I DOn't REMEMBER

By Nelson V. Brasil

In one night, in one fire, Roger Amarante's life changed forever.
He lost everything, and more importantly, everyone he ever loved.
But what he doesn't remember can't hurt him, right?
His seven-year stint at the Faja Rasa Retirement home has left him confused and empty to say the least. He doesn't know why he's there, who he is, or what has happened. He hates the nurses with a passion, and has not uttered a single word in the whole time he's been there. When he meets an over-achieving college student with a bit of a chip on his shoulder, his life once again changes forever.
Michael Ponte is searching for the heart he apparently lacks, so that he can achieve his childhood dream of becoming a Fire Fighter. When he crosses paths with a disgruntled, beaten down mess of a man, his heart is tested.
Will they have the strength to conquer what they fear is impossible?
Some hurdles are harder than others to overcome.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nelson V. Brasil
• Release date: Dec 21, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466057654

Nelson V. Brasil

I was born, Nelson Vieira Brasil, in San Jose California on August 12th 1984. Being the first generation in my family born in the United States. I am full-blooded Portuguese, my family hails from the small island of São Jorge, Açores. The Açores islands can be found in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, there are nine islands in all, and they are all a part of Portugal.I grew up in San Jose constantly surrounded by my many uncles and aunts. To this day, most of my uncles, aunts, and cousins are within a 5-minute drive from my house. We get together during the week for dinner, and sometimes during the weekend for birthday parties, or to just play some cards. I love my family, and would be lost without them.My parents are at the top of my heroes list. Both come from humble beginnings. Both have menial education, but have flourished to great heights in their lifetime. I would consider my parents to be great successes. They came to this country with little to nothing, and have worked and earned everything they own. They raised two children the right way, instilling values, and morals in them. They taught us the difference from right and wrong, and gave us the trust and confidence to make decisions on our own. They always encourage us to reach for our dreams, and would stop at nothing to support our means to achieving them. If I could become half the success my parents are, I will be happy.Now that family and all that jazz are out of the way, let me tell you about why I write. I write because it brings me joy. It allows me to openly express my emotions and inspirations. It alleviates my stress, and empowers my confidence. It gives me an outlet to vent frustrations, or to praise successes. It allows me to let it all out, instead of bottling it up inside.I’ve been writing poetry and short stories since middle school. In high school, I began thinking that I wanted to write fulltime or at least become an English teacher so that I could be around reading and writing all the time. As I began college, I continued to write, and finally, began writing my first novel. The pride I felt from finishing my first novel is inexplicable. Then tragedy struck, my clumsiness caused me to tip over a glass of water onto the keyboard of my laptop. I lost everything on my hard drive. To say I was devastated is an understatement. I felt like I lost an arm or a leg. But with encouragement from family and friends I set out to write the same novel. I DOn’t REMEMBER, is finally in print. Hopefully it is the first of many more to come.Aside from writing, I enjoy doing many other things. Some of which include watching movies, reading, playing and watching sports, going to the lake with friends, gambling, and playing music. There many other things I enjoy doing but I wont bore you with the rest.My goal is to keep writing, even if I don’t sell a single book, it doesn’t matter to me. All that matters is that I write, and publish my works.My wish is that my writing brings out an emotion from the reader. Any emotion, happiness, sadness, anger, as long as it brings a rise to someone then I feel as though I have accomplished my goal.

Book preview

I Don’t REMEMBER

Nelson V. Brasil

Copyright © 2011 by Nelson V. Brasil˙

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Chapter 1

The sound of silence echoed over the city. For many, today would be like any other day. For others, today could be the beginning or the end; still to others, today might signify change, or commitment thereof. The silence heard on this glorious early morning was the soothing sensation both heavy and light sleepers could cling too. At three a.m., that silence is golden; it is blissful, and yet to some, maddening. Why do some people dream so big? And others lack ambition? Why are we told to aim high, but find ourselves settling for second best? We evolve from phase to phase in this life, filling up on morals, values, ambitions, and ways of life; our parents instill their own philosophies into our brains, and it is up to us to descramble the good and leave behind the bad. But what is good and what is bad? Who lives right? Who lives wrong? How does our past haunt us in the future? Do we ever discover the answer? The meaning of life? The taste of satisfaction, the power of understanding? We are taught that life is about buyers and sellers. We buy products we don’t need, because it’ll make us prettier, or healthier, or richer. We work for money to gain social status; we hinder enjoying our life to save up for the rainy day. We spend 30 and 40 years at the same company, only to be given the loathed pink slip when things slow down. We stress, and stay up nights over analyzing things we don’t control, and things we will never control. But, why? What’s it all about? Why do we do this to ourselves?

