the questions that linger unanswered. They just stand tall, inviting me to find peace amongst their roots. These elder sentinels help me feel not so alone in a world where I feel so out of place.

As I wander deeper into the woods, I let my thoughts drift back to the event that changed my life forever. Here, surrounded by the trees, I can let everything go and forget the nagging feeling that I’m missing more than just memories.

The first few days in the hospital were a blur, filled with tests and doctors and worried faces. I was bruised and scratched all over, a map of disaster made flesh, with a broken leg, fractured ribs, and a concussion. The latter of which was the most worrisome, as some faces of my visitors were like strangers to me.

The doctors assured my parents and sister that it was temporary, and once the swelling went down, my memories would clear. But days soon turned into weeks, and the only thing that became clear was that some memories were gone.

It was like someone came in and took out a chunk of time, the past five years, to be exact. Five years of old faces that were now new to me. Of childhood friends who had weddings and children I knew nothing about.

A handful of years doesn't seem long until it's ripped from your grasp, the only remaining thread a frayed ribbon of dark dreams that leaves a stain of uncertainty on everything it touches.

I was a lone boat in the storm, trapped by the waves of memories I couldn't overcome. It was a constant struggle to accept the person I had become, a stranger even to myself. I couldn't recall the details of the past five years, years that contained memories that had shaped me, and it left a void that gnawed at my soul.

"Focus on what you have now," my therapist had advised me at our last appointment. "It's okay to mourn the person you were, but don't let it consume you."

Easier said than done. I wasn't sure who I was now.

While my friends and family had regarded my missing memories with understanding at first, I had the sense that an undercurrent of resentment had been building in some of my friends. My lack of memory was a thorn in their side that they just couldn't dislodge.

I felt like I didn't fit in, no matter how hard I tried, and I was certain it was because of those years lost in the recesses of my mind. I was desperate to remember, clinging to the hope that once my memories returned, everything would feel normal again.

The breeze brushed against my skin, offering a gentle caress as though to remind me that I too could find freedom in the present moment.

If only I knew how.

The sound of birdsong pulls me from my reverie, and I look up to watch a pair of finches flit between the branches overhead. I envy their freedom, their ability to spread their wings and take flight, leaving their troubles behind.

The forest is alive with energy, and I can’t help but feel a sense of belonging here, among the trees and the creatures who call this place home.

It’s a stark contrast to the life outside of these trees, where I feel like an outsider in my own existence. In the woods, I don’t need to remember that party last summer or what Halloween costume I wore three years ago that everyone thought was hilarious.

I am enough, just as I am now.

"Another night filled with terrors," I whisper to myself, frustrated by the endless chasm between my past and present. "Why can't I remember?"

Despite the comfort I find in these woods, there is a part of me that longs to reclaim the memories that were stolen by that fateful day.

Each day, as I wander beneath these branches, I search for clues to my past, piecing together fragments of what was lost.

Through pictures and video, stories, and scrapbooks, I had glimpsed the past five years: a young woman fresh out of college, living in a small apartment in the town she grew up in. I had a large group of friends and seemed to keep up with the designer trends and go to parties, working with my best friend at a local art gallery.

Money was power in my world, but none of that interested me now. All of it felt strange, like I was looking at someone else's life. I felt like there had to be something missing, some key memory that was keeping me from feeling at home as myself.

"Maybe today will be different," I tell myself, daring to hope. "Embrace the now, Avalina."

Making my way to my treasured spot beneath a towering, time-worn oak tree, I settle myself down, feeling the rough, knotted roots underneath my legs and the comforting embrace of the curved bark against my back. This oak is off to the side of the meandering path, and its large canopy provides the perfect shelter from the heat of the sun. I let my eyes flutter closed as I breathe deeply, the sounds and fragrance of the woods comforting me. Alarm peels through me as I get a whiff of smoke, and my eyes shoot open, frantically glancing around me. Nothing seems amiss as I look around. All I see is the dappled sunlight glancing off the forest ferns, the small flowers of white snakeroot peeking in between their leaves.

Rifling in my backpack, I search until I find my treasure—the latest book I borrowed from the library. It contains ancient myths and fables from Ireland, a world I've never seen but call to me all the same. I like to get lost in the words I find on the pages to escape my reality for a little while, and something about the idea of green, rolling hills with stories of fae and swans calls to me.

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