Topic: [What is the extent of our] Significance of memory?
Here ya go. Enjoy.
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The Bystander
Looking back, he didn’t believe it. Surely there was something he could have changed, something he could have done differently, something he could have missed in order to avoid the horrid circumstance he now found himself in. He was in an alley, he was sure of that. The concrete beneath his feet felt implausibly real, the scents of the trash around him seeping into his lungs. He looked at the man with vague interest, slowly distancing himself from the scene. What had he done? How did he get there? He didn’t remember. Was this supposed to happen? This maddening, grand unknowingness—did it happen to everyone? He hoped so. However, if the former was the case, it wouldn’t surprise him.
He’d been different from the start, he was sure of that. His lips twitched at the very feeling of remembering, that sweet moment that takes you away from reality, and eventually, into sleep. Childhood, the only memories he seemed to have, flowed through his brain like an electric current, never really stopping. This time he wasn’t waking up. No, there would be no waking up from this memory. He was quite certain that this one—this one piece of memory—would stand out from all the others. It would haunt him for eternity, he was sure, until he found the piece of it that was missing. How did he end up this way? How did he get here? Why was he looking down upon this strange man, so lifeless, so obviously….murdered?
Murdered.
The word brought instant grotesque memories to mind; of television, of sobbing family members, of courts and sobbing testifiers, of intense feeling, of laughter, of bright cars, of cocky lawyers who wore a sleazy grin …He found himself grinning as well. Energy flowed through his body like a newborn’s blood, fresh, new. Excitement from the word alone had made him feel alive. Had he always been fond of others’ misfortune? Had he always felt this way after causing someone harm? Looking down upon the man, so discreetly inert, so suddenly taken from this world, he felt a surge of pride. Well, if he didn’t remember, then that was fine. He should be focusing on himself anyway. Who cared about this man? Surely getting back his memory would not be hard to do. After all, memory is a funny thing; it can be warped by the same strange force that culminates dreams and delusions. Memory can be created, but never completely destroyed, always changing with Time, that eminent and most elusive of forces. He wanted desperately for the memories he missed to come back, for that black hole to be filled, but the absence was stubborn as demons, beating at his head with imaginary clubs.
You’re not ready yet, it said. You’re not ready for the truth. The truth of what? He began pacing, his feet making no sound on the concrete, the silence of the alley enclosing around him. Murdered. The word had brought such an onrush of memory, such a glorious reaction, but did not reveal what he needed so badly. Surely this spark of remembering, this beginning, meant something. Surely this must be a clue. He must have been getting close. So, this man that lay before him was murdered. That must have been it. Then what? By whom? Had he done it? A swell of panic rushed over him. Perhaps he was responsible after all? Perhaps he was in the middle of a psychotic break? Perhaps his brain had wiped itself clean of any residue of what he had done? Perhaps the sirens he could have sworn he had heard earlier were not an illusion?
He stopped pacing. The images of smiling lawyers, of television reports….they had made him smile. He must have been some sort of sociopath to laugh at others’ suffering. The reaction didn’t feel forced; it felt as natural as breathing. So, he must have done it. He could have done it dozens of times, it just felt so natural. The thought made him shudder for a moment, but it subsided. He couldn’t change the past. And after all, he hadn’t been caught—yet. He looked about the alley, ready to run. The sun was still high in the sky, the air still warm on his skin, the sweat still fresh on his neck. He reached up to wipe it, but stopped. His neck. What about his neck?
He was attacked by another flood of random, vivid, lush memory. A table. Ink. A smiling face. Nervousness. Pain. Pride. He searched for a mirror, a puddle, something, anything reflective to see it. When he couldn’t find anything, he began to rub at it, hoping the action would spark something else.
Nothing.
“Okay, let’s not freak yourself out,” he said to himself, and he began pacing again. He would have to figure this out. A table. Medical, maybe? Had he been to a hospital lately? No, he didn’t feel like he was recovering from anything. A needle—not a syringe, mind you, but a special needle--ink, not on paper but…on, no, in, his skin. A tattoo! Yes! He felt more confident now. The memories were coming back, faster now. He had a tattoo on his neck. This man had been murdered. He’d been some sort of sociopath. Things were looking up—he was remembering. Absolute delight filled him as he continued to pace, his step becoming more spirited. Now, how had his man been murdered? He hadn’t really paid any attention to the poor soul, who was laying there on his back, eyes slightly open in surprise. There wasn’t any blood. Not that he could see. That ruled out the knife and the gun as the method. He checked the street again, to see if anyone was there, but it was as empty as it could be on that Sunday morning. Never for a moment did he think this was unusual, along with the strange absence of noise his boots had made on the rough, uneven concrete, along with the way the ground looked so surreal, but so blurry. If he had taken into account these anomalies much earlier, his situation would have surely changed.
