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Bravado

The hot shower helped clear her memory. When she next opened her eyes, she saw the hazy peach glow of the tub, slightly suffocated by the steam rising around her.


She was sitting down; the water cascaded through her hair, over her back, as she hugged her knees tightly to her chest, inhaling the thickly humid air. Everything was gone—erased. She didn’t know what she was doing there, in that tub, in that strange place, the shower hitting her face like she was caught in a monsoon. She couldn’t find a reason.


Slowly, she rose, and shut off the faucet. Dazed, outside herself, with numb arms, she pulled the curtains back. The girl stepped out onto the cold tile floor, dripping puddles—she’d forgotten to wring out her long hair. Rather than comb the large, ornate bathroom for a towel, she turned to face the mirror, and, wiping the fog from its surface, stared at the reflection before her. The skin around her eyes was red and puffy, but she couldn’t tell if she’d been crying, or if the droplets of water had simply come from the shower. She didn’t try to remember, either. She put on her clothes and dried her hair, and then left the bathroom.


Out in the unfamiliar hotel room, another girl about her age (eighteen maybe?) sat in a corner chair, talking on her cell phone. She paid no attention as her companion passed her by and walked to the window; she continued her phone conversation.


The girl stared down at least five or six stories to the grounds below. Lights shone everywhere, breaking through the pitch-black night. Cars sped by on the street, and snow fell gracefully onto the roof below. It seemed so perfect.


She turned to her friend, whispering so as not to disturb her call. “I’m going out.”




Cloudy—that’s how her memory felt that night as she left her room at the Hilton. She wore a tattered coat and gloves—no match for the harsh January cold. In her hand, a half-dead cell phone. She stared down at it as the elevator doors closed. Was she waiting for a call? From someone? Something? Her head ached, and she rested it for a moment, placing the phone in her pocket.


Down to the lobby, to the doors. In the halls, she passed a number of colorful people dressed in colorful costumes—samurai, a man with an orange wig, girls in Chinese dresses with their hair tied up in buns. She gave a little smile at them, but a pain in the back of her mind warns her against it, brings back a flicker of the past.


She shook it off, and forced her way through the laughing crowds, to the exit, to the outside.




There was a shopping center across the street, also lit up, but not nearly as bright as the hotel. She stumbled over there, eyes blank, face unfeeling, running her hands through the layers of snow on railings, shrubs and sidewalks. Everything was so white and pure—beauty throughout the urban wasteland. No sad memories connected to this place. Being outside in the fresh air and falling snow added to her amnesia, creating a type of loss that left her both empty and calm. Every so often on her journey she would ask herself, “Am I looking for someone? For something?”—questions that could easily be forgotten under the beauty of the snowy sky.


In the far corner of the plaza, she entered a bookstore. Though, deep inside, she knew she was far from her home, the surroundings seemed so familiar. She wandered around, gloves wet, taking in the comfort of aisle after aisle of books. A song she knew (remembered?) from somewhere played over the store’s speakers:


“If we burn our wings, flying too close to the sun
If the moment of glory is over before it’s begun.”


She closed her eyes and smiled, listening to the raspy voice singing. When she opened them, she found herself in front of a bookcase. Running her fingers over a great number of spines, she stopped on a hardcover novel; the front read: Ghost Rider by Neil Peart.


Was she searching for a book? Was that it? She flipped through the pages, but the words were too fuzzy and blurred to make out. Still, she knew them—she could’ve sworn they were resting in the back of her memory. The song continued to play overhead.


“And if the music stops, there’s only the sound of the rain
All the hope and glory, all the sacrifice in vain.”


She knelt down in front of the shelf, trying to think where her déjà vu could be coming from. The carpet underneath was comfortable; she stroked it with her damp gloves. Nothing. Her mind was a blank.


Just as dreamily as she had walked in, she walked back out again. The night felt colder now—the sharp winds and snow and wet gloves and thin jacket. She loved it. Snowflakes landed atop her head, tangled in her hair, and she loved every minute. The scene—it was purely breathtaking.


Through the snow, over the snow, no boots on, pants soaking up water—this was the path she traveled, back to the hotel, with its innumerable lights shining the way just across the street. She walked on, unconsciously, singing the song over in her head—


“If the dream is won, though everything is lost
We will pay the price, but we will not count the cost.”


Entranced, lost in the moment—the bliss of being alone, of knowing nothing, feeling nothing—she found a small bank of snow and sunk down on it. Her cheek pressed against the burning cold, she closed her eyes.


This was the time for her—what did it matter if she never remembered anything? All she wished was to remain there, sleeping, forever in the snow. The beauty and tranquility of it all, the shining lights and speeding cars, the bitter cold eating away at her numb hands as she rested in a shopping center in Columbus, Ohio. This peace—that was all she really wanted.


Then, it came crashing back.


Her eyes tore open, plagued by the sudden visions—the waiting, the anticipation, the disappointment. In an instant she realized that she had been waiting for someone—someone so important to her, someone she had based her dream around—the one that never came for her. He wasn’t there, and never would be. She’d never hear his voice, clear as day, right up beside her, but only filtered through speakers and wires, disconnected over a great distance. She’d come so close, only to fail horribly. There was nothing left to do but cry silently, and sing about the dream that was lost.


It was her choice; she could remember every minute of it for the rest of her life, the pain growing like a cancer on her psyche, or she could choose to forget. She could stay in that snow bank forever, sleep, dream, and never wake up. But there was only one way to guarantee the banished memories would not find their way back. Both choices required a greater deal of courage than she possessed.


Eyes open, body motionless, feigning death, she lay there, waiting to make the decision that would change her life from that moment on—to live or die for a dream.


No—she didn’t let her life fade out that night; she chose to get up, to move on. She called friends and booked Greyhound tickets and ran home—into the waiting arms of comforters—and promised through tears that she was alright, that she wouldn’t let the memory discourage her. And they all nodded and smiled and said “Good girl,” knowing that she’d learned her lesson, despite her fervent vows to never give up—to meet him no matter what. On and on, she continued to feign courage, though her barriers had crumbled a long time ago.


But even now—years later—when she’s alone, and the music plays, and the snow falls, and she hears his voice, she remembers that night, and wishes she could forget. She wishes she would have stayed, sleeping quietly in the snow in Ohio in the dead of winter.