I’m Supposed To Be Sad About My Parents’ Suicide, But The Truth Is Nothing’s Ever Made Me Happier

I’m more curious than sad about their deaths. I think that’s justifiable, considering I have zero memories with them since from my teens onwards. In fact, there’s this big blank period in my life I have no memories of; absolutely none. As weird as it sounds, it seems like I was born at the age of fourteen to wealthy, elitist parents Dr. Richard and Laura Martin, who then concocted a story about how I had incurred a major injury to my head which had damaged those parts of my brain dealing with the storage of memories.

“Don’t worry about it, ToTo.” Mother often ran her hand through my hair soothingly. ‘All those memories have been pushed to the back of your head. But they are there in your Unconscious and will, in good time, resurface.”

I didn’t believe it for a minute. And when, as I’d expected, the memories didn’t return, I hadn’t dared prod further into the matter by asking them. It wasn’t like I was scared of them. They were insanely, and sometimes irritatingly loving and supporting, providing me with much more than I needed. I never had to ask for anything; money was dished out to me on a silver platter, my walk-in closet was exploding with clothes I hardly ever wore and the latest technology was always installed in my unbelievably spacious and tastefully furnished room before I had the chance to ask for it. But what bothered me was the amount of attention and affection they showered on me. It was like, everywhere I looked, they were there, hovering around me during mealtimes, making unannounced visits to my school to enquire about my progress and coming to check on me in my room multitudinous times every day, driving me to my wit’s end. Yet, I never felt really comfortable around them and refrained from being in their vicinity as much as possible.

And often, I caught them staring at me with a hint of fear in their ocean blue eyes. It was as though they were scared that I would remember.