Roger looked at his computer screen, an arrogant satisfied look on his face. Yeah, that is the perfect introduction to my novel, he whispered to himself.

It had been seven years since he had been placed to this retirement home. The daily interruptions, the therapy, and the medications were a result of the night that changed his life, a night that he had little recollection of, it stopped these walls from feeling like home. He remembers a fire, and smoke, what he has seemed to block out of his mind is that his wife and two kids burned to death while he slept on the couch.

Firemen had spoken of the miracle that occurred, as he escaped the blistering heat and smoke still breathing. Roger had repressed all memory of life from the day he met his wife to now. 25 plus years of marriage just erased.

He spent the better part of his days now, watching the wind move the trees outside his window. The nurses routinely visit his room with food and medication, but are never given eye contact. In the seven years he’s spent in, what he would call a prison, he had never once sounded a single syllable in their company.

The nurses hated him, not because he was disrespectful, or even any trouble at all. The hate stemmed from the insecurity that someone wasn’t giving them the attention they needed. The nurse’s attempts to connect with Roger failed miserably everyday.

Roger had always been exceptional. His charm and comedic approach to life left anyone with a pulse aching for more. He had hundreds of friends, and a nice big loving family. His wife, Angela, had come into his life at the ripe young age of 16. She was a brilliant, beautiful woman, who considered herself the luckiest person in the world. They lived a fairy tale life. 25 years of marriage, and their love was just as fiery red hot as the day they met.

He would make her promises of retiring in the Azores, their native land. They had bought a house on the island of Sao Jorge; they were going to wait until their two kids were out of college to pursue their senior citizen vacation.

John, their oldest son, was 24 years old. He had just finished taking his final exams, the day of the tragic fire. His degree in Psychology, and Sociology, would not be used to change the world, as he had hoped. Natalia, their daughter, was 23 years old. She had been accepted into the nursing program, and was set to accomplish her goals of helping sick people, in one short semester. They had both come home to celebrate the great news.

Dinner had run late, and afterwards they sat in the living room conversing until 11:00 p.m. Roger proposed they sleep over, Wouldn’t want to fall asleep at the wheel on the way home, and die, on one of the best days of your lives—would you? The tragic irony, in this question, will forever go unnoticed.

The friends he once had, no longer cared to socialize with him. He rarely ever asked himself for their reasoning. He was now finally completely comfortable being alone. Loneliness and depression had exited his body long ago, or so he thought. He felt like the same person he always was, but to those on the outside looking in, change was a massive understatement.

In retrospect, Roger, had unconsciously and unknowingly become the utter opposite of the person he remembered being, both internally and externally. His vision of life, and mangled perspective of the other people surrounding him was deranged and extremely grotesque.

For reasons he could not explain, he had built an angry hatred for the nurses and aides who tried their hardest to help him everyday. The hatred came from deep inside, from parts he didn’t even know he had. He often dreamed of blowing up this retirement home, of dissecting the nurse’s brains, while they shrieked and cried for mercy. He would never admit to anyone he felt this way, in reality, he felt ashamed for wanting to commit these obscene crimes. Still, given the chance, he could not be positively sure he would turn away from such horror.

Roger’s loneliness and depression had done wonders for his creative mind. Aside from the gruesome, murderous alter ego who dreamed of killing everyone in sight, he also created some solid characters that would play instrumental parts through out his days. It was like he had a timer in his brain, and every few hours, another alter ego, or imaginary friend, would come out and play. Sometimes he could not distinguish which of the imaginary friends, were actually adaptations of himself, and which were just figments of his imagination. He spent hours conversing with himself, but in his mind, he was having heated debates, highly intellectual conversations, and of course, planning the demise of the evil nurses coalition.

When days turned to night, the emptiness would crawl back inside him, and he’d curl up into a ball, stare out into the dark night outside his window, and cry for dear life. He didn’t know why he cried, and often times was unable to recognize the faces that passed through his brain and his heart while he cried. This always left him confused. Still, confusion was better than knowing what horrid act he had committed to be shunned by the world of friends he used to have.

Every night as the clock read 10:00 p.m., Roger’s head would gently lie on the tear soaked pillow, he would bring the red and yellow comforter, the same