A/N: I wrote this for an English assignment a couple of years ago, so my grammar was still sort of bad. It's slow at the beginning too so it might be boring at first. Hope you give it a try.

Last Ray's Tears

Nostalgia is a sentimental longing or wistful affection for the past, typically for a period or a place with happy or personal associations. It's a feeling most of us had dolefully experienced for many times at some point of our meaning of the word itself could emboss a disturbing yet contagiously satisfying emotion that just couldn't be comprehended. But for such yearning to occur, you need memories, images and fragments of the past that you had worked so hard to preserve.

Unfortunately, they're something I don't have.

Just a couple of months ago, I was found lying on the curb in the eastern side of town, a few kilometres from a blazing mansion overlooking the ocean. A wrecked and smoking crimson Porche, in a situation not very unlike that of the mansion, was leaning awkwardly on its side next to a bent eucalypt near me. Apparently, this happened inside one of those rich parts of town. You know, those gated, dull, sea-view areas where indifferent middle-classers dwell.

I remember that day, the 'incident' as I come to call it. How vividly I can recall I can't state exactly. Still I remember it. It was one of the few things I could.

Every bone in my body ached with immortal pain, as if a thousand swords had pierced it, sinking deep into my sub-conscious psyche, therefore increasing the ache tenfold.

My eyes wouldn't function well nor would my other senses. Everything was a blur. I couldn't even make out the sirens properly, only bright rays of pulsing red lights. The siren lights sank into my half open eyes, turning almost every blurry thing I see from their normal colours to a deep scarlet tinge. I was barely aware of the arms of the medics as they laid me on a gurney. Though, strangely enough, I could feel the blood from my forehead roll slowly down my face onto my aching arms.

My head was filled with this delirious ringing but somehow amidst the deafening noise, I could hear the sounds of the waves as they crash onto the rocky sands of the shore, much like what I'm hearing now while standing here on this small beach.

This shore, almost empty on a cool autumn afternoon right before sunset, is the only place I actually enjoy going to. Almost everyday since the incident, I would go here. Next to it is a small park, where sometimes I mull things over too, under the shades of trees where reddening leaves ride the wind's soft caress. Here, I feel the serenity I never usually feel around people. Perhaps it's because it reminds me of the only sound I could ever remember from my past: the waves as they wash over the white sand. That was the only sound I could exactly distinguish during that fateful incident. Because any memory before that, I could not remember, not even my name. There was nothing in my head, not even what happened and why I was the only one who survived the car crash and the burning mansion. The police said they were connected.

All those left me with an amnesia.

It's horrible, having no memories.

It's awful, waking up on a hospital bed with nothing in your mind but the sound of the sea still echoing in its depths and the afterglow of the ambulance lights.

I could also remember when I first became fully conscious after my rescue.

I opened my eyes, still slightly seeing things in red from the after-effects of the lights mixing with the blurriness. Then slowly, everything became clear.

I woke up without serenely, which should have made me glad and the people around my hospital bed less worried. Instead, an ominous feeling of anxiety filled my chest, causing me to go into a panic attack.

Why couldn't I remember? Where was I? What was happening? Who were these people? Who was I?

If you thought you've experienced the worst thing that could happen to you, just wait until you loose your memories. Everything precious. Gone.

It's like this unseen phenomenon has forced itself into your head, devouring everything in its path, leaving you nothing but vast dead emptiness. Its incomprehensibility just frustrates you to the point of madness.

Bleak. Terrifying.

Up until now, six weeks later, only few particularly intelligible images that could have been part of my past had come into my head. All I had were fuzzy visions and occasional flashbacks of what could have been scene with people who were part of a forgotten life. Sometimes they were a bit harsh, too.

The doctors of various medical fields have done all they could but to no progress. Nothing.

Nothing would come out of their various studies and promises. There's no cure for it, everybody knows that, since I'm the only one who could help bring them back. My case of amnesia would not be as easy as anybody else's, this I know. Why? Well, it's because there's nobody here to remind me of the has-beens of my former life.

That's right, "former life".

The people I woke up to in the hospital were the people who found me on that street. The witnesses of the incident.

In reality, I don't know them at all and they don't know me. They're really nice people and I owe my life for the past weeks to them. Yet they were nobody to me.

They, the police, and the town council are doing everything to see if there's anyone left of my family. A girl of about sixteen or seventeen must at least have some relatives left.

According to the investigations, there were about fifty people in that burnt old mansion and two in the red Porche. They were probably my parents. Also, they've mentioned that there was some kind of reunion in that house before the fire consumed it. Nobody survived.

Though they could not tell it to me directly, I know the truth. I have no family left.

They pasted my face everywhere, even in the Internet, but it seems that even friends, I don't have. It was impossible. But true.

I have no one.


I just couldn't believe that.

