The Angel Youth - 13 Stairs

I never thought I would write anything about myself. My life was, and still is, nothing but continuous boredom and sadness. Nothing good has happened to me since I woke up in this godforsaken village, chained to my bed, counting the days until this nightmare ends.

The room where I've spent countless hours is oppressive in its simplicity. Pale wooden walls, a small desk with a single flickering candle, and a window that barely lets the light through. Outside, the forest looms, its towering pines whispering secrets I'll never understand. The isolation seeps into my bones.

Because of the amnesia, I felt as though my brain health wasn't a priority like other organs that become ill or damaged. Every day, it felt like I was just an annoyance, a burden to be endured. I had to suck it up and get over myself. If you fall, the world won't wait for you or anybody else. People only care about themselves. And in the end, who am I to talk about that? I am just a girl—a nobody with no past and certainly no future.

Writing my life was a pain, but on the other hand, I had nothing else to do. People kept telling me things like, "You are the one who controls your future" and other platitudes. The usual pep talks when a stranger tries to gift you with life lessons or advice. Moments later, you realize you don't even know each other, and the person is just another selfish piece of shit, comforting themselves by projecting onto you. That hollow positivity, wrapped in recycled clichés, always made me sick. At least this memoir is something I can keep for myself—a secret box holding my truths, my life lessons, my tragedies, and my drama. Because I am, after all, an emotional one. Hopefully, if I lose myself again—whether from amnesia or some other cruel twist of fate—these notes will help me remember.

13th of February 2174: I remember it as if it happened yesterday. I woke up in a vast bedroom that seemed both grand and desolate. The walls stretched high, adorned with faded floral patterns that had lost their charm to time. There was barely any furniture: a large bed with a wrought iron frame, a dusty armchair by the window, and a mirror that reflected a stranger's face.

A woman in her late thirties, who introduced herself as Ilona, burst into the room. Her eyes lit up with overwhelming joy, and before I could react, she enveloped me in a hug so tight I could hardly breathe.

"You're awake!" she cried, her voice trembling with emotion. "I'm so happy to see you. From now on, everything is going to be all right."

It was an odd sensation, seeing someone so overjoyed to see me when I had no clue who she was. Ilona's excitement was almost manic. She scurried around the room, occasionally touching my face as if to confirm I was real. Her hands trembled as they grazed my cheek, her disbelief painted across her features. She kept gasping, holding her head in awe. It was hilarious in a way, watching her dramatic display.

The room smelled faintly of lavender and wood polish. Somehow, the scent felt comforting—familiar, even. That familiarity eased the initial panic, and for a moment, I allowed myself to observe rather than question.

I tried to recall how I had ended up here, in this strange house, but my head felt like it was trapped in a fog. The harder I thought, the more the pain behind my eyes grew. It was like trying to clutch at water; the memories slipped through my fingers.

Ilona kept repeating that today was a "very special day" and that we should celebrate. When I asked who "we" included, she left the room in a flurry of excitement. Moments later, she returned with another woman—her sister, Inzali.

That was the first time I saw her.

Inzali walked in gracefully, her dark hair catching the light as the breeze from the open window played with it. She was stunning. Her beauty was almost surreal, the kind that stops time. She carried an air of calmness, her presence immediately grounding. I couldn't help but stare. Her face had a serene, almost otherworldly quality. There was kindness in her eyes, the kind of warmth that felt genuine and rare.

When she approached the bed, our eyes met. We held each other's gaze for what felt like an eternity. Her voice, when she finally spoke, was soft and soothing. I can't even recall what she said because I was too mesmerized by the melody of her words. Just being noticed by her felt like a blessing. The fears and uncertainties that had plagued me since waking up seemed to vanish in her presence.

Our conversation flowed naturally. She asked simple questions—how I was feeling, if I needed anything—and for a while, we spoke about everything and nothing. When she left, I felt an unexpected pang of sadness. Ilona, as kind as she was, didn't possess the same calming aura as her sister.

Later that evening, curiosity got the better of me, and I asked Ilona what exactly we were celebrating. She smiled warmly and said, "You were reborn and granted a new life exactly a year ago." Even now, another year after that moment, her words remain a mystery.

