My Memoir Novels & Stories

I don’t have a very good memory. It’s a symptom of childhood trauma, according to my therapist. I’m missing such big chunks that I remember people being in my life but I don’t know how or when they stopped being there. I don’t know how I got to this point. I’m a writer but I don’t know my own story. How ironic.

Although I survived, the doctors said my brain had suffered severe trauma, causing memory issues. One moment, I might remember something; the next, it would be gone. So, I developed the habit of keeping a diary. I flipped through the entries, realizing that almost all of them were about Caleb. Of course they were. I liked him and pursued him for seven years. I was terrified that I might forget him. So I wrote about him again and again, as if I could carve those feelings into my mind. But now, I had finally realized that I'd been a fool for these past seven years.

And as I looked into the host's eyes, I knew that this was just the beginning of an incredible journey, one that would take me to places I never thought possible. As I continued to share my story, the host's eyes widened in shock and surprise. "Cynthia, I had no idea," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Your book... it's about you, isn't it?" I nodded, feeling a sense of vulnerability and exposure. "Yes, it is," I admitted. "The book is a semi-autobiographical account of my life, my struggles, and my journey as a wife and a woman."

She used to laugh at the idea, said it was pointless, that memories were better lived than written. I pick it up slowly, then move to the bed. My fingers tremble as I sit on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under my weight, the notebook resting heavy in my hands. I shouldn’t read this, I know that, but curiosity claws at me. The first page isn’t dated. The ink is uneven, and the pressure is inconsistent. [The pain is unbearable, and sometimes it gets so bad it overshadows everything else in my life. Every moment. Every dream. Every memory.

He had that ability to make me momentarily forget how terrible my life was, how bad things were going. "Thank you. Did you read it?" I did not hesitate to ask. My life is in those pages, carefully documented for reasons I am not sure of. I think it's to serve as a reminder, so I would never forget my past and at the same time it is my tool for expression, like a friend that never speaks back, only listens and awaits more lengthy tales.

Before this table. Something I don’t yet understand, but that my body recognizes. And that look. That look she gives me unwittingly. Like a burn. Like a memory. A flash runs through me. A dim light. Rumpled sheets. Warm skin. A name whispered in the shadows. But everything is blurry. Distant. Like drowned underwater. I furrow my brows. Why is this memory so blurry? Why is it coming back now? Lucas breaks the moment. — And your car, Alexandre? How are you recovering from your accident two months ago?

They buzzed around her, promising to double their kindness to make her future bright. My heart ached as I listened. The brothers once made those same promises to me. I knew they still cared about me, but they had chosen someone else over me time and time again. I wondered how they would react if I lost my memory after the surgery. … When I stepped out of my room later, the big villa was quiet. I felt a wave of relief once I realized I was alone. I felt so much more comfortable with everyone gone. I took my time packing up my things and moving them back to the villa my grandparents had left me.

I wasn't about to get myself caught in a mess I couldn't climb out of. So while he slept, I slipped out. I didn't hesitate or look back. I would just pretend that nothing had happened. But the second I stepped out, I saw a heavyset, greasy-looking man stumbling out of the next room. When he spotted me, he let out a low whistle. I looked past him into the room. Clothes were scattered everywhere, and Audrey was on the bed, her dress torn, completely out cold. As I recalled how she had murdered me in my past life, I just shut the door quietly and walked away.

The ache in my wounds deepened. I stood before the mirror and pulled off my dress. The reflection showed raw, red welts and bleeding cuts crisscrossing my body. I remembered how, even the smallest scratch on my finger was enough for Joseph to fuss over. He would clean it himself, wrap it carefully, forbid the maids to take over. And now, I picked up a damp wipe, awkwardly twisting my body to clean the gashes. The sting of the alcohol was sharp. I leaned against the chair back, biting my lip, afraid to breathe too hard through the pain.

"Three tiny miracles that somehow belonged to us. We had no idea what we were doing but we loved them so fiercely that nothing else mattered." Days turned into weeks and the memoir grew. Pages filled with our story. Every triumph and failure. Every passionate night and terrible fight. I became obsessed with getting every detail right. Capturing not just events but emotions. The way Ross's eyes sparkled when he teased me. How Myron's calm steadied me when panic threatened. "Future generations need to understand," I told Luna one afternoon. She brought me lunch, which I barely touched. "This was not just some epic romance. It was real. Messy. Complicated."