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!

It could be argued that in the eyes of some, borrowing is just prolonged thievery. I suppose the action hinges upon intention.

I didn’t mean to steal this thing I borrowed. This horrid being that skulks in the depths of my mind, stuffed there when I had nowhere else to put it.

It paces, and paces, and paces, and paces.

Laughing. Crying. Screaming. Pounding the floors, cracking the walls. There’s blood spattered on the ceiling of my thoughts. It is a monster I never expected.

And I can’t give it back, because if I do.

Well. I’d have to admit that I borrowed it.

No one ever wants to admit their folly, and mine was... pure fallacy. You have to understand that I borrowed it because I thought I had no other choice.

No other escape except these walls that shake from fury untamed and I have to admit, I borrowed this memory to understand how it was made.

And if I could commit the same.

Now it’s stuck in that corner I banished it to, frightened to even look its way because sometimes.

Sometimes it changes shape. And I’ve begun to recognize its face.

Death should never have been given a name.

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.