I remembered it

suddenly

when the light

struck the fence

just so

while I smelled

cut grass

and I remembered

my father

taking me outside

in his arms

saying, it’s ok Ben

saying, it’s not your fault

and setting me gently

on the warm sidewalk

by another fence

with that same light

and other cut grass

(I was crying –

a slap)

and I think

there was yelling

inside

while I cried

near the fence

till Daddy lifted me

away from there

and on the drive home

I asked in fear

is that man your brother

and he said no

and now I remember

what my father

could not forget

I did meet my uncle.

I took your memories

so

you could

sleep.

Dark, dangerous, and deep.

I slip through the—

mire

I choke on the—

miasma

I mutter through all the—

madness

You sleep—

dark, dangerous, and—

deep

#Famewriter, #poetry, #memory, #Sleep

Matilda Twitty was young and pretty,

the princess of Fairly Hall.

And popular too, nearly everyone knew

her well as the belle of the ball.

The trouble though, what they couldn’t know,

was that Tildy had a twin,

an evil tart with an onyx heart

who used magic to do men in.

Tabitha Twitty was unknown in the city

as the family hid her away,

in an upstairs site, where they hoped they might

keep her villainous powers at bay.

But the men from town, determined and bound

that Matilda see their allure,

came to call, at Fairly Hall

on its princess so fair and demure.

But what the boys got was not what they thought

as they serenaded their love.

Those courtships were jaded, while the boys promenaded,

Tabitha spied on them from above.

Sipping her wine, biding her time,

unseen from her garret’s gable.

Awaiting her chance while ”Sweet Tildy“ danced,

to cut in and turn the table.

This sis in the attic was a raging addict

who when the night grew late,

would sneak below, and steal the soul

of he who had courted fate.

She would sneak to his bed, bend over his head

as though to plant a kiss,

but instead she would sip, the breath from his lips

and leave him in virulent bliss.

This evil twin would run away then

with a life’s breath sucked inside,

she’d hide in her room and the garret’s gloom

while her clarity got fried.

For when she exhaled, it never failed

to make her as high as a kite,

as that breath showed her dreams, and the nightmarish things

that her victim envisioned that night.

Wicked Tabitha loved to lord it above

her sister, and all of her beau’s.

She relished their dreams, being privy to things

that “Sweet Tildy” never would know.

She was having a time, til she happened to find

something that brought her up short.

It seemed that her bill for each mystical kill

was a bulbous, revolting wart.

Two grew on her hand, there was one that demanded

she never wear sheer hose.

But the largest of cankers, the one that most rankled

popped up on the end of her nose.

So while stealing breath, and causing death

gave Tabitha inebriate joys

she might have to pause, and determine the cause

of these hideous corns and boils.

But pay heed to my tale, if you’re ever availed

to go calling at Fairly Hall,

then if after dinner a young girl enters

your room... take a glance at the wall.

If her shadowed beak has a rounded peak

then you’re the victim of a switch.

Go ahead and scream, don’t give your dreams

to that damnable Tabitha b.... witch!

the glass shattered all around me. i picked up a shard and peered into it, and the eyes staring back at me were not my own.

these eyes were broken even more than the glass, fractured into pieces too small to even comprehend where they were in the first place. the glass spread, glossy, and i was numb.

felt nothing.

the world still swirled around me, incomprehensible blurs of color and sound,

except for her.

she was crying.

was she smiling?

yes.

now, she was smiling.

she ran to me, throwing her arms around my neck.

i could see the scars, the pain that didn’t match her face. her eyes were clear. too innocent.

“thank you,” she whispered.

“thank you for freeing me.”

the girl danced. she sang, seeing the world through a new light, with new sight, and I watched her.

watched her with the sight, the shattered view. a world she would never have to see again.

Your memories, my friend,

Are not lost

But stolen

As an act of kindness.

It would be nice if you could remember this.

But,

Of course,

You can’t.

That was part of the deal.

When you sit, perplexed

Scratching your head in forlorn effort

To recall some happy time

Or names of old dear friends,

You feel aggrieved.

If only you could remember

Begging me to take your mind

And empty it of terror –

The memories of your past.

I warned you.

I warned you that I would take all your memories,

The good ones, too.

But your head was full of fear,

Remembering the pain you caused,

The deaths you wrought.

