Echos From a Forgotten Mind
“Oww,” The person said as they slowly opened their eyes, “my head. Wait where am I? Who am I?” He said, starting to clutch the table, looking at the soft tannish green walls, the wooden table that had 5 5 liter jugs, 4 of which were empty. Well, that explains the headache, he thought to himself, as he grabbed one of the bottles that’s label read “Madam Rosmerta's Firewhiskey”, and a warning on the bottom that read, “Don’t drink more than 1 liter without seeking medical assistance.” Well fuck, he thought glancing at the four empty bottles, 20 times the healthy dose. “I’m screwed.”
He then looked to the right and left of him, looking at the semi spacious kitchen and cozy living and dining room that had a fireplace. Something about a fireplace and being hungover, would it be crazy to think a person could enter from the fireplace? Nevermind I’m just drunk, he reassured himself. He then realized he had no clue where or who he was. Looking at his hands, the black stone ring on his left middle finger, a symbol of asexuality. Maybe I’m asexual, he then thought. If I am, I have no recollection. He then looked to his left arm that was exposed via his white button up shirt being pushed up. Exposing a tattoo of a snake and skull, that seemed to be moving and shifting between shades of grey and black. Weird, it looks almost culty. Not paying attention to the fact the snake slowly seemed to be moving. As he tried to remember anything about this tattoo he felt emotions of guilt, anxiety, and strangely numbness. He then looked to his right hand, where he was then surprised to see his ring finger was a metal prosthetic. What happened?
He looked back down to the table, putting the jugs on a corner of the floor, ignoring the knitting project on the table, some sort of striped sweater? To more importantly a phone, id, a series of papers, and a weird looking stick that was slightly curved with what looked almost like a shell on the end. He picked it up feeling some sort of familiarity, though not knowing why. Racking his brain for answers he didn’t have. What was his name? How old was he? What day is it?Is this his apartment? If not, whose was it? Why can’t he remember anything? What with the stick and tattoo? He then grabbed the ID, Warren Oliver Peters, age 24 born on July 3rd 1959. British, can speak English, German, and Scottish Gaelic. Now feeling some things fall into place, feeling words from other languages on his tongue. He then opened the phone, noticing the date July 3rd 1984, his birthday. Opening the camera to see hazel eyes gaze back at him, dusty blond hair swooped to the side, a few freckles on his face, eyebags, and a slightly rat-like nose. He was wearing a white button down, and black knitted vest that looked homemade. He looked at himself in the camera for a few minutes, the name, his name Warren not really fitting, but his last name resonating, He said his name several times into the camera,
“I’m Warren Peters. I’m Warren Peters. I’m Warren Peters.” until it became familiar on his lips, before finally seeing a letter that was written in half chicken scratch, half cursive, that read:
“Dear Warren, I know you won't remember anything in the morning intentionally. A while ago, we were in an accident-hence in the prosthetic and that is partially why you don’t remember anything. It’s better for us if you don’t remember anything.” Well that explains the metal finger he thought while slowly wiggling his hand. “Anyways your first day at A Piece of Heaven bakery is today at 12 pm, the owner is Pauline. We’ve been given the manager position, our dream job! Today will be a training day. There’s a reminder on the phone with directions and an outfit laid out. Also, some side information you own this apartment, keys are in the bowl in the hallway. The owner of the building’s name is Earl and his wife Clementine “Elle”. I’ve posted numbers and other info about the house on the fridge. As for dementia the doctor’s said we hit our head pretty badly, but it should get better, eventually. That’s why I’m writing this. I don’t want to forget, but I need to.”
That’s where the first letter ended, leaving Warren with a few answers but more questions than anything. He started reading the second letter, this one harder to read, the writing more swirled and sloshed together, he imagined he had a few drinks before writing this one. “So, here’s a bit of info to know that I don’t want us to forget. We’re Warren Peters, age 25 years old when you’re reading this. We live in London, England. Our Mother was Scottish and we grew up there in Aberdeen. Our Father was born in Germany and moved to Ireland when he was young moving here for school, which is where our parents met. We went to Inverness Royal Academy and from that went to pastry school in London, where we now live. As for the tattoo, it was an embarrassing story and a mistake DON’T SHOW ANYONE. It’s for our own good, please.” The words don’t show anyone being underlined several times, part of him wondered if the tattoo was part of a dare, group, or an ode to someone that went wrong, whatever it was it is unusual to walk around in public with it and for his own well being he decided to follow the message left by himself. “Oh, and one last thing is the wand on the table. DON’T GET RID OF IT.” So that’s what it was, an old prop wand. “Don’t get rid of it, it's from school. Put it in one of the ‘don’t get rid of boxes’ in the bedroom closet. It's just a bunch of things we’ve kept throughout the years from school and college. There was then a brief wishing well before the letter ended.