1st of March: Most of my time was spent confined to the bedroom. My body was frail, a wreck of its former self. Whenever I tried to ask Ilona about my past—simple questions like where I came from, or what had happened to my parents—she would dismiss me with vague reassurances. "You shouldn't worry about that now," she'd say. So, I waited for the elusive "right time."

3rd of March: We visited a doctor. His name was something like Lormant or Dorman. His peculiar appearance—tiny head perched on a disproportionately large body—made me think of a pear. It was a cruel thing to say, perhaps, but I couldn't help myself.

The diagnosis was retrograde amnesia: a condition that stripped me of memories before a traumatic event. He assured me it wouldn't impede a healthy life and that my memories might eventually return. After delivering this clinical assessment, he and Ilona exchanged private words. I was asked to step out, and like the obedient fool I was, I did.

5th of March: Ilona's relentless enthusiasm for the church was, to put it mildly, overwhelming. Her devotion to That Saviour's Blessings bordered on fanaticism, her eyes lighting up with fervor whenever she spoke of it. Day after day, I found myself subjected to her spiritual musings, often delivered with an urgency that made refusal impossible. She'd pile books on my bedside table—volumes filled with tales of saintly spirits and divine miracles. A few were intriguing, I'll admit, but most were dry, their pages seeming to stretch time itself. It tested my patience, but given that she spent her days nursing me back to health, I figured I owed her some indulgence. Call it Give and Take, or perhaps just the price of dependence.

10th of March: With each passing day, frustration tightened its grip. Memory loss wasn't merely an absence—it was a constant torment, a ghost haunting my every waking moment. The flashbacks came like jagged shards of glass, cutting through the haze only to vanish, leaving behind fragmented glimpses of a life I couldn't grasp. The monotony of my days was suffocating. Lying in bed, trapped in the same dull routine, made time stretch unbearably long. I yearned for freedom, for connection—to step outside, meet new people, and dive headfirst into the kind of reckless, joyous chaos that felt like truly living.

15th of March: Back then, my former self clung to every word Ilona said, accepting her truths without question. In hindsight, it seemed inevitable—her presence was a constant, woven into the fabric of my every day. We spent nearly every waking moment together, and in that closeness, trust was an almost automatic response, a shield against the uncertainties lurking in the shadows of my mind.

Every day, I received my usual ration of "We'll talk about that later" or "Sorry, I don't have time for this" from Ilona, delivered with the same dismissive tone whenever I begged for answers about my past. At first, I tried to be patient, clinging to the hope that her excuses might one day give way to clarity. But as the days bled into weeks, her constant deflections gnawed at me. Frustration simmered, then boiled over into anger. The fragments of memories that flickered through my mind—disjointed, meaningless—offered no solace. I was trapped in a loop of confusion, desperate for clarity, yet denied at every turn.

Tired of cycling through the same worn pages, day after day, the monotony of my existence began to gnaw at my spirit. The immobility, the constant reliance on Ilona for even the smallest of needs—it all felt suffocating, a slow erosion of my independence. And then there were her secrets, shadowy and impenetrable, hanging between us like a storm cloud. Her once comforting presence began to feel more like a weight, her kindness morphing into something oppressive. What once felt like a refuge now seemed like a gilded cage, and I was desperate to break free.

23rd of March: That morning, alone in the house, something miraculous happened. I stood without the cane Ilona had insisted I use. For the first time, my body moved without pain. Joy surged through me as I danced and sang until I collapsed from exhaustion. Later, I climbed onto the roof, letting the crisp air fill my lungs. I felt alive, truly alive.

1st of April: Tired of waiting, I decided to act. My first mission was to uncover the secrets hidden in Ilona's office.

For hours, I combed through papers and drawers in search of my truth. Even now, I wonder if it was worth it. Perhaps Ilona was right— Maybe I should have just kept living my once peaceful life as Ilona always wanted, because sometimes the truth we are seeking, is not necessarily the truth that waits for us at the end of that narrow tunnel we call life...