Desperate to lose those images of depravity; deepest, darkest, dirtiest

Secrets,

Unknown to the world,

Yet destroying your mind,

You earnestly agreed.

You pleaded, even, for me to waste no time.

And so

I stole your memories

And stored them in my mind

With a million others, saving you from madness

But condemning you to sadness

That comes with losing memories

Of happy times

And laughing friends.

You see, I have to take those, too,

To maintain some balance in my mind.

For otherwise, I would explode

And go insane

With the madness of the memories I store

In the dark part of my mind.

@Famewriter

"Hello? It's me, Tsukasa. I'm here. May I enter?" I asked. The door opened and an old man walked through. He motioned me to come in. The house looked lively on the inside. It had pictures of the entire family. He smiled as he went by them. "Take a seat. I'll bring some refreshments."

I sat down in a room that had drawings on the wall. Clearly a child drew them. It felt nice. Being in house with such happiness made me feel at ease. The old man came along with a smile across his face. "Here," he said, handing me a glass of orange juice. "It's home-made." I drank up. "So, who's my appointment with?" I asked. He leaned back. "No need to rush, Mr Tsukasa, was it?"

I looked at the drawings a bit more. "These drawings are amazing. Who drew them?" I asked. They seemed to be drawn by children, but the house was quiet. "My daughter drew them. She's sleeping in her room. She loved drawing. A lot, actually." A look of despair fell over him. "I-I see. So, I assume my appointment is with her. May I go see her?" He stood up. "Oh, my name is Ray. Realised I didn't tell you," He laughed. He knocked on the door and entered. She was on her bed. No words were exchanged between them. His daughter also had a look of despair on her face. Must be hard for both of them. I thought. "Hey there! I'm Tsukasa! How are you?" She remained silent. "Uh, she doesn't talk much," Ray intervened. I sat down next to her. "You'll be fine, I promise!" She looked up towards me. "R-Really? C-Can you fix me?"

Ray motioned me to come outside. "Mr Tsukasa, this is hard for both of us. You can come back at the end of the day, if you want. I'll be here." I looked back at his daughter. She had eyes full of hope. "Very well. I will come back at the end of the day. Thank you for the drinks!" I said as I exited his house. He waved me off.

I arrived home and hopped on the couch. "Poor kid. I hope she's okay." I did nothing for the entire time I was home. It's always hard to try and relax before an appointment.

The time finally came. I left for Ray's house. "Hello, Ray? It's me, Tsukasa. I'm back, may I enter?" I heard heavy footsteps approaching the door. It opened and Ray came out with a smile. He had dark circles under his eyes. We entered and headed towards his daughter's room. I saw she, too, had dark circles under her eyes. She smiled at me and motioned me to sit. Her father sat with her hand in his palms. "Mr Tsukasa, I appreciate you trying to help me, but my father explained it. You can't fix me. No one can," She said, her voice weakening with every word. "Help my Dad. Please. He can't do anything on his own. He can't even remember to take his medication." Her father smiled. Tears welled up in his eyes. "She's right, you know? Even though she's been bedridden for a couple of months, she's the one taking care of me. I really will be hopeless without her. I will manage though. You don't have to worry!" She lay back down. "Mr Tsukasa, thank you. You can't help, but thank you for trying. And Dad... I love you. Don't forget your medicine, okay?" Her eyes closed and her hand left her father's. Her lifeless hand dropped to the floor as her father tried to wipe his tears away. "Now you know why I called you here. Poor Emma thought you were a doctor. She thought you could free her from the grip of death." He said as tears continued to flow down his cheeks. "Take any memories I have of my daughter away. I can't live with them. Not after she's gone."

How long have I been a borrower? How did I become this entity? I’m no longer sure. Time passes me, flows around me in a macabre dance and then moves forward... but I can’t move forward. I’m stuck with this task. The task of removing the weight of the ones that are most hurt.

You could think that, since I have this job, I would eventually succumb to the weight of my knowledge, my pain. Well, not really... After some time you learn to let go of your emotions. I see flashes of them, vibrating with the millions of memories within me. I acknowledge them, and let them go. This has made me into quite the dull... person, I guess? Not sure what I am... Where was I? Oh yes, as I was saying I am no longer able to feel any emotion, can’t really empathise with the ones I help no more... I just know I have to help them. I can’t feel the bliss of looking at a beautiful sunrise next to your soulmate, nor can I feel the sadness of losing that same being in a cold winter night...