Warren then checked the time 8:40 a.m. He then brewed some coffee to get rid of the hangover and quickly cleaned the apartment, reading any other notes his past self left behind. Jumping into the shower to wake up, putting on jeans and a comfy green jumper. To now find the boxes in the closet, putting the letters on the nightstand to look at later, as there were a few parts that had been crossed out that he wanted to reread and look through, which he would eventually do after work. “Wand” in hand he then opened the closet to see several other clothes hanging up, an organizer, and behind the hamper two cardboard boxes labeled “DO NOT THROW AWAY. SENTIMENTAL (crossed out) IMPORTANT STUFF.” Bingo. He thought cracking into a slight grin, hoping these boxes would allow for some return of his memory. He opened the first box, to see a neatly folded school uniform that was made up of a black cloak, white button up, gold and red tie, and vest with a patch that read Gryfindor with a crest of a gold lion in a red background which matched the one on the black cloak. Maybe it was the school's mascot? It's on all of these clothes, he thought as he picked through several more pieces of clothing. After taking all the clothes out of the box, he noticed three things left in a photo album, small boxes of vials that had an almost iridescent hue shining shades of red, orange, silver, a lilac purple, yellow, green, and blue as the sunlight hit them. Part of him wanted to drink one of the maybe 75-300 vials, there were a lot oaky. However, the common sense in him said who knew how old those vials are, and more importantly what was in them. Gently, he placed the vials to the side before picking up a collection of seven notebooks, randing from brown leather to bright red vinyl, a few of which had stickers or the same lion crest on it, marked the years and what he assumed was the first year of school, up to his last. He carefully attempted to open one of the books by physically having to let go, the book acting as if it was gorilla glued shut. He tried another one, the same thing the book wouldn’t open, except this one bit him. How could a book bite me? Well, must just be a papercut, as he tried to pry open all of the journals with a variety of sharp objects. Frustrated and panting, he put the books and vials back into the box before looking at the photo album.
In this album, Warren saw many photos, some which must have been taken as young as 10 and ended in 1981. Three years ago. He saw several of the same people over and over again throughout this book, a boy with grey eyes and shoulder length long curly black hair, a boy with brown hair, dark hazel eyes and scars over one of his eyes and nose, and lastly a boy with black curly hair, blue eyes with flecks of amber depending on the lighting and large circular glasses. Warren felt like he should know these people, but for the life of him he couldn't remember, Curse you amnesia. Part of him felt disgusted and sad looking at these photos. Why? Was a question he kept asking himself. The majority of the book had some sort of combination of the four boys, growing together throughout the years at school. With one exception being a group of four girls who had a caption of Marlene, Dorcas, Lily, and Mary House Party 1976. He didn’t know who was who of course, but like the boys they felt important, especially the name Marlene. A last face seldom appeared in the book, he was a boy who looked to be their age who had long black hair and always was alone, sad, and often displeased. When he did, Warren and the boys, who he assumed to be his friends were always making fun of or pranking him. This boy had green and silver instead of red and gold on his uniform, like one of the girls from the prior picture. Warren then realized something, maybe there's different dormitories or perhaps each year had their own colors? He continued flipping through, seeing how the later quarter, what was labeled 7th year had less photos, sure it was still a substantial amount, but overall less especially with the other 3 unknown boys. Instead, there seemed to be more shots of nature and the school itself. Even in the photos with his friends he noticed how in some cases his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. When they were all together in the dormitory chatting and having game night became spread out, and worried expressions often lingering in their eyes.
By the looks of it, his friends didn’t notice Warren’s change in behavior that much. The scar boy and gray eyes were too preoccupied with each other as were glasses with the red headed girl from earlier pictures. One of the last photos seemed to be taken after graduation, with the caption being titled “First Trip to St.Mungos” and after a few more pages, the words “For Memories Yet to Come”. Making him wonder what happened to these friends he seemingly was close with all through childhood. He then put the photo album on his beige striped comforter, deciding to look through it more later. Not noticing how the cover said “The Times and Adventures of the Marauders, Misters Moony, Wormatial, Padfoot , and Prongs.” Carefully folding the clothes neatly back into the box back into the closet as he pulled the next one out.
This one was noticeably lighter than the previous. Letting his curiosity and desire for answers get the best of him he swiftly opened the box to see a silver skull mask shining up at him. The mask reminded him of the tattoo on his arm, quickly associating the two. He put the mask up to his face, noticing the chill that emanated now off the room. Something about the mask, the anonymity made him feel powerful, like he could do anything, seen. The other half was scared and corroded with fear and guilt. Placing the mask down on the floor, he lifted a long black cloak that had a singular silver button and some volume on the shoulders. The cloak felt thick and arm, but also like it had too many bad experiences laced into the fabric. Next were more of the strange vials, a weird chess set. And three more journals, black leather this time.
