I Remember You and Me

by Ramy

As soon as you set foot in Dediscopolis, everything you’ve known since the day of your 18th birthday becomes a complete blur. For Dediscopolitans who’ve lived there since birth, a ceremony takes place for every seventeen-year-old, 24 hours before the Liberation. Despite the warning signs posted around town, rumors persist of teenagers—too attached to their childhood lives—who try to escape and disappear into the night, never to be found again. Those who stay make sure the parents are shamed, quietly or shamelessly, for not showing enough of the beauty of Liberation. I grew up hearing the same question over and over: why would anyone want to escape It?

October 26th, 3:26 pm. The pendulum clock on the wall—next to the three baby pictures of me and my two sisters—echoes in the quietness of the living room. Tic Tac, Tic Tac, Tic… I recall the breakfast table conversation we had this morning around cheesy eggs and sausage Mom made before rushing out the door. “You’ll see,” Maria said, smiling the way she always does. “You’ll feel like a completely new person.” “Teenage years suck anyway,” Anna added, barely looking up from her plate. Mouth half full, I muttered, “How would you know? You don’t remember anything.” With only a few hours left before my Liberation ceremony, tension clings to the house. Dad keeps running back and forth to the store for more decorations, as if every inch of the house and backyard weren’t already drowning in color. Mom is worse—knocking on every neighbor’s door, making sure the whole town will be there. I can barely stand five people in this house. Two hundred strangers feels unbearable, but there’s no amount of complaining that will stop her. I don’t understand why we do this every two weeks. Last time, watching David’s Liberation, then Nadia’s, something in me finally snapped. My best friends forgot me faster than lightning, fifteen whole years of friendship erased just like that. Everyone in Dediscopolis talks about starting from scratch, about forgetting bad decisions and childish mistakes, about the freedom of adulthood. I’m not sure I want that.

“Do you ever not think about when we played together?” I ask. Anna shrugs. “It doesn’t matter whether we remember it or not. Those were silly things. Grow up—life isn’t about chasing your sisters like a toddler.” My throat tightens. I look at Maria and Anna, my eyes burning. “You smiled more before you turned eighteen,” I say. “Now you’re grumpy all the time. What if I become like that?” Maria’s face softens. She reaches for my hand. “It’s okay. You’re scared. That’s normal. I’m sure part of me was nervous too, even if I don’t remember it.” But how do you explain that forgetting is the fear? That childhood wasn’t just silly—it was how I learned? How I learned not to roller skate downhill too fast, to eat a rainbow popsicle before it melted down my fingers, to climb the tree outside David and Nadia’s window and sneak in past curfew. How do I explain the taste of chocolate dough on the spoon, Mom laughing as she pretended not to notice the mess on my face? I wish I could write it all down. Every important moment. The first time I rode a bike without training wheels and fell flat on my face. The first sunrise I stayed awake for, when I couldn’t sleep the day before my sister’s Liberation, terrified of her forgetting me. Most importantly, I’d remember Rose. Her soft hands drying the tears rolling down my face as I confessed my fear of losing everything. Her laugh when I made the silliest jokes only she found funny. Her brown eyes, deeper than the forest surrounding the town, staring at me on the soft patch of grass we’d lay on during starry nights. Although, writing all that would be useless. Literacy in Dediscopolis is absent; we share news face-to-face or through the megaphones near the town’s borders. Words aren’t meant to last.

The rest of the day passes like usual. I go out on my daily 30-minute walk, listening to the birds chirping, exposed by the autumn leaves slowly falling off the trees. By the time I get back home, the smell of steamed cassava with fried plantains and fish fills the dining room. “Your favorite!” exclaims Mom. At the thought of forgetting my favorite meal, the satisfaction I usually feel at every bite turns immediately into bitterness. I leave my half-eaten plate on the table and rush to bed.

