I Remember

3. Day of acknowledgment

I Remember the most noble of good, the most brutal of bad, and most everything in between. Thrush doesn't seem bothered by any of it. After each memory, he makes a quick note on his paper, then touches my hand once more. Even for me, the cycle of ink, hands, and Remembering is taxing. It begins to affect my attention span, threatening to toss me from Albien Reed Sailor and his raided farm to Theodore Dick Holland and the fortune of his militia against my will.

I usually like riding the waves as they fall upon me, but now is not the time for that.

For how it is for me to hold onto slippery memories, Thrush is having more troubles than I. He gradually talks less, writes shorter sentences, and hunches over a bit more in his chair. But, regardless of the physical and mental exhaustion, he keeps me Remembering.

I don't bother offering to stop before mid-afternoon. Though his eyes show signs of fatigue, they remain focused and determined.

Once the clock on his desk reaches three o'clock, however, I make an executive decision. "We've been at this for hours without a break," I point out after Remembering young Samson Donald Ring's untimely demise at the hands of a child molester. It's not a pleasant memory to leave off on, but I don't know if Thrush can take any more. "Let's call it a day."

"Did you intend a pun there, or was it accidental?" Thrush chuckles to himself, then stretches widely. "I can never tell."

I am not in a joking mood. I never am after Remembering people's deaths. How someone who doesn't have a day and yet has the heart to do just that is beyond me. "Will you need me again tomorrow?" I ask, ignoring his comment altogether.

"No need. I've got the picture." I stand, but Thrush remains seated. "You can see yourself out, can't you, Harvey? I need to make a few more notes."

"Yeah, I can." I pause, considering whether I should ask about what he's written. In the end, I decide not to venture, though the urge to know is like an itch begging to be scratched. If I really want to pry, I'll find someone with this day and have them show me on his behalf. "Thank you for your time. It was good to meet you, Mr. Thrush."

"The pleasure is all mine." Thrush is not too tired to flash a winning smile. "Good work today!"

I acknowledge him with a wave, then slip out of the office, shutting the door softly behind me. Nobody stops me as I walk to the elevator, and I'm the only one who rides down.

Since I've spent all day Remembering, I keep to my own thoughts as I go to the bus stop and wait. I need to refresh my mind with things from my own life, lest I get trapped in the lives of others.

So, I change gears and focus in on tonight.

The bus will come shortly, as long as it's still on schedule. Since I can't walk all the way to the store and still get everything done that needs to be done, a brief wait for a ride is the smarter option.

Besides, I know the typical desolation of Grey's fridge and freezer. I'll need plenty of time to shop for all the things I'll need.

After a while, the bus arrives. I don't have a wallet, but the driver lets me on with little more than a compliant nod.

Since being a vessel for memories is an inconsistent yet all-consuming job, I don't earn and carry money like everyone else. All necessities for daily life—food, hygienic products, housing, clothes, and transportation—are charged to the store or provided for free as needed. More costly things intended for entertainment and comfort must be verified, just to make sure I'm not doing too much frivolous spending.

While people with normal jobs tend to think that people like me take advantage of this system, I can't help but Remember the price of deceit. It's killed many a man in the past. Because of that, I live simply, perhaps more simply than most.