Like the other journals these wouldn’t open, he was then about to put everything away, feeling all the more confused before sets of polaroids attached to each other either by chip clips or rubber bands. As he looked through these photos he noticed himself a bit older-maybe within the past 5 to 8 years, with completely different people. Depending on the photo he either looked poised or more often happier, laughing, a change in mood from the 1st series he saw. This group made past him feel wanted, worth something, and most importantly in his opinion seen, heard, and by the looks of it respected. In these photos he was often with a tanned curly blond haired boy with pretty teal eyes who seemed to enjoy playing chess, and other than that was hard to read, unless of course he was with the tall boy with light brown hair that was somewhat wavy, eyes that color could somehow change in every picture, and a goofy, joyful, almost maniacal expressions. At first glance Warren thought him to be a slacker, who just enjoyed smoking cigarettes and partying, but in the trios chill moments he always appeared to be reading hard material on math, politics, science, or language laying affectionately on the blood hair boy. Listening to the fireplace crackling and quiet chattering as the blond haired boy drew with some sort of quill, while Warren sat on the opposite couch knitting. Drinks and board games forgotten on the table. Warren also noticed a few other figures who occasionally appeared. One of them being a pair of black haired, tall, Germanic looking, brothers(he assumed),who had a few year age gap, one being several inches taller. A woman in all black, with long black curly hair, a bird skull necklace, and crazed eyes-something happened to her, we ll all of them in these photos and the people in the photo album, but what? Two lovers, maybe married, a boy with long straight white blond hair, and a girl who looked to be sisters with a “crazy eyed” woman. They had a similar face structure and smile. This one looked to be younger and haid blond streaks entwined with her dark hair, unlike who Warren presumed to be her sister she didn’t have the crazed expression hidden behind her eyes-the same experiences just for the younger somewhat more sheltered with different coping mechanisms. Lastly, a boy who looked like the long curly black haired boy from the photo album. Warren did a double take before noticing a few differences. The new boy was at least a few inches shorter, had shorter hair, not visible tattoos, a completely different fashion taste, this one being what Warren could describe as “ill victorian child” and his brother or relative “rebellious teenage rocker boy” Overall, the new boy had deadly cold eyes, intimidating to all who who probably were around him, btu also from what Warren could understand childhood fragility/trauma that deeply affected him. Strangely enough, Warren lumped the “Sisters” and the two greyed eyed brothers together as a some sort of fragmented family, easily unified and separated. What marked the newest, youngest, grey eyed boy as different however is how he disappeared about what Warren jugged was a year after the the oldest few of these photos, never seen again. Warren wondered what happened to all of them, specifically this boy, why did he disappear. Did they just lose touch, move away, or was it something else? What caused him to gain a secondary group of friends, assuming the times overlapped, which by the looks they did. Hell what organization was he in? As he saw a few of those who had their arms exposed share the same tattoo in the same place he did. Thoughts kept floating in his head before,
“Ring! Ring!" Warren turned his phone alarm off, realizing it was time to leave for his first day at work. He then put the cloak, mask, and like the directions said the stick, wait no wand in the second box quickly shoving it to the furthest corner of the closet. After, he tied the polaroids back together putting them and the photo album on his nightstand, telling himself he would look at them again once he got home.
Exiting the room he grabbed his wallet, phone and keys before turning off the lights and locking the front door.
A twenty minute ride on the tube and five minute walk later Warren was standing in front of “A Piece of Heaven” bakery, the first thing he noticed was the heavenly smell of fresh bread and pastry wafting out of the building, enticing whoever dared to walk by. During the train ride he did a quick google search of this bakery, it opened five years ago by well renowned Parisian pastry chef Paulina Moreau, who has won several awards particularly for her breadmaking. Since then this bakery has been in and out of headlines for every new baked good and how it practically sells out every day. The outside looked like a Patisserie out of a French city square, pink flowering bushes out front, light pink painted bricks with white siding, and cute tables set outfront where people were enjoying their pastries. He then took a deep breath, before opening the door, noticing the little jingle the doorbell made upon entry.
“Warren you’re here!It's nice to see you again!” A black woman with space buns said. She was wearing an off the shoulder lavender sweater and blue ripped jeans, she then dusted her hands off her apron, before coming over to greet him.
“Pauline, good morning, it's nice to see you as well! Thank you for giving me the job, I’m very excited to work here!”
“The pleasures all mine! I’m sure you’ll be a great fit here, let me show you around.” She said, giving him a cheerful smile, which Warren then reciprocated. “As you know this is the front. This is Sally, our bakery clerk and head digital marketer. Sally, this is Warren, our new manager of the bakery side of things.” Sally was a redhead, with freckles, and green eyes she looked deadly similar to one of the ladies he was friends with in highschool. Before then realizing it wasn't possible, as they had different facial structures . They then exchanged pleasantries before Paulina led him to the kitchens where he met the rest of the team, Elodie-the head cake decorator, Theodore-the chocolatier, Cecil-the candy maker, Ayaan--the dough maker, Kiran-the bench hand and fryer, and Alette and Thalasse the bakery assistants. After meeting the team Warren got more information about his job- such as how the bakeries closed on Tuesdays and he’ll get Saturday and holidays off, with some paid time off and sick leave. He also got to know more about his job, in addition to supervising he also will be making bread and helping with the testing and creation of recipes.
Over the next several days he got to meet and get to know his coworkers better. He felt happy, and truly a part of something, for the first time in well, how long he can remember. He still can’t remember his life form before, but hey, now he gets to make bread and pastries and occasionally take them home.