The Memorist

I heard that a pantry owner down the street got into a heated argument with the dentist that worked across from him. Apparently, the guy stole some money from him, and the pantry owner did the same as revenge. Not just that, but he also got with the dentist’s wife. And the dentist did the same to the guy’s daughter. Thankfully she was already a grown woman. By the time the police arrived, they were fighting on the street. They both got shot and died.

Don’t ever change Lubega City.

The most wonderful place for the least wonderful people, Lubega City. A rudeness of my part, but a goddamn accurate truth. We are in the great new year of 1960. It’s time we moved past some delicacies and make room for the truth. And looking over the windows to see this painting of concrete and rain, stretching its blinding lustre beyond the horizon, I get to ask myself just how many of these tiny light squares are occupied by good folk.

It’s the city of the least wonderful yeah, but that don’t mean we get some kind sort every now and then. All the worst since you know this city ain’t gonna give ’em their due. But it does me no good in thinking about the misery of others, I make my due, using this uncommon method of mine.

I owned one of the small squares out of the many one of the buildings had, out of the many buildings the city had. And on my way to work, the light rain that just never quit, the cars yelling and the damn netizens swarming every corner. The many jazz bands play so loudly it all gets mixed up and my legs feel weak.

Thankfully Vanessa did some improvements on the clinic and the sound in there is very tame. Gives me a needed break during the day. Don’t know what she did, where did she buy the foam, or even if it is foam. Every time I come in, I mean to ask her, but I forget and remember the next day.

My office was a small square. To the left wall, blocking the door from opening fully, was my desk. And behind the desk, a lone window to display my beloved Lubega. To the centre, a stretcher, and a little stool. On the back and right walls, two wide cabinets, filled to the brim with my disks. While I “prepare” the office, Vanessa makes sures to storm in and with a loud voice, ask me if we were ready to go.

— Yeah, we’re ready. Why are you so late?

— The darn traffic! There was this huge truck, that just wouldn’t move out!

Aside from the janitor we hire every two weeks, it was just me and Vanessa. The employee and the employer. That’s what she says at least, but it’s a joint venture. She deals with the finances, and I do the work. By the time we open, there were already 12 customers waiting, sign that it would be a weak day.

The first was a fella named Thomas Kazzaz, 26 years old. Looked a spry, out-and-about kinda guy. Very humble and polite. Seemed kind of embarrassed to be there, and I assured him that his request was about as tame as they get. That unlike him, some were evil and had not a thread of sanity left. So, when he felt ready, I got to it.

He was just a detective in a big world. Searching the streets for something worth fighting for. He took time to leave the bar at night, because he could admire the counter girl, for a little longer. Caroline was her name. Pretty as a pearl, just as rare too. The lads at the bar were always loud and rude, but there was an unspoken rule, to respect Caroline. If one unknown bastard tried something. Some twenty guys would chop them up and beat them out.

But me? I’d just stayed back, seeing her clean the counters and pour them drinks. Thought it didn’t seem like her, she would just sprinkle a word every now and then. But staying in the bar isn’t most of the time, the day is usually, going from point to point and place to place gathering any kind of edge over Big Moe. The capo that was running these streets. Unlike the others, this villain had the guts to get rid of anyone in his way. And that just couldn’t pass.

The record store owner, said he saw Big Moe and his crooks leaving Gusteau’s, from across the street, just the other night. I’ve been there a few times, and the owner knows me well enough. An Italian immigrant trying to make a business go right, shame that he gets hounded by these people. Thin, balding, and thick black moustache, the owner of Gusteau’s, you guested it, Giorno.

— We are closed!

— It’s me chef.

— Tommy?! You shouldn’t be here!

I approach the counter to look him in the eye.

— I should be, where the truth needs to come out.

I invite him to sit down with me.

— Heard Big Moe came to visit.

— I know nothing about that…

— Don’t play it safe, pal. I need to hear what he came to say.

