11 February 2013
"My first memory was from an old woman", the memory thief locks his arms behind his neck as he stretches out on the sofa beside my cat. "She was very small and frail, her children didn't visit her much anymore",he pauses and looks at me. "Do you visit your grandmother?"
I look at the ground, he knows the answer anyway. "My dear, fret not, he reaches out, cigarette in hand and pats my cheek, There will be time enough for that". "What did you take from her?" I ask."From the lonely old lady?" "Pain, he murmurs exhaling swirls of smoke, I sat with her as her husband died, he was called Joe, and she cried for three days straight. I was there when her eldest son walked out, and but two years later at his funeral. Then her children had children and moved far away, to places like Australia and Canada". I surprise myself by taking his hand in mine. "So many memories, I say quietly, So much pain, it was only your first time". He smiles back ruefully. "I try to stay away from people like her, their happy times are so hard to find. People bury them under bitterness and depression". His words are tinged with a hint of regret, almost as though he wishes he could do more than be a bystander to their pain. I take a deep breath and ask the question weighing on my mind. "How old were you, when you stole her memories?" It tumbles straight out of my mouth. Silence. "Seven."
The Memory Thief • Opuss № I