Flash fiction piece for:

August’s Zeroflash Entries

I Remember

I remember the 80s.

In my own way, I remember them.

It was in the 80s that I am supposed to have committed the heinous crime that brought me here. I have no memory of that crime, but the pain inflicted on me has made the crime belong to me.

Shackled here, unmoving, perpetually tortured, I begin to believe the things I am accused of.

All I have are memories.

Outside of the pain all I have are memories.

I use my memories as a shield. I hide behind them, locking away the shrinking remains of my sanity behind a tattered curtain of memories.

Not all the memories are real, some of them aren’t mine. But they have all become mine: I own them as much as I can own anything.

I am resigned to living out my life here. How long I live is not up to me. I don’t really care. Death would have once been a relief, now it is just a dream.

Dreams are not like memories.

I don’t dream anymore, or maybe I do, I just don’t remember them.

If I did, would they be memories or dreams?

Are you a memory?

Are you real?

Can you hear me or am I just trapped in my head, wishing you were here?

Sometimes I imagine myself being that person, a person that could do those things and it just doesn’t fit. I’d know wouldn’t I? If I did?

It doesn’t matter now. Perhaps the truth is like my memories: as real as it is needed to be.

Maybe I am being punished because they don’t know the difference anymore. Maybe that’s it. Maybe I’m just a false memory to them, something they need to believe to keep themselves sane?

I don’t think I’m sane anymore…are you?