You can always recognize those that need help, their eyes look hollow and dead, their shoulders are slumped almost as if they are carrying the whole world in their backs, the faces look pale and ghostly and the legs look ready to fall, to never get back up again. Once I approach them and release them of their painful memories, their contorted expressions turn into ones of confusion at first. Then, the ignorance starts to settle and with it comes the bliss of not knowing the sharp edges of life. Their memories play in my head almost like an endless movie, I see their emotions, feel... try to feel their pain and then let go of them. They mash with the other memories inside me in a chaotic dance of life and death, full of sorrow and despair, but I...

I...

I can’t feel anything.

... I will never forget that day!

I was twelve years old at the time

yes, I clearly remember it was Saturday

this is the biggest crime of my life!

I went to my friend's house

we wanted to study together

but there was no one in his house

and he showed me the videotape

and that's how it all started ...

***

O God, why did you not make me sick that day?

O God, why did you allow it that day?

Now I live in a swamp of sins all my life

Now I have a lifelong conscience

***

The worse day of my life was that day

A thousand curses to that day!

Cursed be the friend who taught me this evil!

Cursed be me who learns this evil...

***

... I will never forget that day!

Journal, Day 4

The thing about memories is, they don't come all at once.

If you don't live through it, the memory just kind of...sits there, I guess, until something triggers it. It's usually small things, irrelevant details. Like when you get a paper cut and remember that you know exactly what it feels like to lose a hand.

Of course, the worst memories do come as flashbacks. Those are the ones they limit you on-You're only allowed to take three of those before they put the job on someone else. And after you take one you have to start meeting regularly with a psychiatrist. Psychiatrist recommends therapist, therapist wants a second opinion on treatment, and suddenly you have a small army of mental health professionals all yelling at you to take your meds.

After I took my first memory my therapist told me to make a journal. Write out what I was feeling. I never really listened to her advice before, but after this one I'll take whatever advice I can get. At the very least, sharpening a pencil is something to distract me.

Sorry I missed day three. I was too busy trying to juggle paperwork with babysitting my niece. That's another thing they don't tell you before you sign up for the job: Most of the time, you're filling out paperwork. There's forms for meeting with a client, releases you have to sign so that you can't sue your employer, confidentiality agreements, bills you have to pay in advance in case the memory you get leaves you comatose. This one did. The power hasn't shut off, though, so it looks like I actually handled something on my own for once. Cue applause.

The side effects of taking memories are kind of like the side effects on the back of a bottle of Asprin: They range from headaches to hospitalization, they're different for every person, and sometimes they flat-out contradict each other. Traumatic ones like this usually manifest as migraines for me, but for some reason this one knocked me out for three days and gave me pneumonia. And of course, I'm not legally allowed to tell anyone why that is.

So that's part of the reason I'm going to burn this journal after I finish this entry. The other part is that I can't stand my own writing. Not even the content; I just have really bad handwriting.

"What's the point of having a therapist if you're not allowed to tell them anything?" I hear you asking. The answer to that is: I have no clue. But as long as my insurance pays for it I, don't really have to worry about that.

Okay, hold on, another thing to add to the symptoms list: My hands are shaking like crazy. I'm trying to make tea right now--Something warm to calm my nerves. Warm. Yeah, cause I'm freezing right now. Why am I freezing? It's ninety-five degrees outside. And inside. The AC broke while I was in the hospital.

GODDAMMIT THAT HURTS. Sorry. I fucking spilled the boiling water on my hand. Weird thing is I didn't feel it for a minute there. Too cold to feel burns, I guess? I did flinch when I saw the water, though.

The best side effect of taking memories is amnesia. Almost always happens, no matter who's doing it or what type they're taking. For a few days you can't remember the last week, month, or in a few cases, year. Right now, I don't remember what it was that I took from that guy. It'll come back to me soon, though. Like I said earlier, it usually takes a trigger.

Alright, tea is off-limits for me. I don't trust myself with hot water or anything spillable. I'm just going to grab a cold pack and try and treat this raging headache. It just showed up but it's

COLD cold ice freezing drop drop drop GET ME OUT GET ME Out out out out cold cold cold cold

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Welcome back, journal. Maybe you missed me, or maybe you didn't because you're an inanimate object. Either way, I'm back.

