What Happened?

            Standing near the edge of the bridge, I peer over a rusted railing, and see people, both men and women, laughing and enjoying their time in the park. To others, this image would put a smile on their face, and would walk over to the scene, probably to greet someone they know. Unlike everybody else, when I see the little kids running around with their parents and friends, I feel alone. What makes me so different? Why am I always alone? It is as if I never existed.

          I sigh. I take a step away from the railings, stuff my hands in the pockets of my old sweatshirt, and walk away, paying no attention whatsoever to where I’m going; it wouldn't matter anyway. I find myself walking along the side of an abandoned road toward home—what I call home, anyways.

            I arrive at home, and I walk in the back door, the door creaking as it closes, and into the kitchen. I never saw anyone here, but something appeared different, but I couldn’t pinpoint exactly where it is. I found what was troubling my thoughts.

            There is a note attached to the refrigerator. A message is scribbled onto it, as if whoever wrote it was in a hurry.

            "Reminder, funeral at 2:30," the note said. I stare at it baffled, dumbfounded and unaware of what is going on. Whose funeral was it? Was it somebody I knew?

            Confused, I walk out the door, and step outside. I don't know why, but something possesses me to start heading toward the local cemetery. It is a strange feeling— a startling, unusual, almost primal feeling—as my mind has no control over my actions. It is as if it became a crucial, obligatory exigency.

            I saw a crowd of people heading their separate ways, each with a different expression than the next. Some are solemn, others are distressed, a few are scared, but one is furious. I look closer, and the woman turns her head with a broken-hearted expression, waving away her coterie. I see her face and the sensation of déjà vu overwhelmed me, causing me to stare in awe. My eyes widen, and I suddenly turn my head away out of instinct.

            I cover my head with my hands —pain sweeping through my body— as I silently scream in agony. Something about that woman brings back memories—long, forgotten memories—-and in my state of mind, I fall into my own subconscious.   

            An image of that woman flashes through my mind, as the pain—oh, the pain!— increases. She is scared—who is she?—crying, sobbing, wallowing in self-induced pity. Tears falling down her face in a state of hysterics. My head is throbbing—so confused—as every thought heightens the intensity, my fingers raking over my head, trying to stop the pain—the pain!—, almost to the point of drawing blood. My nails dig deeper into my scalp as the memory forces its way into my mind, as the torture amplifies itself to the point of insanity, as I try to remember! Who is she?—oh, have mercy, —end this sadistic insanity! My heart rate is increasing its speed as every second goes by, as I hear it pounding painfully—must it be painfully?— through my chest, as I try to remember, as I try to forget! The sound of my heart pounding in my chest loudly—the sound screeching as I try to stop the agony that surges throughout my body. The pain wrenching its way around it—slowly, quickly! My thoughts are contorted; my hands with blood from the punctured skin— as the pain drives the last bit of saneness I have left—  as the pain comes to the point of madness—

            Then it stops.

            The absurd amount of self-induced pain that has raked through my body completely leaves, and left me in a state of numbness; the intensity has left, as I felt empty without the pain, like a corpse trying to find its way around the living. There is, however, evidence of my pain as I look down at my hands, which are still covered in blood, my blood, I convince  myself I am not delusional.

            Picking myself up from the ground, my hands quivering as I stare at the blood. It was an eerie sight, as my own blood slowly drips from my hands. As every drop hits the ground, I take a shaky step backwards. Then another.

            I turn around, and sprint away, as I try to forget about the sight I inflict upon myself. A part of my mind is trying to figure out why I was so terrified. Another part of me knew the exact reason behind this dilemma. A vision triggers as I try to comprehend my own thoughts, but it is gone before I even realized it had appeared. I wait for the torture to begin, but there is none.

            Something is wrong; I realize that already, but never realize to what extent. As I place a hand on the wall of a nearby building, I notice that my hand leaves a bloody handprint, and I quickly look away.

            Trying to calm myself down, I think of what just happened. I have no reminiscence of who I am—or should it be who I was?—and I unexpectedly felt like I was beginning to start burning up because of a spontaneous memory, and unconsciously cause myself an injury.

