I stood in the street coughing and heaving. Struggling for my breath before I made one final pant.
I looked up. Snow pirouetting onto my cheeks.
"Later. I'll look into it later, I need to find my memories. I need to know what happened after my Mothers death. I want-no, I need answers."
"But Orin. You need to go home. For now. I swear-"
Then I paused, "Even if I do have these memories. What do I gain? Maybe there's a reason I lost them. Maybe it's better I stop looking. Once I look too deep I'll be too far gone."
And yet. Every step. Every step I take feels like a betrayal of myself. I've spent all this time trying to find answers but once something is forgotten it's as if it never existed. I take all these steps and I betray myself, yet I can't stop walking.
"Why? Why do I keep chasing this stupid thing?"
I gritted my teeth, "I cherished it because I lived it. It's mine. My memories. Not yours!" I shrieked into the silence
"It's pointless. Arguing now. With nobody .I said what I needed to, back then. To Miss Agnes."
I bit into the pastry. Sugar and syrup filled my mouth, flakes crumbling onto my jacket like ash.
I straightened my posture. Then paused. Like a meerkat listening for sound.
That song again. The hymn. The sound dug into my ribs like a hook. I stepped toward it, against my better judgement, against my own will. Every time I follow a song, it never ends well.
A myriad of boots marched on the snow clumping dully under the gaslight.
My steps quickened to follow them.
"My memories." I spoke in desperation
It was the only thing I had to cling to. I had no personality. No one to love me. Care for me. I push away everyone around me. If I–If I find this at least I would get some clarity. At least I would have a reason why. I need it.
I stepped forth, following the clamour. I drifted, lulled along by a string of melodies.
There was no reverence for the snow. No children running up and down in their large puffer coats. Their jackets rustling as the matte fabric rubbed against itself. No snowmen.
I slowed.
I froze.
Only the crowd. Looking in one direction.
Some laughed.
Some cried.
Most just watched.
Quiet was the hunted animal—put down like a dog.
Quiet was the lamb—watching. Powerless.
A woman stood on a grand scaffold, not revered but reviled.
Her dress was torn, her hair bound by fraying ropes.
They dragged her by her hair and spat on her.
She would flail ceaselessly as they raised her to a noose.
A bang. Her head jerked about sideways, as she began clamping her palm onto her bloodied head.
Her mouth was half agape in agony.
The people around her began to dance fanatically, praising the display.
Calling out, "Witch!" "Demon!" "Devil!"
A noose, it looped around her neck and tightened.
The clamour increased—this time with greater energy it erupted.
The rough, dry crimson blisters of the rope grated coarsely against her neck, abrading upon it.
A man on the stage began spinning a wheel.
And she elevated.
Slower.
And slower.
An egg poached in blood.
The noose tightened, engraving its marking onto her throat. She would clench the rope.
The tips of her leather shoes scraped the wooden stage as her heels began to lift. Rising. Slower.
Her fingers began bleeding from abrasion, skin slipping off like hot glue.
Slowly her hands slid further down, leaving behind a trail of crimson on the rope. Her fingerprints receded into the crevasses of her nails.
It was arbitrary—but on the rope, blood. Dried. Not hers.
The display continued.
Her nails split into the skin, looking much as if they were ingrown.
Tears cascading roughly down her cheeks.
Snot welling at the corners of her chin.
Screaming with a dryness which could only froth a spit.
Her eyes running into her head like marbles.
She hung high, taking her final dance and leap and breath and cry for life—likened unto that of a hanging serpent, held by its throat, dangling in the air, coiling around the hand, and the hand likewise.
The spectators like greedy cats in an adage.
Wanting her dead yet not wanting to kill her themselves.
Like cowards.
Her fingers slipped.
Then—
A snap.
Like a wet wooden branch breaking underfoot.
No more movement.
Just the soft sway of a cut marionette.
Her eyes, now gray.
Her body burst into flame.
An open conflagration.
The sparks etched into my mind.
It was cold. I tugged at my gloves, pulling them onto my hands. The flame reflecting within my eyes. Singed onto my memory. Like a brand. Some things are meant to be forgotten. Some things I wish I could. If I could help. If I could change the past. If I could change something, forgetting the past doesn't erase it. Or take away the pain. It only takes away the memory, not the feeling. The feeling is what we remember. We focus on the small and arbitrary things as a take away, to forget. But people. Are worth remembering. If I were to die I would hope. At least one person would remember me, even if it'd be my aunt. Miss Agnes. The woman's name I know not. But I will remember you. And get her justice. And when I do I'll remember your face.
"Her face. Her last expression wasn't of dismay. Or distress. Or hatred. It was of peace. She was looking directly at me. Beyond the crowd. Perhaps hoping I would save her. But I'm weak. I stared back. The rope let her go, as she let go. I wonder. Was that last face she made of peace, or happiness. Happy that she could let go of this cruel world. Or did she see me? Recognise me and know something has been set into motion. Anything."
And the people shrank back in awe—
as if their belief in her witchcraft had been confirmed.
Credit, if anything.
Rectitude.
And I saw a man.
Looking about the same age as I. I a cruel fool.
He did not shout and dance fanatically.
Rather, he stared—smiling.
His gaze caught fireflies like glass casings.
Not in any twisted enjoyment.
But like a child dissecting a butterfly.
Curiosity.
His cold cerulean eyes peering at her as they reeled her down from the rope to burn.
It was as if he were asking himself.
Wanting to know.
Wanting to witness.
What fear looks like.
Hanging onto the rope. Letting go.
As it finally lets you go.
Despair.
He had blonde hair.
Blue eyes.
Held his hands laced behind his back in a professional manner.
He looked younger than most men, yet his eyes were older.
He wore a gray attire.
He wore no jacket but a tuxedo, with a smooth, ironed flax-white shirt.
This was the devil in the detail, every bit of him meticulously placed.
Every fold of him placed.
His eyes had a different kind of grayness to them.
Not in fear of death.
But of death itself.
He felt so familiar.
His eyes glinted before the firelight.
Was it ambition? The façade of goodness?
So familiar.