Title: Forgetting
Summary: Desmond forgot many things. Some weren't that obvious, but not less important.
I find the idea of Desmond forgetting things, due to the bleeding effect really fascinating
It must be terrible when you know you're losing memory no one but you know you had and which can never be restored
Or I'm just reading to much into a video game
Disclaimer: All characters belong to their legally owners. I own nothing, nor do I earn money with this fan fiction
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Forgetting
Coffee, he thought, coffee. Made of powdered beans, Roasted under the hot Jamaica sun. Filled up in cheap plastic package, shipped over the sea, loaded in dirty trucks, they ended up in the shelves of some unknown supermarket. He carefully reached out, trying not to knock the boxes with tea over. The packing was actually blue, not black like he thought. A picture of green fields and a cloudless sky under a sun. A Mexican sun. He was wrong with the Jamaica part. That wasn't bad. He didn't know where coffee come from, he could only remember that one ad with the old guy whose skin looked exactly like the beans he hold proudly to the camera, whose name he could never remember and with the voice in the background talking calmly about the long way the coffee went, from it's origin in some little plantation to the supermarkets where the blue package was the only sky and the only shining sun was the Jamaica one...
He could have sworn it was Jamaica. But he was young when he watched the advertisement. He would sit in front of the TV, listen to the voice almost going under in the thundering patter of a waterfall they show at one part and he would let the word slowly rolling over his tongue, like it was something delicate, maybe chocolate ice-cream, and not that bitter taste, who reminded him of medicine. The ad had something magical and by repeating the voice way of pronouncing the word he could almost see the fields, feel the soft wind and the old man smiled at him, and he didn't mind that he could never remember his name.
Coffee. He tried to let it roll over his tongue tip. Adding extra weight to every letter, to extend the feeling. But the word tripped in his head, the letters felt over each other, rushed out like water, like the waterfall, like the channels in Venice. Coffee. He couldn't remember. The word was fast and fluent. Coffee. All he could remember was a hot Italian sun under a wide country, he have never been before but which still was familiar to him.
He'd like to cry but all he managed was making himself some coffee.
He repeated the word in his head over and over trying to remember the right pronunciation.