Yes, he remembered a man now. He remembered setting him off. He remembered an argument. But not here, not in this place, where this man had expired. No, it was long before, he was sure, but he was certain it had led to this situation. He checked his pockets for a clue, a cell phone, a notebook…or perhaps the murder weapon, but he found nothing but the lint in his coat. Strange. He didn’t seem the kind of man to go anywhere without his wallet. Or his driver’s licence. It was strange indeed, but he took no notice, stabbing at his mind harder than ever now to recover the memory he needed. He’d stayed here too long. Being found beside a dead man wasn’t the best situation to be in, and he didn’t plan on being caught. He wasn’t going to let a stupid, unknown dead….
“Hello? Is someone there?” His entire body reacted as if he was stabbed.
He had been caught.
“Hello? Are you okay in there?” It was a woman, peeking over into the alley. She was wearing a strange yellow hat, which billowed over the sides of her head. Well, there was no use hiding anymore. He was found.
“Yes, please ma’am!” He couldn’t help himself from smiling. “Help me! I found this man! Please, call an ambulance! I think he’s dead!”
The woman stepped closer, seeming not to hear.
“Hello?” she called again. “Anyone…” her eyes spanned the alley, her thick coke bottle glasses magnifying her eyes, “..here?”
He cleared his throat. She must’ve not had her hearing aid turned on. He spoke louder this time, now arriving at a yell,
“Over here! Straight ahead! Please, help! Call 911!” He waved his arms. He jumped. He whistled. Still the old lady peered about the alley, slowly stepping closer to him and the dead body, close enough to spit on.
Was this lady retarded? Maybe she was crazy! Mad!
“I’m right here! I’m right in front of you!” He marched straight up to her, right up to a foot of her face. “I’m HERE.” Her hat nearly brushed against his face, he could smell her flowery perfume and her dull, wrinkly eyes stared straight at him.
But she couldn’t see him.
Frustration was mounting. How was that possible? Was she walking in some sort of delusion, thinking he wasn’t there? Was she in some far off place, where bright yellow bonnets were still in fashion? He felt the urge to smack her. He felt the growing need to smack her back into reality so overwhelming that it made his ears hurt, but he didn’t. Suddenly he was worried. Her eyes were moving now. She was no longer looking straight into his eyes, but downward, toward the body. He tried to move in front of it, to cover up what he was sure now that he must of did, but she seemed to look not at him now, but through him.
Then she saw it. The body. He heard her reaction before it came, and he fought the urge to cover his ears. She let out such a bloodcurdling scream that the trashcans beside her seemed to rattle in defiance, the pigeons overhead fleeing in absolute terror.
“Help! Help! Someone call 911!” she ran out of the alley faster than he ever could, holding her gaudy hat tight to her head. “Help! There’s been a murder! Help! Police!”
The sirens came almost immediately. Running would be a good idea, he knew, but for some reason, he was rooted to the spot, confusion fusing his feet to the concrete. He was almost certain now that something was very wrong. Sweat welled up on his neck again as he tried to calm himself down. Surely someone would have answers. Surely he didn’t do this. No, he didn’t do it. When they asked him questions, he had found him there—that was all. He’d seen nothing and done nothing to him. He didn’t know him. For the moment, memory was a nuisance. He would not run, he decided. The street was too narrow, he could feel the people coming out of the woodwork now, out of windows, out of cars. He could still get out of this yet. He knelt down to the body, and prepared to put on a good act: his face, terrified, his voice, cracking, a false panic creeping across his body.
When the police arrived, he ran up to them, ready to start his act, but they only stared him down. Their cold eyes showed him no sympathy, no nothing.
“That him?” said one.
“Yup,” said the other, walking closer to the body. “Sure looks like him.” He gulped. So he had been known to the police. His mind searched for some memory of it, something to back up their claims, but came up dry, his mouth gulping for words.
“You sure? That lady didn’t seem very reliable,” said the taller one, pointing to his eyes. His nameplate flashed at the onlooker’s eyes: Daleman. The name caused a wheel to turn in his head, but it only stayed there, turning, going nowhere.
“Nope, it’s him. Remember that mug photo?”
