It’s always exciting to receive a response to one of my writing prompts. This intriguing tale was written by Rachel Smith from the prompt ‘repressed memories‘ prompt I published in August.

The Return by Rachel Smith 

Having a clear out isn’t always easy. You can end up keeping things just in case you find the time and affection to use them again, but eventually you reach that point when you know it’s time to let go. That’s how I felt about my guitar. The dream was over. I leant it against the box with ‘Rubbish’ scrawled on the side.

Wanting to break the bond quickly before I changed my mind, I moved straight on to the next task: my desk drawers.

I like clearing out drawers. You find things you’ve forgotten you even had. They become brand new again. It feels like opening presents. There’s something about having new things that gives me a warm feeling inside.

I spent about half an hour sorting through bits of old paper. It all turned out to be rubbish, apart from a pad of drawings I’d done as a child and some humorous letters my friend and I had written in a made up language in primary school.

Re-discovering childhood memories is my favourite part of clearing out drawers. They bring me back to a time of fun, when I could make a game out of anything, where my endless free time allowed me to explore and imagine more. And of course, when everything seemed so much simpler. Well, most of the time.

The second best thing I like about clearing out drawers is the organisation. The act of sorting through what’s needed and what’s not, helps to de-clutter my mind as well the drawer. I divided things into a pile for shredding and recycling. I’d heard it’s best to shred things with your name on, although I’m not sure if it’s paranoia really, as in the rare likelihood that the bin men did go through your recycling, why is your name such private information? Anyway I figured it’s better to be on the safe side. I took the staples out, because who wants that added on to their boring job of sifting through recycling? And anyway, if you’re going to do a job, I always think it’s best to do it properly.

There were only a few pages left now, revealing a thicker object, which I could see by the plastic edges of the pages was a photo album. I reached out for it. A jolt ran up my arm and I pulled away. There was something familiar about the feeling that made my stomach churn.

I took a deep breath and reached out again. The same thing happened, but this time I didn’t draw back. I opened it quickly.

I relaxed. Just photos. Well, what were you expecting, really? I thought, letting out a relieved chuckle.

I looked more closely at the photos. My friends and I were in mid-bounce on a bouncy castle at my tenth birthday party. I studied the faces. There was my best friend Josh, and my other friends, Daniel and Mike… and

Who was that?

He was wearing a blue shirt, done up to the top, and brown trousers. The rest of us were all wearing jeans and t-shirts with our favourite cartoon character on them. My aunty worked in a factory that produced them so we’d got them at a discount. Why wasn’t he wearing one?

I frowned. How did I not know who that was? There were only five of us; it wasn’t like it was one of those big parties where you’d invite the whole class. I brought the photo closer to my face and looked again.

I gulped. How could I forget?

I hadn’t seen him in years. I felt a warm tingle on the back of my neck. I swivelled round on my desk chair. You’re imagining things, I told myself; when you look back he’ll be gone. I looked back at the photo and for a moment I held my breath.

It was definitely him. I remembered. How he’d floated up as we bounced. He was trying to join in, but I knew he couldn’t feel the adrenalin rush like we could. How I’d been caught later chatting to him down the side of the garden fence. No I wasn’t. I was talking to myself. I’m mentally unstable, I reminded myself firmly. It wasn’t that I’d forgotten what’d happened. I’d blocked out his face. I didn’t want to think about that time.

I slammed the book shut. Had I forgotten my medication? I trailed back to this morning. Nope, I’d definitely taken it. This was mad. I was better. It’d been five years, why was he back now?

I stayed facing away from my desk in the corner, feeling unnerved at the idea of not knowing what was behind me. I knew he was there. Even if he was created by my mind, he was definitely there. My fingers stopped drumming my jeans and I let my shoulders relax. There was no point trying to fight it.

The air felt hot all around me. It brushed against my skin lightly as if someone had a hairdryer on a low setting.

“I know you’re there”, I said.
“Of course I’m here.”
“Why are you back?”
“To make sure you don’t end up like me.”
“But you are me. I made you up!”
“I’m real, Ashley.”

There was a dark blue glow in a rectangle shape, about the size of a mobile phone directly in front of me. It expanded slowly, and I heard a clatter of footsteps. He was coming.

The glow was now the size of a door. With a click, it opened.

He stepped out. He hadn’t changed a bit. His thick red curls seemed more solid than the rest of his vaporous appearance, as though they belonged to another head entirely. It was strange how he’d seemed so solid in the photograph. He wore the same clothes as in the picture.

There was no way I was going down this road again. If he was in my head, then surely I could make him go away.

I covered my eyes with my hands and muttered, “He’s not real, he’s not real, he’s not re…”

“Ashley, please just listen to me.”

The warm air intensified as he glided towards me. I felt him touch my shoulder gently. His hand felt as solid as mine. I noticed the small scar on his forehead, the spot on his chin, the mole on his arm. I wondered how a figment of my imagination could be so detailed. What if everyone else had been wrong? What if he was real?

I bit my lip and turned away from him, picking up my phone.

“What are you doing?” He asked.

