Welcome to “Memories – a Short Story by René Blanco.” In this chilling narrative, explore the haunting tale of isolation, guilt, and the dark corners of the human mind set against the desolate landscapes of upstate New York.
I wake up feeling groggy. It’s cold, but most of the year is cold here in upstate New York. I feel your body next to mine. Even surrounded by a sea of blankets, you feel cold.
I sit on the edge of our bed and look for my loafers. I can’t find them, so I walk barefoot to the kitchen. The whole place is cold and gray.
Mid-November is always like this. I must admit I like it. That’s one of the reasons I moved up here. The other reason being the quietness. The closest neighbor is 11 miles away. The only noises occasionally piercing the stillness of my home are birds and the odd truck rumbling down the highway overlooked by my rear balcony.
I make coffee for one, as I know you won’t be drinking any. Why would you? The coffee is as cold as the empty seat beside me. I read the New York Times on my iPad and browse the local newspaper’s website. No news about us. Maybe tomorrow.
I vividly remember the first time I saw you. You were standing in line at till #4, your blond hair cascading over your shoulders. You didn’t notice me then, but I couldn’t take my eyes off you. I followed you that day, watching as you went about your life, blissfully unaware of my presence.
The next few weeks were the same. I watched you from a distance, learning your routines, your habits. You had a lightness to your step, a joy in your laughter that I found captivating. I was fascinated.
I finish my coffee and set the mug in the sink. The sound of porcelain against metal echoes in the stillness. I need to do something to distract myself, so I decide to take a walk. The cold air bites at my skin as I step outside, but I welcome it. It’s a distraction from the ache inside.
The path through the woods behind our house is covered in fallen leaves. I walk slowly, taking in the crisp air and the muted sounds of nature. As I walk, memories of you flood my mind. The way you looked that last night, your eyes wide with fear, your pleas echoing in the stillness.
I reach the edge of the woods and pause. There’s a small clearing here, a place I come to think. I sit on the bench I placed here years ago, the wood cold and unyielding beneath me. I close my eyes and let the memories wash over me.
A soft rustling sound makes me open my eyes. A deer stands at the edge of the clearing, watching me with curious eyes. For a moment, we simply stare at each other. Then, it turns and disappears into the woods.
I sit there for a while longer, lost in thought. Eventually, I stand and make my way back to the house. The cold has seeped into my bones, but I feel a bit lighter. The memories still hurt, but they also bring a sense of comfort.
Back at the house, I make another cup of coffee. This time, I make two cups. I place one on the table across from me, where you used to sit. It’s a small gesture, but it makes me feel connected to you, even if only for a moment.
As I sip my coffee, I pick up my iPad again. I open a new document and begin to write. I write about you, about the life you lived before I ended it. The words flow easily, and for the first time in months, I feel a sense of peace.
The coffee grows cold, but I don’t mind. I keep writing, lost in the memories and the words. I like to think it’s my way of keeping you alive, but it really is a way of keeping myself alive. Documenting the thrill I felt when I squeezed your life away.
As I’m immersed in the writing, a different kind of memory surfaces. The memory of that night. The night I followed you home. The night I watched you from the shadows, waiting for the perfect moment. The night your eyes went blank.
I sip my coffee, the bitterness grounding me. I look again at the local newspaper’s website, hoping for any update. No news about your disappearance. Not yet. But the town will start asking questions soon. They always do.
The thrill of the chase had always been part of it. The way you moved, unaware of my eyes on you, had drawn me in. But now, it’s the aftermath that I savor. The quiet house, the memories of your final moments, the anticipation of the news that will eventually come.
For now, I have the memories, and in this quiet house, they are enough to sustain me until the questions start.
Afterword
“Memories” was born out of my deep fascination with cold and windy places. There’s something about the biting chill and the howling wind that stirs my creativity. Upstate New York, with its desolate landscapes and bone-chilling winters, provides the perfect backdrop for my imagination to run wild. The stark contrast between the serenity of nature and the turmoil within my characters’ minds has always intrigued me.
During the time I wrote this story, I found myself binge-watching a plethora of HBO and Netflix series. These shows, with their intricate plots and complex characters, had a profound influence on my storytelling. The suspenseful narratives and dark themes of shows like “True Detective” and “Mindhunter” seeped into my writing, shaping the eerie and haunting atmosphere of “Memories.”
The idea for this story came to me one evening as I sat by the window of my cabin, watching the bare, skeletal trees swaying in the wind. The isolation and silence of the landscape mirrored the inner turmoil I wanted to explore in my protagonist. I began to think about the thin line between solitude and loneliness, and how our surroundings can amplify the darkest corners of our minds.
The protagonist of “Memories” is a reflection of these thoughts—an individual grappling with their past in the quiet, cold expanse of upstate New York. As I delved into the character’s psyche, I drew inspiration from the intense psychological dramas I had been watching. The shows’ exploration of human nature and the depths of the human mind resonated with me, helping me to craft a narrative that is both chilling and introspective.
Writing “Memories” was an exercise in understanding the profound impact our environment and experiences have on our thoughts and actions. The cold, desolate setting serves as a metaphor for the isolation and guilt that haunt the protagonist. Through this story, I wanted to explore how our memories shape our present and the ways in which we confront—or avoid—our inner demons.
I hope that “Memories” resonates with you, the reader, and invites you to reflect on the hidden corners of your own mind. Sometimes, it’s in the quietest places that the loudest thoughts emerge, and in solitude that we confront our deepest fears.
Thank you for joining me on this journey.
René.
