An Anecdotal Arrangement.

To Forget Is To Remember.

Forgetting is one thing. Remembering is an entirely different story. You can easily forget something and not be able to remember what even happened. But then on the other hand there are some things that are easier to remember than forget. My story has a little bit of both. A little of my forgetting and a little of my remembering.

The day was sunny, perfectly warm, bright, and beautiful. A group of Arizonian teenagers, aged seventeen, all seniors in high school, began walking to their favorite hang-out spot. The bridge over the river, near their neighborhood park. They were joking and playing, pushing and pulling, having a good time. The next thing they heard was a terrible, blood-curdling scream. A scream coming from just behind the biggest tree in the park.

They stopped in their tracks. Should they run? Should they hide? Should they check it out? They had no time to answer. The source of the scream crawled from behind the tree, but didn't get far. A knife appeared from behind the tree, and was forcefully brought down into the person's neck. The person let out another strangled scream, this one diluted with the mix of the sound of gurgling blood.That all knowing gurgle. The gurgle of death. The woman fell limply to the ground. Her eyes staring. Staring straight at nothing.

The teenagers were not prepared for the sight they saw next. A young child, maybe around five, walked around the tree. Stepped over the now dead woman and looked straight at them. A smile slowly appeared on the little boy's face. He calmly threw the knife to the ground and sang:

"Mommy's dead. Mommy's dead. I won the game and Mommy's dead."

The shock that crossed every person's face, including the boy, was a polaroid image. Each face mirrored the next in utter perfection. Mouths hanging open. Eyes wide. And fear ridden in each pair of eyes.

"Mommy's dead! Mommy's dead!" the little boy began to cry as if he just realized that his game was not fake. His game was real, and Mommy is dead.

I shot up in bed, and quickly looked around trying to regain a sense of place and time. I then realized I was in my own little white room, with it's nice and soft walls. The walls that prevented me from ever hurting myself. The walls that prevented me from hurting anyone. The walls that prevented me from ever again, killing anybody. My four walls, the walls that prevented me from having any fun. The walls that had me constantly remembering. The walls that made me want to forget.

My padded walls.