In my office there is a box. Within the box there are many cubes. Within each cube there are many memories.
I don’t know why it is that I do what I do. They come to me; the hurt and the remorseful both. A memory is like any other piece of flesh. The history is written upon it’s surface, each scar a river that has carved through a lifetime. And sometimes those scars are too much to bear. Sometimes they tear through the flesh, into the person beneath.
I take the memories. It is theft. There’s no other way around it, and every law enacted has only further qualified my position as a thief. I’m a thought-eater, a mind-mongerer. What I do can barely be called therapy. And yet they come to me.
The memories aren’t clean. The scar may be obvious, but the flesh around it is still living tissue. How much or how little to cut, that is how reputations are borne. I take only what is needed, but sometimes even that is too much. But once it is done, they know no better.
And into the cubes I place the images of a laughing child, the screaming silence of a wife on the tile floor. And nestled deep below, amongst the golds and the reds and the greens (always so many greens), there is a little black cube. My cube.
I don’t know what memories are contained within it. I don’t know when I took them, or of what they are. The power faded many years ago, the colour, a brilliant white, died and so did any chance I had of remembering.
So now I take more memories. And I try each. Like a jigsaw one will fit or at least settle into the hollow and I know I am reaching closer to my goal. She was important. And sadness wrapped around her. Her face was… the memory is only as strong as the last.
Prompt originally posted by crms1496 on reddit and received 3 upvotes.