2 Dead bride

I am Aiden. I have a beautiful name. Unlike everything else, my family gave me a good look and nickname. The fact is that in the eyes of most people, I am an attractive man of almost 35 years.

I was born in a coastal city. Near Essex. With streets filled with cool ocean breezes. I can admit that now I miss all those cobblestones, beaches, cliffs, the streets, the old houses, and all those willow trees. I loved the breeze and the ocean's sound so much that I used it for one of my radio programs' background song.

I knew the wizards who all knew what abilities I had, but I wanted to get away from Essex and Salem at full speed.

A city whose people believed in witches, vampires, werewolves, the power of spirits, gods, demons, angels, heaven, and hell, and of course, when you see them with your own eyes, you will definitely believe them. I thought that by moving away from that city and its people, my abilities would also decrease. I wanted to be a normal person.

Now that I can no longer see anyone's face with the help of Agnosia, this feature of my mind reading has also diminished.

I didn't tell you about my gender before. I do not know precisely when I had no gender anymore. You reach a place where you have no age, no gender, not even a name.

I am in the same place and time right now. People around me no longer have a specific age, gender, or name. I'm just trying to guess that, for example, the one I saw in the alley pulling a shopping cart is a middle-aged retired woman. A retiree who was probably a teacher because of her flawed gait model. A teacher who has always stood in front of the blackboard. So she was a math teacher. I gradually became an argumentative person.

Today I went to buy a CD & DVD player. Science has advanced, and no one is looking for these types of devices anymore. Each DVD can hold four and a half gigs of data, while you can store thousands of times this volume in other smaller virtual and non-virtual repositories. But to for taking my night's sleep back from that my neighbor and her CD player and of course her daughter's wedding video, I had to buy her a new one of the devices.

I had seen my neighbor's daughter before I got Agnosia. She was a tall girl with a smiling face and black hair. My neighbor's daughter was a nurse at a New York hospital. She lived with her elderly mother until she was moving one day. I found out that she had rented a house around her hospital to be closer to her workplace.

Maybe you're wondering why her mother had a sleep disorder because of her wedding or relocation? That girl, Maggie, died some time ago. It may be hard to understand that a person had insomnia due to a loved one's death, but not to me! As I said before, mental disorders often exist due to help peoples.

I went early in the morning, and when I arrived at the first shop, I requested a device that would turn off everything by itself when the movie was over.

I was thrilled that such a device available.

The seller's voice was familiar. For a long time, the only difference between people for me is their voices. I do not take it seriously. I do not take familiar sounds seriously because I am not familiar with them.

Sounds are powerful like eyes. For example, I saw the eyes of that medical equipment seller, and now I hear the familiar voice of this audio and video equipment seller.

Of course, the sound may not have anything to do with appearance. Once upon, I used to love sounds, maybe in times that I can't even remember. Perhaps I was even working with sounds. From somewhere I still do not retain, I put the sound aside and went to the painting.

I painted to sell to galleries that generally have clients who do not care about the content of the work they buy. They want something that will come to decorate their luxurious and stylish house. They do not care about art.

Sounds are strange creatures. Ever since I got this dear disease, I have tried not to recognize people's voices, but it did not happen. The sounds, like a power drill, sink into my brain.

If the eyes disappear in my eyes one day, I do not think the sounds can do anything to disappear in my ears.

The seller showed me different models of CD&DVD players. Oh, how can a wise person go and buy a CD and DVD player; But I did not have the patience to explain the problem of my neighbor to the seller.

Instead of explaining my problem to this seller, I decided to tell a nice lie that would make things even more comfortable; a lie about my great love for nostalgic issues and the plethora of CDs and even VHS tapes that I have and want to go back to it.

But this was not a lie. I have many CDs, hard drives full of movies and documentaries, and even VHS videotape and even cassette, which shows that I was once really a movie buff and a music listener.

A few years ago, I returned to my hometown after graduating from university and becoming a well-known radio programmer.

I remember the only reason I came back was to pack up what my family had just dumped in a damp room and bring it to my New York apartment with me. My books, my movies, voices' first recording, and mixing equipment, and much more.

I stared at the salesman's blurred face, and I was sad because of my own failed lie. The vendor introduced me to a DVD&CD player with various ports for playing other types of hard drives and memory. It did not cost much; But not for me, who did not deliver any paintings this month.

I bought a CD player. I bought it to give to my old neighbor to get back my sleep.

When I wanted to come back home, the salesman said, "I know you!"

I could not tell him that I could not even see your face to remember you. But I was content with just saying that I had not seen you before. I say this to a large number of people who claim to know me. Explaining my disorder to people is hard and, of course, stupid.

But the salesman said in disbelief, "I know you by your voice."

Voice?! my voice? My past! My past that to overcome it, I took refuge in my dear and kind disorder. Maybe the salesman, like me, had this lovely disease.

I tried to stare at the salesman's face that it has nothing, not even his eyes, and try to guess where his eyes were. I wanted to stare into his eyes when I wanted to tell him: "I no longer work with sounds."

"I sent my voice to the radio station and even your studio several times. I liked your work a lot, but I did not receive a reply from you. I heard about your resignation from the network, and I tried very hard to find you, and I even went to your studio and saw that it was closed." he said these sentences in a sad voice.

I felt terrible sense about myself for a moment. Of course, most of the time, I have a neutral feeling about myself. Neither good nor bad; But sometimes I feel bad about myself, and this is that moment. I hated myself for not answering anyone.