— Oh, darn it. Detective, you know Big Moe!

— Unfortunately.

— These self-protecting communities of his are a total scam!

— That’s the way he gets control. But I find it hard to believe that’s all he did.

— I’ve been here for twenty years, you get me? Never been robbed once! Big Moe comes in, and now I gotta pay so he doesn’t mess up the store? No sir!

— But you agreed right?

— Oh, you said it first! Look at me Tommy, do I like the kind of guy that wants to do crime? I got a family to feed for Christ’s sake!

— The protection fee isn’t it, Giorno. Anything else?

— Said he had something big. On the way out. That they had to get their hands wet.

The peer. If that was all that Giorno had, then I would take it. On my way I see Caroline on the streets. Her expression was troubled and—

But Vanessa had to come shouting in again, she thought we hadn’t started. I apologize to the brat, but the experience had been cut short. Before me and Vanessa get to argue, we tell him to come back, next week and that his next visit would be on the house, as an apology. You see, what we do here in the clinic is straightforward.

I use this unusual talent of mine to replay memories for other people. And since I am the only one of my kind, they come with exorbitant prices. It’s a simple process, we got out little clinic hidden in the concrete jungle. You come in provide your name, your age, your desired memory, and then you pay. The vision lasts for about 6 minutes, but the customers describe it lasting over one hour, two hours tops.

All I get to do is put on a disc and hold their heads while they lay down. I can do it for about 4 hours before needing a half hour break. And we go for 12 hours a day, every day except Sundays. About 20% of the earnings are for the clinic, in case of an emergency, while we split the rest 60–40. Because I managed to convince Vanessa that I could find another person like her, while she couldn’t say the same.

But the truth is that I can’t. I can get someone to run numbers and keep everything in order, but I can’t get someone that understands the flow of the workplace. You see, this is a gift, and I would like to share it while being the least egotistical person I can be. If I revealed this talent in a worldly manner, I could ask for millions. And surely enough, I would earn by the million. But I still want to live a comfortable life, and with this price, I think I reached a happy medium.

— Have a nice day, bye!!

— Did you really have to—

— SHUUSH! Listen to this! The Madam is already here!

— Wonderful, let her sit down and wait for her goddamn turn like everyone else.

— I already told her to come in, hun! I was just warning you.

Vanessa had a dark ginger hair, very flowy and full. I figured she could do some braids or buns, but it adds to her appearance and personality, that she is as unkept as she is. Told me that we should do something new and exciting. On the possibility of gathering more clients like Madam Gusstoux. I answer that we already do everything that can be done. And going hyper into publicity seemed liked and all-around disaster.

— How about a show, on one of her parlor’s?

— Show? What is there to see?

Honestly. I sit down and hold someone’s head for a few minutes, and then they leave. Vanessa kept saying how it would be good to get her eccentric rich friends to come to the clinic, but we already made the money we sought to make. What else was there to do?

With Madam Gusstoux entrance, we quit the yakking and accommodate our most valuable customer. But Vanessa’s glare as she closed the door indicated that this conversation was not over. The lady in white fur, thick makeup, and frivolous blonde hair. I refuse to call her Satan because I realized that there ought to be someone worse. But I’ll tell you this, if Hell ever needed a substitute ruler, I think the damned wouldn’t notice a thing.

We already have her profiles, so it’s not like she had to check in with us. And she was more than willing to pay the maximum amount for a Heavy Custom memory, in live cash. There wasn’t much to discuss but the topic of the vision. And that was the worst part.

— Mr. Memorist, good to see you again.

— What will it be today, Madam?

— I went to an opera house yesterday…

There is so much posh in her voice, I could eat my own ears. And instead of just telling me what sick thing she wanted to experience this time, I had to sit there and nod quietly. No wonder Vanessa was so quick to leave.

— The Lubega Art House was doing a play on Erick Meliodas’s Fortissax and Jennette Gwyn was doing the role of Princess Sebah. You know Jennette Gwyn, don’t you?

