Memory's Cost

[Unwillingly 11178]

“You looked desperate. And I was desperate.”

A violent jolt awake. 

 

Cass was quick to notice the rapid thud, thud, thud of his chest, and the surge of heat throughout his body that came just as quick. Sitting up reminded him how scratchy and coarse his blanket was, making for an easy stand out of the too-hot bed. 

 

Though burdened with its own flaws and blemishes, Providence was diverse in people and heart. 

“How long d’you think you’ll be staying, lad?” a woman asked.

She was sweet. Middle-aged, somewhat pudgy and wrinkled, but she smiled when she spoke. The warmth of her voice brought a sense of comfort, something Cass noticed most people lacked when they spoke. Himself too, probably. These things should be treasured, he told himself.

 

“Just a night, I hope.” he answered, and slid a handful of coins her way.

 

It was never a desirable place to sleep, the inns with the rats in the walls and dust that floated through rays of light, but it always felt like home. Not the home of ceaseless diatribes and rules, but of togetherness. Sincerity. It was always felt in the splintering wooden shafts, the airy cobwebs in the corner of window sills, the way his head never sat comfortably on the pillow. It was always those perfect imperfections that brought an ache to Cass' throat. Those things, if he thought about them for too long, would eat him alive every time, without fail.

 

Shrrk!

 

A match was struck alight, and soon a pillar candle resting on the wooden vanity. The orange glow against his face reflected in the mirror as he observed. It was no larger than his hand, but it would suffice. 

 

A half blind stare met the face that stared back at him. He almost didn't recognize it. This face of his, familiar, but still a stranger. He stared at every angle of his face, every blemish and pore, the curls of hair that clung to his skin, the crookedness of his nose, and— oh. The bandage. 

 

T̵͓̺͒̀́̓h̵̹̼̍̓̉͠e̴̫̦̞͔̾̏̿͗̈ ̶̰̣͌́̈́͊b̷̡̬͈̯̋͝͝a̸̝͆ͅn̶̟̊̉́d̸̜̼̘̓͒͋͌̿ͅͅa̷̧̳̮̯̐̀͑̀̍g̸͖̳̊ȇ̴̛̪̫̥̩͎̃̿.̶͇̎

 

He never took it off, not for anyone. It veiled the memories he sought to forget, sought to let go of. To him, there were many things better left unspoken, and the bandage was one of them.

But how could he let go?

It was a question that always provoked an itch at the back of his mind, a hunger for an answer.

Callused digits arose, guided by the dim mirror he stared into. They gently clutched the bandage that crossed his eye, or lack thereof, and just as gently began to tug. The fabric cascaded to his lap, and he stared long and hard at the space it revealed.

No eye met him. Instead, there was a flat slate of flesh and skin that had healed over the years. It was an awkward thing to stare at.  Perfection is a virtue, he had been told, but that blank canvas of flesh is not perfection. It is unnatural, it is wrong, it is macabre. And so, he tore his gaze away as a glossiness swelled in his eye, and likewise felt nothing at all.
 

Thoughtlessly, he reached for a pair of scissors. Three fingers met it awkwardly, making for a struggled grip as he raised them closer to his head, and so erratically snipped those flaxen locks, one by one. 

Shrrk… Shrrk… Shrrk…

 

Spoiler

here;s some shit i wrote a few days ago its bad and i hate it 😔