Losing Coral

By N J Crosskey

I’m wearing a cream blouse.

The air smells of lavender and bleach. The woman beside me kisses my cheek. “Bye Mum,” she says, and I realise it’s Meghan. Silly of me, must be the new ‘do. She looks so different.

I forget things sometimes. That’s why I’m here, I think it’s… a word flies across my mind so quickly I can’t hold onto it. I chase it, but it’s gone. So has Meghan.

I walk down the corridor to the lounge. The fraying, floral chairs are occupied by people much older than I. The woman beside me must be ninety if she’s a day. I’m only… well, I’m not sure exactly, but I’m much younger.

She smiles at me, I smile back. “I’m new,” I say.

“That’s nice,” she replies. “Have you ever been to Storrington? I’m from Storrington. Course there wasn’t much to do there. I always caught the number thirty-seven into town-”

She talks, a lot. I listen politely as she tells me every nuance of her life. It’s not until she says, “I must telephone my father, he’ll be dreadfully worried,” that I realise she’s crazy.

I look at the others more closely. One of them polishes a teaspoon, frantically, with her jumper. Another gets up, sits down, and gets up again. They’re all crazy. That word I was chasing rushes forward, belts me round the head. Dementia. I’ve heard it a lot. I’ve heard it said about me.

I’ve got dementia. The memory kicks me in the guts, I struggle for breath. I’ve got dementia, and it’s going to consume me, take away everything I am. I look at them all, locked inside their bubbles. Like scratched records, stuck in one groove. How long before I am the same?

Someone starts to wail. I realise it’s me.

I’m wearing a blue nightdress.

The air smells of smoke. My house is on fire! I flee my bedroom, race to the front door. But it’s locked. I can’t get out! I scream, hammering my fists in vain.

“Help me! I’m burning alive!”

Footsteps thunder toward me. Uniformed arms grasp mine, stopping me from hitting the glass pane.

“Coral,” the young lady says, “look at me.”

I’m shaking, but I obey.

“It’s Okay.” She speaks slowly, deliberately.

“My house is on fire!” Why isn’t she panicking?

“No honey. Not now. You’re safe.”

She leads me back down the corridor, sits me down. She tells me things I half remember, things that seem like whispered dreams.

I left the stove on, burned down the house.

“That’s how you came to live with us.” She says.

I’m wearing a green jumper.

I must change before my date tonight. I pick up the mirror to check my lipstick. A shrivelled face, covered in burns and framed by grey hair stares back at me. I scream.

I’m wearing a purple dress.

I sit next to a woman much older than I. “I’m new,” I say.
“That’s nice,” she smiles. “Have you ever been to Storrington?”

N J Crosskey is an author, mother, and caffeine junkie from Worthing, West Sussex. She writes novels, short stories, flash fiction and poetry, in between working night shifts and raising her two children. Her debut novel Poster Boy will be released in Spring 2019 (from Legend Press), you can follow her on Twitter @NJCrosskey.