A brilliant intelligence, with a psychotic focus. Anna, has successfully set up John, to take the blame for murder. No detail was ignored. She is gone now. They think she is dead. John murdered her. A postcard arrived, addressed to John, with roses, her touch.
This job can suck the life out of you. We are given up to fifteen years, then we must find something else to do, if we haven’t been chewed up and spit out. I’m new to this, two years, four months, two days, five hours, ten minutes, and counting. It has taken me only two years, to feel exhausted, like I’m wasting away, from the inside, out. I don’t know how John lasted ten. He is strong, able to separate, his from theirs, until now.
Sometimes my memories are jumbled, the details from someone else’s life, weaving their way inside my brain, infusing me with their sickness. Once colourful, now fading. Since John went to prison, I’ve taken a short leave, to regain some strength, to identify with my memories, to untangle the mess. I’m seven days in, and my mind is clearer. The windows have been wiped, but, streaks are left from the grimy fingers, of those tortured souls. A glimpse inside their memories, a rotting story unfolding before me. I can back out any time, put a stop to it, snap out of it, but, it’s my job.
My title is; Memory Detective. I’m here to help people learn from their memories; which are real, and which are not. I learn the true story behind the sickness. Some get better, with a deeper understanding of how, and why; where their behaviour stems from. Some get worse. Some have brilliant intelligence, like Anna.
I’m not afraid, I suppose, of what could happen, like with John. I’m afraid of losing my memories altogether. With nothing from my past, how do I move forward? How will I learn from my mistakes? How will I retain any happiness? How will I know what is real? For now, my focus, to wash those windows until they are no longer visible. Nothing in between.
I hang on to any memory that surfaces, keeping a journal, so they don’t get lost. Paragraphs, sentences, or just words, whatever shows up. The ones I’m after now, are long past, covered in a sweet haze. I write down only what I remember, not recreating to satisfy my thirst, for the whole story. The good, and the bad. They are all the makings, of me.
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