Almost every afternoon I would visit the ruins or the wasted house, often times brave enough to actually walk among the useless ashes. To think that the soot that was left by the fire was once a magnificent structure full of life and chatter. Now it's just an ugly scar on the face of this town's quaint fa├žade.

Going there, I thought, might help me. Sometimes it did. In my mind, as I sit on one of the blackened wooden armchairs among the remains, I could see flames, red and menacing, licking every corner of the manor, not pausing to spare a single ornament. Then there was a window smashing, loud thuds and drips of crimson blood on the asphalt. This would always be followed by a car door opening, a thud, more blood, then finally ending with a crash.

It was just a short flashback, not big enough to be counted as a fully memory. Nothing of what I always saw was clear.

Yet, I'll never give up because I know that somewhere out there, there is still at least one person who may know and love me.

There is and it's true. I've got proof.

Apart, from torn, singed and slightly bloody clothes, the only thing that was on me when I was found was a sliver chain with a teardrop shaped pendant hanging from it.

It was a strange necklace, especially the teardrop pendant. It was small, but had very intricate designs. No doubt it was expensive, judging by the rubies that were encrusted in its edges. It was probably made of crystal, too. What made it special though was not the apparent cost or its unique beauty, but that it contained a clear fluid. The rubies, when light is shone through them, will reflect their deep redness into the water, making it the colour of a fully bloomed rose.

Right on the glass, written so gracefully with cursive letters and so minutely that you could barely see it, is a haiku.

The sun's last rays shine

Autumn tears fall in silence

Yours, my heart catches

It was beautiful as well as peculiar, just like the necklace itself. The poem was simple but the meaning was deep. This also probably means that the liquid in the pendant was a teardrop. Once again, strange but definitely special.

I know that this simple object hanging from my neck could be the link to my past.

I've always told the people I live with now if I see visions so that they could help me. They, being the kindest of God's most advance creation, would always give me the support I need. But there are a few scenes that could have been part of my memories that I haven't told them about.

They were just too different. They were less daunting than the others, true, but somehow I feel they were private and too precious to be put into words. Apart from that, when I try to speak to them about it, this heavy feeling of misery engulfs me, making it too hard to breathe.

What are they about? These scenes?

This time, they contained someone else rather than just me.

There was a boy.

I could never see his face, but I know that he had auburn hair. It was always the same scenes. It would be on a park that faces out to the sea, while the sun scatters its brilliant red rays across the white sand, announcing the arrival of twilight. I would be handed roses. Then he would always be sitting next to me, the flowers discarded on my side. He would stand up and place a chain around my neck before wrapping his arms around me. Then he would whisper something into my ear, initiating a tingling sensation where his breath touches my skin. They're the only words I could ever distinguish in my intermittent flashbacks.

"I wrote those words for you."

I don't need to think much to know that he was talking about the engraved haiku on the pendant.

If there is a thing I know for sure, with faith as proof, it's that he is alive. For one thing, he didn't die in that fire. He couldn't have. Everyone in that house was part of my family and he was definitely not family. That's for sure. Somehow, deep inside my heart, I know that he is out there somewhere, probably looking for me. I hope he is.

I don't know who this mysterious stranger is exactly in my life but whenever I see those images in my head, hope sparks up. I need to know who he is. Whoever he might be, I might have loved him.

It's another reason why I feel at ease hanging out on this beach. It's like reconnecting with something you have lost.

Feelings inside me are in turmoil: aggravation, misery, longing and others too complicated to say. Tears are not enough to express every single one of them. I've wasted enough already.

All I have now is the scarlet sun's leftover of the day, beams of lights, illuminating the horizon. Its tears are the only things left, as the bright orb leaves an old day to prepare for a darkness that would dominate the sky in its place. Just like me, the light would depart, leaving nothing but portions and carmine tears, while darkness envelops my very being.

Hanging around my neck is a necklace, a tear of what was before, a past that doesn't exist anymore. History could never be erased, but mine is and I might never recover it.

Grasping this little pendant while sobbing in this beach, as I'm doing right now, would not help me I know but yet while holding it, I could almost feel those arms wrap around me again. Running my hands over the grooves of the letters of the pendant, I could almost smell his sweet cologne. Hear his words. For now, it's the only fragment of my past that I have and I would treasure it until I find every single piece of this puzzle fate has given me.

I can't keep watching sunsets, wishing for a miracle. I need him. Please, whoever you are, come back and find me. I need you.


A couple of miles away from that girl sobbing on that small forgotten beach sat a young man. His back was turned away. A single tear rolls down his tanned cheeks onto the notepad on his lap.

His right hand clutched around a pen as he stares out to the sea, unaware of everything else around him. On the pad, three lines were written.

The sun's last rays shine

Love is lost in autumn pools

Oh where are you now?

A/N: I just feel like posting it. The last bit is a bit strange, even i think so. Please review.