Andre lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. It was a blank canvas, yet his mind painted it with a thousand vivid scenes.
His body was still, but on the inside, a storm raged.
It wasn't just a memory playing on repeat; it was all of them, a chaotic, simultaneous jumble.
It felt like hundreds of movies playing on a hundreds of screens in a single room.
The the images flickering and overlapping, with their sound on the maximum volume.
The most vivid memory he was having tonight was his first heartbreak; he was reliving it.
The sting of her words, the hurtful words of the first girl he ever loved, sharp and precise as shattered glass, pierced him anew.
"You're suffocating me, Andre," her voice echoed in his mind, laced with a disdain that still made his stomach turn.
"I need space. I need… someone less intense."
The voices came alive in his head
"Less intense," he muttered to the ceiling, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. "God, I was just… in love."
He remembered the way it felt as if his heart had dropped in his stomach, and his entire world was coming to an end.
He'd tried to argue, to plead, but the words had died in his throat when he saw how cold her stare was, emotionless.
He knew it was a done deal!!
He felt the tightness in his chest, the ache in his throat.
Then came the next layered over that was the memory of his fifth birthday party, the sugary sweetness of the cake, the scratchy wool of his new sweater, the fleeting image of his grandfather's smile, a smile that now seemed impossibly distant.
Then, a snippet of a conversation from yesterday, the mundane details of a forgotten appointment from last week, the drone of a professor's voice from a college lecture, the sharp, earthy smell of rain on asphalt from a childhood summer.
They all collided, vying for his attention. His past trying hard drowning out the present.
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force some semblance of order, to create a manageable stream of consciousness and sanity.
Just like always, it was like trying to hold back a storm with his bare hands.
The memories weren't organized; they jumped and appeared without context or order.
All of a sudden he could feel the sting pain from a scraped knee from when he was seven, the sting of iodine on the raw skin, the fleeting comfort of his mother's kiss.
Then, the warmth of her hand on his forehead when he had the flu, the taste of chicken soup, the sound of her humming a lullaby, the crushing weight of his father's disappointment when he failed a test, the harsh words, the sinking feeling in his stomach.
These weren't just thoughts; he re-lived the moments same intensity as the first time only worse this time since there were alot of them clouding his mind at once.
Why can't I forget?" Andre whispered to himself, his voice barely audible and tired.
All he longed for was to live with the simplicity of an ordinary mind where could move forward without being held down by memories from his past.
His hyperthymesia wasn't just remembering; it was re-experiencing. He wasn't just recalling the past; he was trapped in it, reliving it!!
He felt like a prisoner in his own mind, forced to relive every second of his life, both the triumphs and the traumas, without any control.
'What could I have done to be a part of the cursed less than one percent of the world population to desrve the curse in disguise of a blessing.'
He could recall every word ever spoken to him, every face he'd ever seen, every sensation he'd ever felt.
It was a gift, they said. Well he left them to believe whatever they wanted.
Otherwise, how else would he have explained to them that the force behind his groundbreaking innovation Plexi, the memory enhancement technology that had made him aglobal sensation was his own personal and desperate struggle.
A memory expert who was a prisoner to his own brains, the Irony!
He couldn't hold a conversation without his mind drifting back to every previous interaction he'd had with the person he was talking to, every word they'd ever exchanged.
He couldn't enjoy a meal without remembering every other time he had ever eaten the meal, the taste it produced each time, every texture, every sensation, even the atmosphere he had eaten the food in.
Sleep?
It was a luxury he could rarely afford. His doctor had warned him about the dangers of relying on sleeping pills, and had infact threatened to stop supplying him with prescriptions, but they were the only thing that offered even a sliver of respite from the relentless agony his past put him in.
He'd tried everything else: meditation, mindfulness, yoga, warm milk, chamomile tea, even those ridiculous YouTube videos promising peaceful slumber.
He'd created elaborate bedtime routines, controlled the temperature of his room, bought a weighted blanket, listened to white noise. Nothing worked. His mind was a runaway train, careering into his past and refusing to stop.
He sat up, his heart pounding, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He felt like he was drowning, suffocating under the weight of his own memories.
It was a ritual now, a grim comfort he both craved and despised. His hand moved almost unconsciously toward the bottle, the familiar weight a small reassurance. He didn't even think about it anymore, the act of opening the lid as automatic as breathing. One pill, a small white lie he told himself would fix everything.
As the memories began to fade, Andre's eyelids grew heavy, 'I'm just a man whose most desperate wish was to experience what a normal day feels like, I would trade my entire world for a night of proper sleep' he thought.
Well that was a luxury he might never get to experience.
He closed his eyes, letting the darkness wash over him. At least for a few precious hours, he'd be truly free.