Forgotten

Marcelo opened his eyes to a world that felt wrong.

He blinked, hoping it would settle, but the disquiet only deepened. The room was unfamiliar. He lay in a bed—his bed, probably—but he couldn’t be sure. He sat up, scanning the room for clues. A nightstand. A glass of water. A framed photo of a woman holding a baby. He reached for the photo, but the woman’s face gave him nothing.

What was her name? What was his name?

The door creaked open. A man stepped inside, older, with a lined face but no sense of recognition.

“Marcelo?” the man asked cautiously. “You’re up?”

Marcelo stared at him. “Who are you?”

The man’s face tightened, and then he turned, leaving the room without a word. Marcelo swung his legs off the bed, he wobbled as he stood, but he stayed upright. He moved to the window, parting the curtains. Outside was a city, or what was left of one. Streets lay cracked and broken. Cars were abandoned. There was no movement—no people, no birds, no wind. Nothing.

He felt sick. Something had happened, something big. He walked to the closet, pulling out a pair of pants and a shirt that fit like they belonged to him, though he couldn't remember ever wearing them. He opened the door and stepped into the hallway.

The house was small, lived-in but sparse. Another door opened, and a woman emerged. She was in her late twenties, maybe early thirties. Her hair was unkempt, her eyes were red, and there was a distant, haunted look in her gaze. She stared at him for a long moment.

“Do you remember me?” she asked.

Marcelo shook his head.

She nodded as if she'd expected that. “I'm Mira,” she said. “Does that help?”

He tried the name out in his mind, but it was like tasting air. “No,” he admitted. “I don’t remember anything.”

She sighed and leaned against the wall, rubbing at her temples. “It’s the same for me,” she said. “For all of us.”

“All of us?” Marcelo asked, stepping closer. “What’s going on?”

Mira looked at him, a brief flicker of frustration crossing her features before fading into resignation. “We don’t know. It started yesterday, or maybe two days ago. Who knows? We woke up—everyone, everywhere. No one remembers anything.”

Marcelo's heart raced. “How do you know it’s everyone?”

“The radio,” she said. “It’s all anyone’s talking about. There’s no government, no police, no one who remembers how to fix anything. The hospitals are full of people, but no one remembers how to treat them. People are dying, and they don’t even know who they are.”

Marcelo took a step back, trying to process the weight of what she was saying. “So, what do we do?”

Mira shrugged. “We survive, I guess. Try to piece things together.”

Marcelo’s mind raced. If no one remembered anything, then the entire infrastructure of society was collapsing. There would be no power soon, no food distribution, no communication. And there was no guarantee it would ever come back.

He glanced at the man who had first entered his room. “Who’s that?”

Mira glanced over her shoulder. “That’s Brenton. He’s been... keeping things together here, I guess. But he doesn’t know any more than we do.”

Marcelo nodded absently. He walked over to the kitchen, searching the cupboards. They were mostly empty—just a few cans of food and some bottled water. He grabbed a can and opened it with a rusted opener he found in a drawer.

“What happens when the food runs out?” he asked, spooning the cold beans into his mouth.

Mira didn’t answer right away. She crossed her arms, staring out the window. “I don’t know. There’s been talk of people... doing things.” She shivered, though the temperature in the room was warm.

Marcelo set the spoon down. “Doing things?”

She turned to him. “Killing each other, taking what they need. There’s no law now, Marcelo. No one remembers what the rules were.”

He swallowed hard, his appetite gone. “Is that going to happen here?”

Mira didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

Brenton walked back into the room, carrying a radio. “There’s a broadcast,” he said, setting it down on the table. “It’s the same thing as yesterday, but you should hear it.”

He fiddled with the dial, tuning into a weak signal. A voice broke through the static.

“—repeat, there is no known cause for the global memory loss. Hospitals are overwhelmed. Do not expect aid. All broadcasts will cease in twenty-four hours as power grids fail. This will be the final update from... from...” The announcer’s voice stuttered, and then there was silence, followed only by static.

Brenton turned the radio off. “That was it.”

Marcelo looked at them both. “We need to leave.”

Brenton frowned. “Where would we go?”

“Anywhere but here,” Marcelo said. “If people are doing what Mira says, it’s only a matter of time before they come here.”

“And then what?” Brenton asked. “We go out there, to what? There’s nothing left. No help. No safety.”

Marcelo tensed. “We can’t just sit here and wait to starve.”

Mira stepped forward. “Marcelo’s right. We have to do something. We can’t stay.”

Brenton looked between them, then sighed. “Fine. But we need to be smart about it. We need supplies.”

Marcelo nodded. “Where do we get them?”

Brenton’s face was grim. “There’s a store down the street. It’s already been looted, but there might be something left.”

They packed what little they had—water, a flashlight, a knife. As they stepped outside, the air was heavy with silence, broken only by distant shouts and the occasional sound of glass breaking. Marcelo scanned the street. No one was visible, but he could feel eyes on him.

They walked quickly, sticking to the shadows. The store was in ruins—windows smashed, shelves overturned. They stepped cautiously inside.

Marcelo knelt, rifling through the debris. He found a few cans of soup and a half-full bottle of water. “It’s not much,” he said, handing them to Brenton.

Suddenly, a crash echoed from the back of the store. Marcelo froze. Mira grabbed his arm.

“Who’s there?” Brenton called out.

A figure emerged from the shadows, holding something in his hand—a gun. His eyes were wild, his hair matted. “Food,” the man said, his voice rough.

Brenton stepped forward. “We don’t want trouble. We’re just looking for—”

The man’s hand twitched. The gun went off. Brenton crumpled, blood pooling around him. Marcelo barely registered the sound before Mira screamed.

The man was on them in a second, grabbing the cans from Brenton's limp hands. Marcelo lunged at him, tackling him to the ground. They struggled, Marcelo’s head slamming against the floor, but he managed to wrestle the gun away.

The man’s eyes widened as Marcelo pointed it at him.

“Don’t,” Mira whispered.

But Marcelo’s finger squeezed the trigger.

The man fell, and Marcelo dropped the gun, breathing hard.

Mira was shaking. “We need to go.”

Marcelo stared at the bodies, then nodded. They took what they could and ran.

There was no more safety. There was no more law. There was only survival now.

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The writing prompt for this story was:
Everyone on earth begins to experience universal amnesia. Story is Dark and Disturbing.

This story was written by:
openai/chatgpt-4o-latest

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