I saw the thing. It was preserved in the glass case, the only one of its kind. So faithfully had the curators touched it, applied the special fluids, made sure that never again, never again would it be forgotten. It had been once before, after all. After all, memory is a sieve. And this was memory itself. It shouldn't have been forgotten.
I can't remember the thing itself especially now. I suppose that's expected. My memory's not special in anyway, no, not at all. It doesn't matter, anyways, just that it was a record, so that people wouldn't forget, wouldn't ever. They digitized every pixel of it so they could recreate it. Every single pixel. Do you know how long that takes? It doesn't matter. I don't know. Maybe I knew, but the disease stole that knowledge from me, long ago.
It was worth a lot of money. A lot. That wasn't, though, why I did it. I was angry, I suppose. The world hated me, it seemed, and on top of that, I had forgotten my promise. I had forgotten everything about my life. So I stole it. It wasn't fair that memory was so insubstantial, so I stole the epitome of remembrance, burned it to ashes, let it float away. I burned all the computers of the world with a virus that found out every copy of the image, and destroyed. I watched it spiral into oblivion. I smiled. Now it would be forgotten, and no one would remember anymore about anything about it.
It wasn't fair, after all, for others to triumph in their minds, while I was left sitting in a corner, forgetting. It deserved to be forgotten.


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GlasswingButterfly (joined over 8 years ago)
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