— Who—

— Of course, you do. You have to have some semblance of culture. And to not know Lubega’s City most prominent young actress would be a sin to die for. I am not one to give out compliments, but she is quite the pretty face. And her acting? Ah! Exquisite. Needless to say, she made those seven hours far more enjoyable.

Jesus Christ…

— She is very thin and frail, but the gentleness of her figure only highlights the strength of her spirit. Whoever chose to have her as that struggling and inspiring princess needs praise. Simply excellent casting and sublime performance from that girl. Can you believe she is only seventeen?

There are three types of experiences offered here at the Memorist. Light, Mild and Heavy Memories. I would like for you to guess which is the most demanded. Vanessa had the idea of adding these tiers, as an accessible preface to what could and couldn’t be done.

— Thrilling, so what would you like?

— I would like to remember what it was like to torture her.

And there it was. Without a hint of regret. You see, because of Vanessa I had to adapt my power. I learned how to manipulate my discs and not just play simple memories but also how to dwell in them and make whatever I want. Or rather, shape them into what the customer wants. And thankfully I don’t spend nearly enough time dwelling in these things as they do.

— Very well…

“I place down the glasses of champagne. My husband and the governor laugh over frivolous things. I pay no attention to it, as it is not my place as a woman to be involved with money. But knowing that they would be so busy with all the business talks, I decided to treat myself as well. In our mansion, there are rooms that no one knows about. But I found one in the basement a while ago and decided to give it use. I take my time and do it quietly. No one must know, no one must even guess as to where I am. The possibility of this room existing must not be even a consideration on the mind of others.

— Hello, my sweetheart.

My diligence and patience pay off. If I have but an hour with them, that will be all I need to be satisfied. And by them, I mean my sweethearts. This time, I managed to bring the young Jenette Gwyn in. She was so sweet after that play. Twirled so nicely on my fingers, I just couldn’t resist giving her up.

— Mother…

— Yes, Gwyn. I am mother.

I see her picking herself from the floor. In rags and filth. In chains and misery. Living in the darkness, to see me, radiating light into her room, must be such a savoury sight. Of course, she grows fond of me. I have become the purpose of her existence. She will see light when she sees me. She will eat when she sees me. She will feel and speak and act, only when she sees me.

— It seems you’re finally learning your manners.

I kneel in front of her and take her soft face into my hands. Something about the filth and roughness made everything more enjoyable. To see that beautiful and luscious star on the stage, wearing pretty clothes and makeup, now licking the floors of my basements. A pathetic, wallowing, sorry state, that only I could see. A rotting mind with no dignity. Without me, she has no worth.

— Would you like to eat? I’ve brought this trashcan, just for you.

— Yes mother…

Dispensing the contents of the can onto the floor, I see her struggle with her meal. It’s like she didn’t know where to start. The rotting leftovers, the dirty bones, the wrappings, and cans… it was so lovely to see her groan in disgust. And things were fine until she couldn’t handle it and vomit over her meal. Now this kind of rudeness I can’t accept. I would have her clean it up with her tongue, but I knew she wasn’t capable.

Instead, I got the whip. With her bear breasts exposed and her arms pushed back by the chains, I whip her stomach while making clear the difference in our social standings. She could scream and howl as much as she liked, that only made me strike harder. Every time her flesh rips, she should learn to not disappoint me. I am her everything, she should be grateful and smile.

If she wasn’t so difficult, things could be different. I wouldn’t need the whip. I wouldn’t need to be so distasteful. I want to be good, but you leave me no choice. We could make love and enjoy each other’s presence as mother and sweetheart. But you choose to be a terrible sweetheart.

— This is your fault, Gwyn.

It’s all your fault. You think anyone would take better care of you than me? I am mother for a reason, Gwyn. No one would accept you. You are disgusting and sad, rotting in my basement — my basement. Staining the walls with filthy skin and commoner blood. And you think anyone could accept you? Anyone, other than me, could love you?

