Memory
After my mind submitted its resignation and declared its departure from work, I began to suffer and endure the daily toil of searching for a new memory.
Oh, that memory! Where did it disappear to? Did I need to recall it before I went to sleep? Where are you, you elusive one?
Oh, maybe I left it on my bedside table or in my desk drawer. I rise without a clear sense of my birth date, attempting to gather the scattered fragments of myself. On the pillow, I find traces of red lipstick. Whose could it be? Oh, if I could only find that memory to identify the owner of that fragrance and red lipstick.
I make my way to the kitchen, dishes piled up in the sink, a cat leaping among empty boxes and bags, wagging its tail at me, challenging me. I stick my tongue out at it without concern for its wandering through the nooks and crannies of my kitchen. I open the refrigerator, and there’s nothing of value to eat. My attractive neighbor’s window is open, playing a Tamer Hosny song that repulses me. I approach to close the window; she’s playing with a lock of her hair, twisting it into a circle, pretending not to see me. Her ample dress clings to her body. The clattering of her lipstick echoes with Tamer’s voice. I close the window forcefully, making a sound that shakes the glass, and I hear my beautiful neighbor’s curses from behind the window.
I continue the search for the lost memory, but there is no use amid all this chaos. In the bathroom, the scent of Parisian perfume fills the space. Oh, if I could remember who it belonged to!
In the bathroom, I rearrange my rejuvenated body, leaving it to bask in the chaos without restraints. My eye catches a small black object the size of a memory. I feel the happiness of someone finding treasure on a pirate’s island. I pick it up quickly, trying to restore it to the empty recesses of my mind for the first time in a while. I press the power button, accidentally dropping it on the bathroom tiles, creating a cacophony of clashing memories. My mind does not recognize the data. I restart it again. My mind does not recognize the data. I restart it again. Oh, the images stored in that memory!
An enchanting woman, her body filled with riches, surrounded by men, and I was the last among them.
Oh, how worthless this memory is! It’s the owner of the red lipstick and Parisian perfume. Her scent infiltrates her electronic fibers. I don’t need it; it was the bathroom’s trash bin destined.
How can I go to work without my memory? How will I recognize my colleagues’ faces, or even my workplace? I put on my clothes, wear cologne, look at my reflection in the mirror, and contemplate the scattered features of my face. I smile to discover a new expression that suits my first day without my electronic memory, an image now in harmony with my sunken eyes and a nose that no longer fits my face, resembling the nose of my African neighbor. I recall that he had taken my nose yesterday and placed it on his face to persuade the plastic surgeon to shape a similar one. My face holds a dry, sun-damaged complexion, most likely due to excessive sun exposure. I wonder, what is my job?
I leave the house, heading towards the memory store at the end of the street to purchase a new one, and the seller stares at me, shouting:
– Here’s the owner of the missing memory, officer! Arrest him before he escapes. He’s here to buy a new memory to erase the evidence of his killing his beautiful neighbor and slaughtering her in the bathroom of his home.
