MicroHorror

“I’ll pay five hundred dollars for your unwanted memories,” the stranger said, producing an envelope and a small glass ball.

I looked up at them, then him, before taking a healthy pull from my bottle of whiskey. It was almost empty and I’d have to find another soon. “Why?” I croaked.

“I have my reasons, but you could rid yourself of such an unwelcome encumbrance.” His eyes were dark and I saw no color there, only blackness. Damn, the whiskey was blurring my vision something fierce. I blinked and looked again.

He was well dressed and stood out like a sore thumb in this part of town. I had adorned myself in such fine raiment at one time, but no longer.

I toyed with the idea of saying goodbye to the unpleasant memories clogging my mind. Looking up and down the dirty alley that was home, I saw no one else. Figuring this was some sort of hidden camera joke, I played along.

“Sure, ya got a deal.”

“Excellent.”

He bent down and pressed a finger to my forehead. The glass ball in his other hand began to glow. I felt fuzzy, like after drinking too much whiskey at once.

“Thank you,” he said, dropping the envelope in my lap and departing.

I counted the money. Five hundred bucks! Enough to keep me in booze and smokes for weeks. Maybe even enough to help me get back on my feet again.

Then that cheating bitch would realize her mistake…

With horror I realized I still remembered it all: catching her with that slimeball who called himself my best friend, the long, drawn out and nasty divorce, the look in Justin’s eyes through it all, the descent into the bottle, losing my job. All of it.

Try as I might, I could recall nothing good from my life. Meeting Cathy, our wedding, the day Justin was born–all of it was gone. I’m sure such memories had been there at one time, but now they were missing. Large chunks had been ripped from my life. My childhood was a haphazard collection of painful recollections. My life with Cathy began when things had started going sour.

I called desperately after the stranger. “Wait! Give me back my life!”

He turned and regarded me. “My dear fellow, even if I was inclined to renege on our understanding, returning that which I took from you is far more complicated a procedure than merely procuring them in the first place. I’m afraid you could never hope to afford my transference fees.”

I held up the wad of bills in my fist. “Here, take your money. Give me back what is mine.”

His look of disdain chilled me to the bone. “Unfortunately, that paltry sum doesn’t even approach the amount required for me to undertake such a taxing endeavor.” He turned to leave.

“But you can’t leave me like this!” I cried.

He stopped. “Oh, but I can,” he said coldly, looking me over with those dark eyes.

“Please don’t leave me with these!”

Now he looked slightly amused. “But those were the memories you clung to most strongly. The ones that you draw upon to fuel your journey through whatever this is that you call a life. They define who you are, or at least, who you have become. What I took was what you had cast aside, banished to the dark recesses of your mind. They brought you nothing but pain and so I relieved you of that burden.”

“Now if you will excuse me,” he turned again to leave. “You would be amazed at the market for such things and the prices some are willing to pay in order to experience them.”

With that he was gone.

I howled my frustration and despair. I had nothing. Nothing but my hatred, my rage, my self-loathing. I was a pathetic waste and would always be one.

I gazed at the money in my hand.

Time to get some more whiskey.

• Copyright: © 2008 Jameson T. Caine