— You belong to me, Gwyn.

Once she stopped screaming, is when I stopped whipping. There was so much blood. And her lacerations were so large, I felt like I could stick my fingers in her and feel the insides of her body. Feel her like no one ever could. But I was getting ahead of myself. If my sweetheart was left that would, she’d die.

— Who else could love you like I do?

I clean her wounds. I save her life. I take care of her, and I clean her. Now she can sleep safe and sound, knowing her mother is watching over her. Everything I do is for her. Next time, she will look at me with loving eyes. She’ll understand how I feel. And she will belong to me a little more than before. Until one day, when she surrenders completely. I can’t wait for that day.”

These fantasies are so strong, I wonder why they bother coming to me.

— A well-done service, Mr. Memorist.

— You can leave now, Madam.

And as the customer share their secrets to me, these confined desires of the heart, I learn a thing or two about them. But things change while I induce the memory. Inside their head, for just six minutes I learn, perhaps a bit too much.

Even started to notice a pattern.

Those who ask for Mild experiences are the average Joes and Janes of Lubega. When would you ever get the chance to live a cop drama? Realistically speaking, never. Want to know what is like to do an extreme sport, without the risk and training? Go ahead. Their moral compass is still more or less intact and they don’t actively seek malice. Even if it was “just to know what it would be like.” Nothing too simple, but nothing insane. Never too insane.

The ones who ask for the Heavy ones are, and I hate to admit it, painfully hurt people. I know that despite the things they tell me, despise the things I see them do. The things they say they wish they could do… I know they are not that type of person. They really wish things were different, and they didn’t feel so comfortably miserable with themselves.

Oh, and why do I hate to admit it? Well, feels like a validation of their behaviour, if you ask me. I know it isn’t, it’s just an objective observation of their character. They have experienced malice and therefore exhale malice. But they are not evil. But the perception of validation—that feeling, is really strong. And that’s why I hate it.

— Mr. Memorist, this is Joey Pimber.

— That’ll do, Vanessa.

Thought it may seem like Vanessa only tells me about the next customer, she handles the entire bureaucratic process of our “very legal” business. All the documents, the signatures, the financial statements, and everything else. And the only thing I do is deliver the service. Calling out the customers is like a hobby she enjoys. But despite the fact that I chose her to my partner, I owe her a lot. A debt, that money can’t cover.

As for this fella, he could barely fit throught the door. He was as tall as he was fat but had the most tired expression I’ve seen in a while. I don’t even to think about it, but this guy must have had a shit luck in life. You can just tell. Not to make judgments, but this is the type of guy that becomes a serial killer. If he did everything carefully, no one would suspect of mass murderer Joey Pimber. No pays attention to him to begin with.

— First time?

— I came from out of town. Everybody talks about you.

His face was a permanent frown. Really sad and dragged eyes. Low and quiet speaking voice. And I’m pretty sure I heard the chair creak when he sat down.

— Since your new, want me to explain our system?

— You make us feel things, don’t you?

— Whether you have or haven’t done them. It’s like remembering a movie.

— I want to know what is like to die.

I take a deep breath.

— Mr. Pimber you’re not thinking about killing yourself… are you?

— No sir, I still got a mama. She’d be real sad.

— How old is she?

— Seventy-two.

…Oh. I see how it is.

— And going strong, I hope.

— Eh.

— Well, sit down and relax. I’ll get my disc.

On the shelves of my office are these little silver discs, with extracted memories. You heard me right, extracted. I pay others to tell me about their life, the more unique moments they had, or the most vivid. And while they talk, I bite down the disc and record it.

New memory acquired and labelled, to the shelve you go. Then I bite down on the disc and the memories come flooding in. I just transmit them and let the customer’s brain do the work. Don’t ask me how I learned about this skill, but it sure as hell wasn’t on Sunday school.

