Better to Forget

Better to Forget

By Auror_Lib

He remembered the pain.

The fiery agony, crawling its way over his body; an icy stinging, clawing his insides. A grating throbbing that dug at him, even now.

He had good days and bad days, so the people within the white walls told him. The pretty woman in the crisp uniform always asked "Is today going to be a good day or a bad day?" in her pleasant voice, as she smiled her standardised smile and fed him porridge.

He wasn't entirely sure what the difference was. He couldn't remember that much. He didn't remember the days before he had come to this sterile place, where people always spoke in low voices and shot him sharp glances full of pity that they didn't think he noticed. Sometimes, he wasn't sure if there had been a time before the white walls.

But on a good day, he could sometimes remember her, even though he didn't know who she was. Her eyes, her smile; her screams, echoing off dungeon walls, piercing his heart and soul. Screams of agony which resonated within his mind, as he squeezed his eyes shut and clamped hands over his ears in futile attempts to block out the tortured wailing. Screams that no-one else within the white walls seemed to hear.

He shook his head violently, willing it to end. He wanted to forget, he so desperately wanted to forget. Until he did.

And then, he tried to remember again.

These were the good days. On the bad days, he could remember nothing. He simply huddled into a small corner and rocked himself, back and forth, wary, frightened eyes scanning the empty, white walled room.

But even on the days when he remembered nothing at all, he still remembered the pain.

The excruciating, twisting, biting pain that neither ended nor began, but simply was; a constant companion in his own world that no-one else was a part of.

Not for lack of trying, though. He had visitors, people who gazed at him sympathetically, even when he stared back emptily from his corner. The most regular callers were an odd couple: an old woman and a young boy. She talked at him, matter-of-factly, but gently, always trying to coax a response and break the ten year silence. The boy sat, mumbling a few sentences when prompted, but otherwise, in silence.

He thought that the old lady clearly did not treat the boy well. He was always sombre, almost sad, an air that he wore like a dark cloak around his shoulders, shunning the pristine white of the walls. They called him "Frank" and "Dad", but they were not his names. They called themselves "Mother" and "Neville", but he didn't recognize them either. They spoke of "Alice" and "Mum", but he didn't know who they were.

They promised to come again soon, but it didn't matter. He would forget.

And then they left him alone in his small world, filled with the pain and the screams. And he rocked back and forth, remembering to forget, or forgetting to remember.

They didn't know which. Neither did he.