I was humiliated and abandoned in my life. I was so heartbroken that if they opened it and read it and looked at it, it would look more like the grandpa's patched pajamas of one of my elementary school classmates. The older man who died a few years ago when I came to New York. He did not believe in changing his pajamas.

I am so heartbroken that I decided not to break anyone's heart for a long time and not inflict this deep pain on anyone.

I stared at the salesman again and said, "I'm sorry. It wasn't intentional," but the salesman said, "I'm not looking for this work anymore. I passed courses for this.

They Promised me that they give me a job, but they did not that. I wish you could work again. I'm still listening to your old radio program. Do you want me to play one for you?"

I'm not too fond of anything that connects me to the past. I have been so successful in forgetting my past that all my real memories have turned into dim halos. Sometimes in the face of my history, I think they are just a simple fantasy.

The dreams I have are sometimes more transparent than the real things that happen to me.

I thanked the seller. It occurred to me that I must have heard this man's voice even once, and he happens to have a good voice; So why didn't I asked him that he come to my studio for a test?

I changed the subject in a fraction of a second, and I ran away from myself, my voice, and the memory that was to play.

I gave the CD player to my neighbor. I well remember that night in the past, when her son-in-law with a large bouquet that looked more like a wreath mistakenly rang my apartment, and I told him he had to knock on the side door.

That night I sat on the terrace until morning and smoked a cigarette. I'm not a jealous person. I mean, I have not been jealous for years now; But I think every time my jealousy blooms, I stand on the terrace of my house and smoke a pack of cigarettes that I used to hide for the same time.

That night I was reviewing the faces of all the people in my mind that I escaped from them, and I took refuge in this disease.

I never saw my neighbor's daughter's husband again. That night he came to pay his respects to his mother-in-law, for example. It was Thanksgiving night, and people were gathering together. And I do not know why I had to smoke in that cold before Christmas.

Christmas reminds me of Jules. That night I wanted to search her name on Facebook and see anyone with her name or appearance. Is she alive? Did she keep his word?

But I remembered that I did not even recognize people's pictures in the mirror or even television and photos.

Maggie's husband was a doctor at the same hospital. A tall man with an angled face. It smelled thick and attractive. I remember his hairstyle. He was not bald for me. I remember many things from that man, even the black halo around him. I see halos around people.

After I could no longer recognize the people's faces, an aura appeared around them that they would not bother me if I ignored them.

I gave the CD & DVD player for the older woman. I taught her how to work with it and played the wedding video. The older woman insisted that I stay and have tea with her. I was ashamed of myself, and to make up for the wrong thing I had done to that audio and video store seller in the past, I stepped on my desires and accepted the older woman's invitation.

The film of the wedding was being played, But I did not recognize any of those faces. The sound of the wedding piano march in the church and the bride's scenes coming to the altar. I saw the groom's face at that moment. His face was blurred, but it was not such that I could not recognize it. He had an attractive look, But it was scary for me. Maybe it was because of the combination of his face with that black halo. Perhaps it was because I hadn't seen anyone's full face in a long time. I can not read anyone's mind from films or photos.

The older woman next door entered the room with two cups of green tea with a lemon scent. My neighbor's husband, or rather the deceased bride's father, was an Asian man who died of a stroke many years ago.

Imagine the combination of American and Asian races and see how beautiful Maggie was. I can not stop admiring the beauty of faces. The last thought I read from Maggie that stuck in my mind was her boundless love for her job and her mother. Those were the times when little by little, I could no longer recognize anyone's face.

Maggie's face and thoughts were one of the last things I remember.

All the while waiting for my old neighbor to bring me tea, I was pretending to listen to him talk about her son-in-law and dead daughter.

When I gave her the CD player, I asked her to go on a trip and have fun and pray for her daughter's soul's peace. I forgot to say, the older woman's daughter had committed suicide with a high dose of a hypnotic. Next to her body was a suicide note in which she had said goodbye to her mother and written that she could no longer bear this life.

It was hard for me to believe because I had read Maggie's mind many times; she was one of the few people whose brain was full of passion and hope for life.

Maybe if I were my old neighbor, I slapped myself and said to myself, "O bald creature, instead of advising me, go and tidy up your nonsensical life."

I returned home. The lights were off; I wouldn't say I like the light. I made myself a strong coffee and sat in front of my canvas. The only bright light in my apartment is above the canvas. I have to deliver three paintings by the end of the week, and I am just in the middle of the first painting.

I'm painting a faceless person. One of the people I came across these days is my old neighbor. The gallery owner asked me to deliver three impressive works with a combination of dark yellow, green, and red colors.

I was drawing the curves of my neighbor's face when I heard a sound like Essex's wind. I knew this voice well. I do not doubt my ears. I thought it was the sound of a neighbor's house again. But it was the voice of one of my old works. Suddenly my voice played with the backdrop of the sound of the ocean and the breeze. This sound was one of my old programs.

To make this program, I waited for days for the best recording of Essex's sound. I went to the room and saw that the laptop was on and that the sound was playing. I had not turned on my computer for days. I did not have that old radio program with my performance in my archive.

Even for me, who is born and lived with strange events, it is odd and scary to face such a scene.

I stepped back and turned on the hallway light leading to the living room, and the sound stopped. I saw a shadow next to my terrace window. I thought when I was not in my apartment; a person entered my home. My eyes were blurred. The shadow disappeared. The light above the canvas turned on and off. I turned to the part of the house where I had a tripod and a canvas, and my eyes met a familiar face. I had not seen a face for a long time. I was scared. Maggie was standing next to the painting of her mother.