As for Joey Pimber’s experience… it’s best to not describe that. The first was a car accident, in which he took an agonizingly long time to die. Then he paid again so the mafia could torture and dismember him, which took a while too. Then he paid one more time, so he could hang himself. And that lasted two and a half hours…

And then he left.

Yeah.

Yeah…

I’ve never induce a memory on myself. I’m not even sure if that’s possible. But don’t take my words with sainthood. I’m a miserable scoundrel myself, like most people that live here. Whether it is because of us roaches, that the city is such a loathsome hellhole. Or it’s the will of the city to make us into disgusting people, I don’t know. Or care.

What I care about, is the service I provide. The customers have described it as an extremely vivid experience. Watching a telemovie, while also being a part of it. If by any chance you ate something in the vision, you would come out satisfied, almost as if you did ate in reality. Needless to say, your body would remind you of your condition sometime later.

But while you are in there, the reality and the dream blend seamlessly.

Ain’t no line in the sand here, pal.

— Mr. Memorist, this is Lisa Newman. A first-time customer!

Around her late thirties. Wide hips and an expired expression, still with a glimmer in the eyes. Definitely a mother. Black hair was a bit frizzy, and her demeanour seemed melancholic. Maybe a bit too mournful and shy to say she was fine. But now that I think about it, if you were “fine”, why the hell would you be here?

— Hello, sir.

— Hello, madam.

This is done with the purpose of remembrance. You were there, you felt this, you knew that, and these things happened. But those are just fleeting memories, vivid for but a few moments. And when we’re done, we’re done. You can go back to your life. Part of me feels very glad that these visions don’t instil strong feelings. Say, you can’t get addicted to something just from remembering it partially.

— Are you familiar with our practices here, Lisa?

— I… I, uhm… heard of you from my, hm, cousin. Yes.

— But since your new, I feel compelled to tell you about it.

— Oh, thank you, but there is no need. I-I believe in your talents, sir.

— So, what category you think is best for your request?

Like yearning for your childhood days. You say there is something you want that has been left there, but the fact is, that it was just a better time in your life and that is what makes it nostalgic. All you are here to do — All you can do…

— Uhm… forgive me. I’m not sure of where my request fits in.

— Tell me what would you like to experience?

Is remember.

— …The time I had with my husband and son.

“I woke up with a pressure and a yelling voice. I could feel that my husband was also startled. Focusing out of my sleepiness to understand what it was, I am met with a treasured face.

— Wake up mom!!

My only son, Emile. Smiling over me, excited for this special day.

— Emmy?

— Happy Birthday Mom!!

He blows on his kazoo. What a way to start a day, that, actually hasn’t started. I ask what time it was, and the man next to me mumbled, and it took me a few seconds to process what he said so he repeated. It was 5:20 in the morning, May 8th. My 41st birthday. Still bouncing over me, Emile reminds me that we simply must get up, and enjoy the day, since it would take a whole year to come back.

— He’s right you know.

— Don’t encourage him.

My sweet and only love, Phil, turns to me, also a little clouded by the sleeping-pills-induced sleep. I like the fatness of his body, in a place like Lubega where there is never a hot day, it was always good to cuddle and hug his belly.

— Happy birthday honey.

He gives me a kiss, and gets up, making Emile all the more hyper, since it meant that we would be getting out of bed. While I got ready, washing my face, and brushing my teeth, Emile was by the door, jumping up and down as he waited for us. As I step out, to let my husband use the toilet without Emile’s eager gaze, I ask him what he had planned for the day.

He wiped out a long list which consisted of many activates such as: “Eat twice the breakfast, go to the carnival park, build a second house (on top of our house), watch fireworks together, call Mom beautiful, give presents and fight dinosaurs.”

— I don’t know if we’ll be able to do all these things…

— We can try right?!

— Sure, we can baby.

