He reaches towards his nightstand and feels around for a while, before settling on a bottle of pills. He sits up on his bed and looks at the bottle. He does not know what they are, or what they do. All he knows is that they make
ever so slowly.
He forgot who gave him the pills, or why he keeps taking them. He forgot a long time ago, yes, he forgot. He used to dream a lot, but now his dreams are just black, void, space. He used to have memories too, before they were taken away. He curls up into a ball on his bed. He does not want to keep forgetting, but in all those memories he had, there was something he wanted to forget, to discard. He wanted the good memories, like his first love, or going to the beach as a child, not that.
Not that thing.
He used to have parents, but they died sometime back. He does not remember why.
He used to have friends, but they stopped visiting sometime back. He does not remember why.
He used to live somewhere else, but he had been moved here sometime back. He does not remember why.
He does not remember anything anymore. He does not remember why,
It happened. There must be a reason why he is kept in this room, designed to look like a hotel suite, with fake landscapes painted on the windows. Bright light shines through them sometimes. He has an empty book on a table, with a pen next to it. He does not remember if he ever wrote in that book. He is given food three times a day, but he does not remember how, or when the food came or what it was or when he last ate anything.
He does not remember anything anymore. He does not remember why.
But he is safe. His loss keeps him safe. He does not need to know what happened in the forest that day, or what had caused it. He does not need to know how many people died, or what killed them, because he is safe here. Keep taking the pills, because he does not want or need to remember. He has to forget.
Burn the memories, burn them, for you must forget. You are safe here. You are safe.
I keep telling myself,
There's always a light
At the end of the tunnel.
There's always calm
After the storm.
There's always a happy ending
To a tragedy.
But this light is harsh,
Like the lamp in an interrogation room.
But this storm is hard,
The little boat that I am can't make it through.
But this tragedy is incomplete,
There is no ending.
What is the point of living
a life worse than death?
What is the point of staying strong
if there's nobody to impress?
What is the point of fixing yourself
if you would just
Don't you just hate it when countries,
With more than capable leaders at their head,
Bicker like little children?
Don't you hate it when people,
With an actual, fuctioning brain in their skulls,
Behave as though they don't?
Don't you hate it when inanimate objects,
Without any control of themselves or their environment,
Seem as though they are trying to mess with you?
Don't you hate it when