My hand was shaking. Did I really want to admit it? I was sick of being treated like a delicate flower, trapped in its vase because it can’t cope with the wild weather outside. I just wanted to be normal. I sighed. There was only one way to go if I wanted to come close to normal.

“Please, just hear me out.”

I scrolled down through my contacts to ‘Roundhouse’, my local adolescent mental health unit.

“You’ll be gone soon”, I replied.

“Right, that’s it.”

There was a rush of warmth to my skin as he grabbed the phone from my hand.

“Give it back!” I cried, trying to grab it back. He floated back over to the other side of the room.

How had he done that? I thought. He’s in my head. I should be in control. I glared at him, knowing it was pointless trying to get it back or get rid of him. He’d go of his own accord, and when he did, I’d escape and get some help.

“I’m sorry, but I need to explain.”

“Fine,” I sighed, leaning back into my chair and folding my arms.

“You’re right. I am you, or at least a part of you. Didn’t you ever wonder why you could talk to me so easily? You’d tell me anything and you never once questioned where I came from.”

“Well I made you up, so I guess that makes sense.”
“No, you’re wrong.”
I sighed.
“I’m you in a past life.”
Oh god, I’ve really lost it, I thought.

He paused for a moment, looking at me as if expecting some response. I looked at the floor.

“Our past lives are normally within us, even though we’re not aware of them. Yours is an unusual case. I never managed to merge into you, and until you rectify what went wrong in my life, in our life, the one only I can remember, I’m stuck like this; floating around the world, just watching, and unable to experience the world as a true human being. It’s…” He frowned, letting his head droop and closing his eyes, his expression pained as he continued, “it’s a half life really.”

He opened his eyes and looked up at me again, his face relaxing. I caught his gaze for a moment before looking back towards the floor. An awkward silence hung in the air for a few seconds before he continued.

“I was supposed to be a musician, but coming from a family of academics, my passion wasn’t encouraged. I just wanted to fit in. I knew I could do it. I was clever, so I became a doctor. It was an interesting job and I was glad to be helping people, but I always felt the musician in me, suffocating under the responsibility of my job. I kept meaning to try and get a gig, but I’d lost confidence. I hadn’t played my music to anyone since I was sixteen, and I started to think I wasn’t ever good enough in the first place. I knew for certain I was a good doctor so I stuck at that. I thought about pursuing music in retirement, when I had more time, but I died when I was fifty.”

He looked at me. I didn’t know what to say. Either I had a very good imagination, or… I blocked out the thought. There was no point going there yet.

“You want the same thing, don’t you?” He asked.

“I…” I frowned. “It wouldn’t work out,” I sighed and covered my eyes with my hand. This was mad.

“You still don’t believe I’m real, do you?”

“No. I’m having a relapse.”

“You want to be a musician though, don’t you?”

“It doesn’t matter if I want to. I can’t. I’d never cope with the pressure. Me, performing live? The guy who talks to himself?” I sniggered.

“Don’t you remember how I used to encourage you? Do you really think it’s a coincidence that I was always around when you had something musical going on? I was there for your first guitar and singing lessons. I was there when you wrote songs. We discussed the lyrics together. And I should have been there for your audition for music school, but the plan went wrong.”

“What plan?”

“To fix my mistake. That’s why I was there for you because we need to be a musician. It’s our purpose in life. Without it I’ll be a ghost of our being and if you don’t become one either, you’ll be like me, and we’ll keep wandering the Earth as empty shells until one of our future selves becomes a musician… well if they do.”

“This can’t be in my head. This is really real, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it’s real. All I wanted was to help you, and I did, until your parents found out. That’s why I went away, because I knew you no longer believed I was real, and I didn’t want to keep making you think you were going crazy. When I discovered you were going to throw out your guitar I knew I had to come back. You’ve let it hold you back, the whole mental illness thing. You need to let it go, you’re perfectly sane, and even if you did have schizophrenia that shouldn’t stop you from fulfilling your true purpose. You just need to believe in yourself and work hard.”

“You’re right. I’ve wrapped myself up in cotton wool for too long. I need to get out there.”

“Exactly. You can do this, and I’ll be back when you need me.”

The dark blue glow appeared next to him, expanding to the size of a door. He stepped into it, turned and waved, and it shrank until it disappeared with a pop.

I sat there for a moment, dazed by what had just happened, and smiling, I picked up my guitar and began strumming my favourite song. It was a bit clunky in places, but I knew I could re-master it with practise. I felt like a kid again, full of determination and certainty about their ambition for when they grow up. All the obstacles had been knocked down by my own self- belief.

About the author

Rachel Smith is a 20-year old student studying Creative Writing at Bath Spa University. She is in her second year and this story was part of an assessment to encourage students to expose their work to the outside world by following a real brief. Although Rachel has a particular interest in writing for young people, she isn’t sure what she wants to write in terms of a career yet, so  is experimenting with different forms and genres.

This story is the first thing she’s ever had published. Other than the repressed memories prompt itself, her inspiration for this story came from her own life, as she has recently sorted through drawers in her room and enjoyed looking back at childhood memories. Furthermore, as she’s been working through her degree she’s been thinking more about her hopes to be a writer and how much self-belief can aid this.