She didn’t have one. At least, not that she could remember. Everyone else had a story for theirs; the beginning of a relationship, of their life, of their grand adventures. She could only ever remember the endings. Those were what stuck out most in her mind. And everything did. Everything ended. She had volumes worth of endings.  But no beginnings. She wasn’t a very good storyteller because of this, making her a bit uninteresting.

People always asked her how she couldn’t remember beginnings. She did not have an answer for this. Her friend Jac once said to her, “That’s impossible, Isadora. Everyone remembers at least some beginnings. For instance, you can’t tell me you don’t remember the beginning of your day. Like, what was the first thing you did this morning?”

She stared at him, empty. Did she eat waffles? Did she start her day with one of those long “Cruella De Vil” cigarettes? Did she brush her teeth this morning? She breathes out against her hand and breathes in quickly through her nostrils. She can’t tell. This was the day Jac became concerned.

No beginnings. This thought was bizarre and seemingly impossible to Jac. But the confusion and void in Isadora’s eyes were very convincing. “Poor thing,” he thought to himself. This was also the day Jac began studying Isadora, although, what he learned I’m not sure. He realized at the end of his study that he left out one crucial part. He forgot to record the beginnings of her days, the beginnings of her new relationships (be it with friends, boyfriends, pets, employers, etc), any beginnings at all. Therefore, he couldn’t fully understand how she forgot nor could he remind her of her beginnings. It was a failed experiment from the start. The one interesting factor learned, Jac couldn’t remember any of her beginnings either.

Isadora was sad at the thought of never remembering beginnings. Thirty seconds after a song played or a movie began she already forgot the beginning. Maybe it was a memory problem, but she always remembered the endings. Upon second thought, she felt maybe she was lucky. Whenever she got home from a date with someone she never worried about what she said at the beginning of it, she never had awkward first impressions because she couldn’t remember them. Each time a movie started or a song began it was brand new, until the ending. She always remembered those endings.

And then it hit her. She never remembered those beginnings because the beginnings of things always made her so happy she forgot to remember. At least, this was probably the case - most of the time. But she always remembered endings because they were the last thing of anything to stick out in her mind. And quite frankly, endings made her sad. She always had an easier time remembering sad things. Except the beginning of sad movies, songs and conversations. That’s just the way it was.

And so lived Isadora. The strange girl who, against all probability, had no beginnings and, quite frankly, was interesting because of it. 

(This isn't great, but this is what came out of me in 10 minutes from the word "beginning".)