            Taking a deep breath, I head toward the front door, contemplating who am I?—or rather who was I. Breathe in; breathe out. Still no answer or clue, I begin to speculate just exactly who was I.
            The wind picks up its speed. Leaves are blown into the air, with gusts of sand and dirt mixed in. The temperature abruptly dropped to a chilly atmosphere as the sky began to dark, leaving a chilly feeling as I start walking toward the corner. The front door of the uniform brick building was creaking as it started slamming open and closing. Thunder started roaring in the sky, and I rushed inside, my curiosity overcoming my fear.

            Do you know that saying curiosity killed the cat?

            The door swings open as another gust of wind starts to pick up its speed. I jump as the door bangs closed, jamming it.

            I ran over—desperately, frantically—trying to open the door. My feeble attempt is made in vain. The door wouldn't budge, and I am stuck in an old, abandoned building. Yet, I feel at peace. It is an odd feeling as I start to walk around the building, room from room, each turn so familiar.

            My hand grazes over the corner of an old table, slightly stained with drops of blood, and I look down. There is no table. The walls were tinted in an ash colored gray and the floors, speckled with many pieces of broken glass, jagged and rough, gave the place a haunted aura.

            I shifted my focus to my surroundings, realizing I am in a small sized room, walls hastily plastered with a faint design of wallpaper, white and simple, with a stove, cabinets, and a moderately new-looking table. A woman walks with an affectionate expression, glancing over at the eight-year-old child that suddenly appeared. They start to turn around, their faces—

            I blink, and the illusion is gone. What was that? I unconsciously take a step backwards. What is this place?

            I turned around and saw a party, the eight-year-old girl's birthday. The little girl is happy, and she is laughing. Children, her friends, were peering over her, gazing at her like she was a princess coming out in the public for the first time. That birthday girl seemed so innocent, so naïve to the cruelty of the world. Time passed; I saw a broken wine glass, and I scream.

            I have already snapped out of my thoughts, but it is not explaining the blood-curling scream that escaped my throat. The same aching pain that seared throughout my body appears again, as my brain tries to process why this would happen—why?—this is happening. The pain pierces through my skin, like a knife being shoved through, and I start to bleed. The skin feels like it is set ablaze—deliberately, painfully, agonizingly slow—and made its way toward my heart.

            Images of my past are shoved into my mind, and I open my mouth to scream, but not sound came out. Tears are falling freely as the torment continued, my forgotten memories evoked as the anguish continued.

            I tried to remember what I saw—that child, that child was me.

            I fought off another scream, as more memories came to existence. The thunder roars, and the building begins to shake. The windows are rattling, as the tension increases.

            That woman—stop, please!—was my mother! That child was I; I was happy.

            More tears mix in, but these out of sorrow. My thoughts were interrupted as another wave of anguish reaches its peak. Even through my ambiguous thoughts, as the pain increased in intensity, I see my life.

            I was happy. I was carefree, but what happened? Enduring the pain, my hands clench in a fist as I struggle to recall. My heartbeat is gaining speed, as more and more thoughts are brought up.

         The door shattered open, as gusts of wind flew in. I dragged myself outside, in a pitiful attempt to rid myself of this torment, leaving a trail of blood behind me. I suddenly found myself at the graveyard, bearing the new level of pain that came with every step.

            That wine bottle—my father!—it is broken! My father had just come home, smelling of alcohol. She was begging him to stop it, but he just threw the wine bottle down, and it smashed into tiny crystal pieces. Another image flashes through my mind, and I saw—the pain contemplating its hold on me, as I struggle to breathe—my mother. She was crying, her hands are covered in blood, and she looks so broken and torn.

            The horrendous pain that has to haunt me continues as it spread out as I saw that faithful memory.

            My father is looking at me—with a drunken desire for a murderous carnage.

            Oh, help me! The agony that has befallen me is intense—the torture so increasingly painful. The poison has spread throughout my body, so painfully. I feel it as it intensifies itself. As the venom almost reaches its destination, my heartbeat becomes fainter. As the pain reaches its culmination, a final memory is placed into my mind

            That knife—so deadly!— so fatal— descends downward, rapidly, as my heart  beats in a erratic pattern, as the volume proliferates again.

            I cry out as the lethal weapon is so close, burning my skin. Blood is trickling out of my chest as the pain—the atrocious feeling reaching its apex—makes its way toward its destination—my heart.

            The knife lunges at me as I look up—