So, remember how I said memories don't come all at once? Well, it's been a few hours and I've finally pieced together what happened. First it was the ice pack, then a glass of lemonade, then a bath. I looked at my hospital records to confirm.

I am definitely going to burn this journal. My finger is hovering over the call button on my boss's number. I'm about to announce my resignation.

Sorry to let you down, young me. I know you wanted to help people. But good god, why didn't you just become a therapist instead? That would've been easier. And would've paid better.

Although, since my therapist told me it's good to vent, I'll tell you what I remembered before I throw you in my neighbor's fire pit.

First of all, note to self: If you ever find yourself in Greenland, for god's sake don't stand near a bridge. And if you do, don't be stupid enough to jump off.

Many people come to me: the Man in the Cave. Each wishing to forget a lover, a friend, a tragedy they deem too painful to carry any longer. They edge nervously into view at the caves entrance as if a monstrous claw will snap them up. They all look the same to be now after centuries. They all look afraid. I call to them from the dark, beckoning them forth to sit before me. Some walk forward quickly, some look over their shoulder as if to run away. They all sit before me in the end, driven forward by their need to forget. They recoil at my pale hunched form, but sit nonetheless. I pull out the memory and they go on their way with a smile on their face. I am cursed to remember. I carry centuries of pain. I carry centuries of trauma. That is why I sit in the dark of my cave. The memories dance before my eyes awake and asleep, never ending, never relenting. I accept what I am.

One day a young woman appeared at the entrance to my cave. I saw tears streaking her face reflected in the midday sun. She did not wait for me to beckon her forth. She shuffled into the cave a broken woman, something small clutched to her chest. When she saw my pale visage she did not recoil. She sat before me. Her body shuddered as if too tired to weep, but determined to do so. I watched her warily. This would not be a small thing she wished to forget.

“The elders say you can help me,” she said, still hunched in despair. “They said you can remove my memory.”

“I can,” I replied, in my low growl. “Part of it.”

I sighed in relief, but her face showed no less sorrow. “I want...”

I waited for her to continue.

She looked down at her hands with what looked like shame on her face. A few minutes of silence passed between us. Sometimes people found it hard to even speak of what they wished to forget. I was accustomed to this. I took note that the item she had clasped to her chest was a small doll. Her clothes were dingy and worn. Nothing about her denoted a fortune of any kind. A simple woman.

The young woman screwed up her face and said quickly. “I want to forget my daughter. She’s dead.”

So young a woman to have lost a child, I thought. “You wish to forget her death?”

Her eyes locked onto mine. They carried an imaginable weight. “No, I want to forget her. I can’t imagine life without her. I already lost my husband. I can’t lose her too. Please, can you help me?”

I nodded slowly. “You family knows you are here?”

“There is no one to tell,” she said, her eyes dropping again.

“I will warn you,” I said leaning forward. “A memory surrendered, can never be replaced. Once it is within me, I cannot put it back.”

The woman sat up straight and wiped the tears from her eyes and face. “I understand.”

I nodded to her again. “Very well.”

I reached forward and touch one hand to the side of her face. I connected to her memories immediately. An average life. A boring life. That was all this woman had known until her daughter was born. Then she had a loving, though simple, husband, and a beautiful baby girl. Things were happy for almost three years. Her husband had died in an accident, I saw. Her daughter had died of illness. The young woman hadn’t been able to afford medicine after her husband’s death. I reached and gathered for the memories of the little girl. I gathered up all the pain, including the pain she felt sitting before me. I pulled them forth into a globe of light and pushed it down through my arm and into my chest. The girl’s name was Saricia. I felt a tear well in my eye as I took my hand away from the young woman. Saricia would be with me forever.

The woman’s shoulder relaxed, and she blinked around the darkness of the cave.

“Hello,” she said with a weak smile. She continued looking around the cave. I saw the woman I sensed in her memories reemerging: sweet and good, much as her daughter had been. “I had you remove a memory. Is that why I’m here?”

I nodded, looking away from her. The fresh waves of grief washed over me as Saricia’s first steps played in my brain. Joy mixed with sadness in all the memories I had acquired. It had been delicate work because her daughter had toughed so many aspects of her life. I had left any memory without her during the last three years alone. Sometimes memories had to be spliced together to not create a noticeable gap.