About an hour later, we were already on the car. Going to a pizza place that was near our house. I figured it be nice for Emile to start the day with pizza for breakfast. Just so we could get in this mood of a special day. I was never too big on birthdays. I enjoyed all of them, sure, but My mom made parties for me until I was 17 and then after that it was just us as a family, doing things together.

I mean I’m 41, and these things don’t matter that much to me. But seeing as my boy is excited, I thought I should feed that big smile of his. And my husband agreed with me even if we didn’t plan anything. It was just a good family day, where I could spend time with the two people I love most. I can never get enough of them.“

It was the first time someone cried, while under my influence.

And what is a guy like me supposed to do? I ain’t got the heart for these things.

— Miss, if you talk to my associate, Vanessa Donovan, she will sign you as a regular associate for no extra charge.

Sitting over on my desk, I try to appear busy, as to not look her in the eyes.

— And as long as you schedule with her before coming, you won’t have to pay for a session ever again…

But standing across, she takes my hands. And while holding back more tears. That was a genuine expression. The kind of face, you don’t see here, in Lubega City. And the words she spoke?

— Thank you.

You don’t hear them very much around here, either.

— Hmm… You’re welcome.

It’s because of this job that my nights consist of looking up at the ceiling in silence. A three-hour sleep is all I need to recharge my body. But I need the silence of the night, to think over these things. I have to process all the information and stay sane. Otherwise, there won’t be a memorist to visit.

Maybe you thought about it, or maybe you glossed over, but I pretty much have a disc for everything. Everything. Where else could I get such vivid and unique experiences if not in the one-of-a-kind Lubega City. But I like to believe I make a difference. I hope I’m a line that separates people from insanity. Maybe Gusstoux won’t do those things, after seeing what it would be like. Maybe Joey Pimber won’t toss himself in front of the train tracks. Maybe Lisa Newman will continue to live, so she can remember her family.

It was a long day. They are always long like this, so maybe I should start calling them a regular day. But while me and Vanessa prepare to shut it down, we get another visit. From the one and only, Madam Gusstoux. Wonderful.

— Madam?!

— Don’t stop me woman! I need to talk to your Memorist!

— It’s okay Vanessa, just…

We were about to close, so Vanessa picked up on my exhaustion and let the client run her mouth. I wanted to be over with it and not cause any more extensive drama. Knowing she wouldn’t be straightforward, I slide down my chair, to a more comfortable position. The sooner she is satisfied, the sooner it will end.

— My husband cheated on me!

— I can’t believe it.

— But I can! That son of a bitch! Was doing it with the maid that gratifying?!

— And don’t you do it with your basement slave?

— Excuse you?!

— Oh, sorry I got it mixed up. How can I help?

— Are—

— And don’t ask me for sexual favours.

— AS IF! The audacity! I was going to ask for a refreshing session!

— Explain.

— Something I can direct my anger into. Is mass murder an option?

— Would you not want to talk to your husband about it?

— He wouldn’t listen to me anyway!

— You don’t want to try?

— I thought I already gave you a direction, Mr. Memorist!!

God damn it. After a very traumatic and violent experience, she left as if nothing had happened, so light and bubbly. This is the part where I tell you, I hate my job. With the Madam’s departure, Vanessa comes to check in on me.

— Are we alive in here?

— You know what I think? A lobotomy wouldn’t hurt right now.

— Lobotomy? Mr. Memorist! And forget your important job?

— You’d remind me. Like you always do.

— I would. For an extra buck.

Vanessa chuckled. And that makes me smile. The way she just… sits there. I can’t look away. I can’t listen to something else. I can’t believe there is someone better out there. She is it.

— You should try a memory one of these days.

— And pay a friend? No way.

I knew I wouldn’t find another. I didn’t know I could find her in the first place.

— You know I do it for free.

— Lying comes like breathing to you, doesn’t it?

— Yes.

Then how do I know I won’t find another? You don’t get it, do you?

— Ready to go? Tomorrow is another day. — I say.

