"Memento Mori"
a short story by Mia Ha-Rozewski
July 23 Rubatosis.
The unsettling awareness of your own heartbeat.
I bet I just made you a little more aware of it just now. Here- focus just a little more. Do you feel it? It’s pumping blood to your body. It’s beating, and pumping, and beating, and pumping. Over and over again. Again and again.
Put your hand over your heart. I’ll do it too. Take a deep breath. 1, 2, 3. Can you feel it? Underneath your palm. Underneath your skin. There’s your heart. Beating, pumping, beating, pumping. Over and over again. Again and again.
But it’s too noisy here. Much too noisy. I can’t feel my heartbeat. I can’t feel it beating and pumping.
I should go home.
July 25 Sonder.
The realization that each passerby has a life as vivid and complex as your own.
Today, the polished square is empty. I pause to watch a drop of water fall from the top of the well, casting rainbows to the ground as it falls. My heart falls as I look around. No people. If only it wasn’t morning. The square always gets busy around noon.
It’s noon.
The sun has risen and I haven’t moved, the familiar leather of my book resting softly in my hands. It’s peaceful, but I miss the sounds of chatting and footsteps. I wish there were people.
And now there are. The square fills with life and I close my book to watch. There’s a man in front of me. He’s holding a little boy’s hand.
I wonder what’s happening in his head. While I’m thinking about him, what is he thinking about? What is the kid thinking about?
Maybe he’s planning a murder.
And now they’re gone, blending in the crowd of heads and people with thoughts just as complicated as my own. I wonder how many people there are. I wonder how many people are wondering how many people there are.
I wonder if you’re thinking about how many people there are. You probably are.
July 26 Kenopsia.
The eerie, forlorn atmosphere of a place that is usually bustling with people but is now abandoned and quiet.
It’s morning and the square is empty again. I sit in the same spot, with the same book, but it doesn’t feel the same. Something pangs where my heart should be, and I put my hand over it.
I’m alive. All is well.
At noon, there are still no people in the square, but the shadow of a figure falls on the ground. Then it disappears and a soft metallic smell fills the air.
July 29 Enounment
The bittersweetness of having arrived in the future, seeing how things turn out, but not being able to tell your past self.
No people again. Only the shadow of something that should be there, but isn’t. Then it flits away again and I’m left alone, not even a shadow by my side.
I suppose I should have expected this. Maybe if I knew this happened I could have left with them- at least I assume they left. My finger brushes the pages of my book and I look down at the words.
Suddenly, they darken and turn misshapen. The print turns red and the smell of iron hits me in the face. It’s strong.
Blinking, I look back down at the paper and-
It’s back to normal. The smell of iron has disappeared.
I feel my head droop and I keep reading. Time flies by and I wait for something.
Something that I don’t even know.
Nothing happens. Night is the only thing that comes. It consumes the square and I sit
patiently in the silent darkness, waiting. And then I wait for the lights to flicker on. But they don’t. I wait a little longer. Still, nothing happens.
July 30 Monachopsis.
The subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place.
I sit there all night. Nothing happens. Morning breaks through the horizon, but it’s not bright. My eyes search the gray sky for the sun, and I only find a small circle, dripping splotches of yellow.
And when I look down, the square is still empty. No...empty is the wrong word. The square feels abandoned. Something about it makes me feel unwelcome. It makes me want to leave.
But I don’t.
Instead I look at the ground that isn’t as bright as it was yesterday. The little well in the center of the square that’s cracked and rusting. All the shops are broken down and missing.
My heart beats and pumps, I feel every movement. Then it starts beating faster.
A sign falls from where it was tacked onto the board. That sign was made by someone. Someone with a life just as complicated as mine.
A chilly wind blows through the town square. But I’m the only one who can feel it. The echo of children’s laughter floats through the air. But I’m the only one who can hear it. The square is empty and quiet when it shouldn’t be.
My mind wanders. I look back down at my book. The last word is only a page away. I see my name in the print. And I suddenly feel the need to tell my past self what happened to the town square.
I rub the thin paper. My name keeps appearing in the book. This is a normal occurrence. As the words start turning dark and misshapen, my eyes flit faster and faster between lines. It describes the abandoned square, the feeling of loneliness overcoming the one person left to see what it had become. The shock that begins to set in when they realize how fast things had changed, the hints they never noticed.
I turn the last page and feel my heart pump harder. Sweat drips down my face. My eyes scan the page until I reach the last bloody words and hot breath hits my neck-
“Memento mori.”