“What was it?” she asked.

“I won’t tell you,” I whispered, choking back tears. These memories were more potent than most. “Please go.”

“Alright,” The woman rose uncertainly to her feet. She found the doll in her grasp, and held it out to me. “Is this yours?”

I reached out and snatched the doll from her. Saricia had loved this doll. I snapped at the woman, “Go!”

“Sorry,” she said and rushed out of the cave.

I curled up into a ball on the dirt floor of the cave, and cried clutching the doll. My Saricia was gone. No wonder the woman wanted this memory gone. All the wonderful happy times that were now as painful as punching through glass. I hugged my knees and watch the memories play by over and over again. I knew I would adjust to the memories, as I had with all the others, but happy memories turned sour were the hardest to absorb.

A month passed. I saw more people wanted to get rid of more painful memories. Compared to the memories of Saricia they were easy to take in. I still held her doll at night. Her mother’s memories were still as fresh as they day I taken them. I sat in my cave one morning, watching it rain. I held the doll on my lap. No one came in the rain, so I let myself sink into a stupor of memories. I was shook from my stupor by the young woman running into my cave, soaked to the bone, and screaming.

“Tell me what I’ve forgotten!” she wailed, as she dropped to her knees before me. “People keep saying how sorry they are for my loss, but I lost my husband over a year ago. I found baby clothes in my house! Oh God, what did I do?!”

I stared at her in shock. Despite what I warned people before taking their memories, no one had ever come back to find out what they had forgotten. I didn’t know what to do.

The woman’s eyes dropped to the doll in my lap. “That was mine, wasn’t it?”

I eyed her warily. “You remember?”

She shook her head. “Please, sir, please tell me what I’ve forgotten.”

She laid a hand on the doll, eyeing it in confusion.

“I can’t give you your memory back,” I said.

“Just tell me,” she said, grabbing my hands so tightly that I could not recoil. “Please.”

I looked at the woman. Her eyes did not carry the same amount of pain as they had before, but her desire was no less earnest. Did I have the right to her any portion of her previous pain? I felt that pain. I lived it, and I wished someone could remove it from me. Her eyes searched mine for some kind of clue, and I decided that I had no right to hide it from her.

“You asked me to remove all memories about your daughter,” I said. “She died.”

The woman went limp. “Why would I do that?”

“Grief,” I replied, wrapping my hand around the doll again. My voice cracked as I spoke. “You were in so much pain.”

“So now you feel it?” she said.

I nodded.

“What was her name?”

“Saricia.”

“Tell me about her.”

I looked away from the woman, torn again as to what the right course of action was.

“Please, sir,” she said, grabbing my hands again, this time with less force. “I did something very stupid in the throws of grief. Tell me.”

I took a deep shuddering breath, but remained silent. The memories of Saricia flowed through me again.

“I must have given you so much,” she said, tears forming in her eyes. Her voice wobbled. “I’m sorry that I did this to you, and that I have to ask more. Please, tell me about... my daughter.”

“You loved her very much,” I said. Then I started telling her about her daughter, how much she meant to her. I told her how she died. I told her how she lived. I told her everything I could put into words. We sat there for hours. The woman didn’t say a word. She didn’t wail. By the end she was smiling a sad smile. I tried to give her the doll back, but she wouldn’t accept it.

“I gave you my pain. I gave you my daughter. The least I can do is give you that.”

She rose to her feet and took in my small cave. I didn’t have much: a pile of blankets for a bed, a small pile of wood for the occasional fire, a cup, a bucket, and a few small things. “You deserve better than this.”

“No,” I replied, clutching the doll to my chest. “I carry the pain of centuries. I can’t imagine living any other way.”

“We give you what we cannot bear. You ask nothing in return. You deserve our gratitude. If people knew the weight you carry, they wouldn’t let you live like this. Some say you are a ghost, but I’ve touched your hands.”

She bent down a kissed me on the cheek. Then she turned and left the cave. I figured that would be the last time I saw her, but it was not. She brought me food, and things for my cave. She sat and talked to me. Others started to do the same. Some were people who had visited before, who wanted to say thank you. I was overwhelmed for a time. They never stopped coming. I was no longer alone with my pain. I still remove painful memories. I still ask for nothing in return. I accept what I am, but now the burden is much lighter to bear.