To think there is someone better, who would be willing to stay by me…

— Yes!

Now that’s just to cruel of a thought, don’t you think?

— Though… I have something to tell you…

I can’t wait forever like that.

— What is it?

I love her deeply.

— I’m moving… To another country.

And that’s why I lose, yet again.

— But why?

I didn’t let her in my pain. I just let her inform me about the situation.

It was a family thing. Who am I to hold her here? I too, have things to do.

Even if said things, are depressingly lesser than anything that involves her.

Whatever she tells me, I know it will be easy for her.

She’ll grow into it. Grow me out of it, certainly.

What if wasn’t my appearance? What if I were a little more presentable. Would she be okay with me then? Would she still deny me peace because my mind was somehow not adequate for her? I don’t know. And that troubles me deeply. But it doesn’t trouble her. And it shouldn’t. So justly unfair.

So unfairly just.

I’d be wrong to ask for something different. And yet here I am. Asking.

Asking to remain next to her. My place of happiness.

Terrible.

I remember how she invited me to a party once. A courtesy of her’s, I’m sure. I am one of her many friends after all. But I declined, saying that I simply didn’t know how to dance. And she did something incredibly cruel. Out in that parking lot, she told me she’d teach me. She would teach me how to dance. And so I danced with her. It was just a back-and-forth sway. “Dancing.”

I must have looked like a fool, holding in my smile. I can’t distinguish this type of kindness. And I know it’s kindness, because whenever I thought something of it, it always backfired. And the results were very hard on both parties. But I probably made the suffering worse for myself because I thought more about it than she did.

I know she didn’t mean it. But that was torturous. Because I knew, it didn’t mean anything to her. She was just teaching a friend to dance. And yet for me, I still remember that moment vividly. I don’t need a disc to remember the feeling of her hand, or her soft speaking voice. One of my happiest moments, ever. And for some reason, all the other moments were also with her.

I don’t have memories with other people. It’s all her.

I enjoy her presence. I really do. We can freely be each other when we are together. But she has her own life and I have mine. Her choices are hers, and mine’s are mine. If she wants to go to another continent and spend time away from me, that’s fine. Or to better word it, live her life in another continent. Yes, that’s fine. If that is what she believes is better, who am I to stop her. Besides, I have my own problems to deal with.

Maybe she doesn’t know what she means to me?

But I can’t help but think, what it would be like, if chose me. What if she gave me a chance and lowered her standards? She knows me, doesn’t she? She knows that I know her, right? Would she not trust someone she knows would love her? Instead of going into the world and have to deal with strangers? Is she not afraid of getting hurt again?

I know I am not bad. I’m not terrible… I mustn’t be this terrible — this worthless.

At the very least I know that I am not worth fighting for. That part’s true.

But she was worth fighting for.

But I have my own problems in this life. And that was a fight I could not handle.

I suppose… that I was never good enough, to begin with. And like always, I took these things to my head. Let my heart run though them like a child in a carnival. I promptly fucked myself on this one. Well deserved, idiot. That is what you get for thinking, someone could change your life.

Next time, make sure not talk to much.

I suppose that my job in this world, is to recount the times we had together.

Who knows when we will meet again? I hope it doesn’t happen. I hope I just fade from her mind. And that she lives as happily as she ever wished she was. I hope she never bothers with me, ever again.

I wouldn’t know what to say anyway.

Maybe if she wasn’t so nice, it wouldn’t be so hard. I could just continue messing with these memories. To my unbroken heart’s content. Godspeed Vanessa. If you ever feel like you need anything from me, you can kill me with kindness again.

I’ll treasure that memory too.

— When are you leaving again?

— In like two weeks. I got the number of my successor by the way.

— Are they any good?

— Yeah, you’ll like her. Not as good as I am but, she’ll take care of you.

— I hope so, don’t want to pay for an assistant. Want to go eat something?

— Yes!! Ah, I could kill for some shrimp right now!