Daleman nodded, avoiding all eyes. Of course he remembered. What kind of cop did he think he was?
“Well, this seems pretty…distinguishable, don’tcha think?” He knelt down dangerously close to the lifeless man’s face. “Come here.”
What was going on? Panic was beginning to rush over him. He didn’t even remember his own name yet. How come everyone was ignoring him so? What was he looking at? Evidence? The sweat was growing all across his body now.
“Look here.” The officer pointed a finger at the dead man’s neck. “That tattoo is pretty darn obvious, isn’t it?”
It was like something hit him.
Bang.
The dread was like a bullet in his chest. How could that be? It had to be a coincidence. Rubbing his neck, he inched his way closer to the body, loathing what he might find. He didn’t believe it. It couldn’t be.
You aren’t ready for the truth, he heard again, but this time he pressed further. He would find out. HE would end this. He could end this horrible, unexplainable situation he was in. This was it. Finally he got close enough, looked at the cops one more time, and looked at his neck.
It smacked him in the face. It kicked him in the stomach. It beat him in the head. His memory came back all at once, causing him to stagger backward in surprise. They were right: he wasn’t ready for the truth.
“Oh God,” he sputtered. “It’s me. It’s me.” He remembered the tattoo—a snake curled around the scales of justice—he remembered getting it. He remembered the man he had gotten killed... He remembered surprise, a swift punch, a knife, an emptying of pockets. He laughed at himself now, madness brimming in his own voice, tears brimming in his eyes, his hands clutching his head. It was so obvious. The answer had been there the whole time.
“Well, the streets’ll be safer with him off ‘em,” said the older cop, straightening his belt. “Damn murderer. Looks like someone else took justice into their own hands.” He laughed a little, his round belly jumping with excitement.
“No! No! Listen! I’m sorry! I’m SORRY!” he was waving his arms at them now, but he was invisible, just like he’d always been. “Please! I’m not a murderer! Please! Help me! I can’t be dead! Did you even check? I could be still alive! Why won’t you help me?” He fell to his knees, trying to grab at them, at something, anything. When his hands passed through them and into the air, he yelled harder. “Please! Check if I’m alive. Please! At least check!”
“Hmm.” Daleman walked around the body, surveying it. “Guess he was stabbed eh? Wow, whoever did it really went all out. And look,” he lightly touched the pockets of his coat. They were empty. “He’s been robbed.” A sleazy smile, similar to those lawyers, crept across Daleman’s face.
Went all out? He didn’t see any blood! He couldn’t even see any stab wounds! He was furious now.
“You’re blind! Don’t you see? He wasn’t stabbed! There’s no blood! I didn’t do it! Why don’t you see what I see?”
He stomped the ground, frustrated, and the ground shook, the concrete stirring in and out of focus, his surroundings swirling around him. That was when that last bit of memory hit him, that last bit of life he had lived, the memory of the knife sinking deeply into his chest. Once. Twice. Three times, so fast and sudden that he hadn’t time to move, to scream. He remembered hitting his knees. He remembered a hand rifling through his coat, he remembered a fourth and fifth, and he hit the ground, dazed. He remembered the face looking down on him, smiling, his wallet in hand like a trophy. He was saying something.
“It’s Sunday,” his murderer had said, “best be saying your prayers real soon.” The man’s name crept into his mind, slowly, painfully. Daleman. They were all Dalemans. The father, dead, the son….
Reality, and with it, conclusion, crept its way into his vision, the true crime scene unfolding and forming before his eyes. The knife lay there beside him, and everything became strikingly clear: the murderer had been murdered. He’d been murdered by the boy his victim had left behind. And here he was, smiling at his handiwork, smiling at the sick justice he’d created.
“Rest in peace,” Daleman whispered. “Rest in peace, Johnny Snakebite.” The name was just so fitting. Fitting to a man who organized murders, who collected cash, who dodged authority so well until now.
“Well, better send for the rest of the crew,” said the fat one, waving his hand at Daleman. “This’ll be a media frenzy for sure.” Daleman walked toward the car, but stopped, turning back toward Johnny, staring into the air. He squinted to see something, but it just wouldn’t manifest.
“Somethin’ wrong?”
“No. Just thought I saw something, that’s all. It’s nothing.” And Daleman stepped into the car, dismissing it.
The mad laughter rose again in Johnny’s stomach, and this time he let it out freely, it taking over his entire illusionary body.
It was so funny, this memory thing.