October 27th, 12:00 a.m. Sleep won’t come. I toss and turn, staring at the ceiling. Exactly 24 hours before all I’ve built becomes a thing of the past. Lost in my thoughts, I barely hear the gentle knock on my window, which soon becomes the sound of it sliding up. “Rose!”. I get up and hug her, all the worries keeping me awake leaving my mind instantly. “I figured you’d like some company,” she smiles, revealing her left dimple. “You shouldn’t be here,” I say, though I don’t mean it. She shrugs. “Rules bend.” Rose went through her Liberation weeks ago. I remember her ceremony—the crowd, the noise, her standing so still at the center of it all. “It was overwhelming,” she tells me now, sitting on my bed. “All those faces. But when I saw you, I knew. I didn’t remember how, just… that you mattered.” “What if that doesn’t happen for me?” I ask. “What if I forget you?” She’s quiet for a moment. “Then I’ll remember you,” she says. “Memory isn’t the only thing that survives.” I think of Mr. Jefferson on Fourth Street, alone in his cabin. Forgotten by everyone. Or maybe remembered by no one who stayed. “Do you ever wish you’d left?” I ask. Rose doesn’t answer directly. She traces the scar on her wrist—a mark she’s never explained. “There’s more beyond the walls than they tell us,” she says. “And some of us don’t belong to just one side.” We talk until the sky begins to pale, imagining places beyond Dediscopolis. Places where memories return. Places where they don’t. Places where people are happier or where they’re lost forever. Eventually, sleep finds me in her arms.

The sunlight through the blinds wakes me. She’s gone. The disappointment almost makes me miss the note she left on my nightstand, written in looping cursive, something I’ve only noticed Rose do. She taught me the wonders of reading to decrypt her handwriting:

I read it again and again before voices flood my room. Mom, Dad, my sisters—making sure I’m awake, ready for the last fourteen hours of my soon-to-be past life. I shove the note under my pillow, heart pounding, and join the festivities. Photos line the tables. People ask me to share memories. I tell stories: hide-and-seek with my sisters, walks with Mom until her camera overflowed, games with Dad that I always lost. I watch Maria’s face, then Anna’s. Their expressions are empty, like newborns, no memories built yet, just the light of this new world blurring their eyes. To my sisters, these are just tales; nothing more.

The ceremony goes on. I check the pendulum anxiously. 5:45 pm. The only part I was excited for finally comes. In Dediscopolis, there is a room made of bricks with only one door. The day before the Liberation, every nominee enters this room, where, in complete darkness, you scream your biggest regret and leave it stuck inside the red walls before forgetting everything. This purifying ritual is supposed to keep newly liberated adults at peace. “Rose, I never got to tell you, I…”. Only the room hears my plea. I close the door behind me, feeling less purified and more regretful.

By the time I get back home, dinner passes. I’m surrounded by neighbors, old friends who don’t remember me, new friends I’ll make in my adult life, extended family, and strangers. The past, the present, and the future all in one place, frozen in time. I’m stuck; forced to greet someone with every step I take. 11:43 pm. More and more faces gather in the backyard. My only way out is to crawl through a tiny gap in the fence between our neighbors’ house and ours, hidden behind my ceremony table. I pretend to reminisce at my pictures lined up on the bright cover, drop one to my feet and swiftly slide under the table. Last time I went through it, puberty hadn’t hit yet. After checking my watch, I have no choice but to try. 11:55 pm. Like a sign from the universe, I miraculously fit and escape through their lawn, the voices fading into a distant hum. My feet move without guidance, I know the way by heart to our sanctuary, our hill.

When I reach the meeting spot, there is 1 minute left before my Liberation. “Hurry, the border is right there!” calls Rose. I can hear my heartbeat through my wheezing but still manage to pick up speed. We run faster and faster in the wind, hand in hand, feet nearly leaving the ground. I check my watch. 10…9…8…I can see one of the megaphones lining the borders of Dediscopolis. I think of my sisters. My parents. The house. The town. Even Mr. Jefferson. And finally Rose. 7…6…5…I slow. Something tightens in my chest—not fear of the outside, but fear of leaving everyone behind. She looks back, confused. 4…3…2… Part of me is hopeful. This is where I belong. I take the risk.

“We won’t make it,” I say softly.

“I’m sorry”

“I love you”

1…

Liberation.