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❝ when i lose my memory,
this is all that he'll have of me ❞
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EVERY WORD WRITTEN ON THE PAGES,
every drop of ink, splotch of shade, scratch of graphite against the seemingly strong surface of what effectively remained a fragile leaflet of paper, flowed from the body hunched at the desk. Pencils were not pencils, but rather extensions of humanity; the limbs of recollection, so delicately designed to designate meaning to memories, before running out of lead to give and running dry until no more than an empty vessel, once brimming with life and love, filled with folktales of frolicking felicity and the faint fruition of growing older, suddenly empty. Shells overtaken with gangrene. They would fade from memory, out of sight, out of mind, nothing more than a skipping stone splashing and sinking against the vast ocean of existence. Soon, their purposes would be forgotten. Their deeds would disappear. Nothing would be left behind besides what they had created.
And even then, their creations were not their own.
The author of the autobiography loomed over her work, dry eyes, bloodshot from all too many sleepless nights spent striving to cease the craft from continuing, endeavoring to end the aggregation of transcriptions spread out on the desk. Heartbeats were too loud not to simply be inside the mind of the reporter. Chest was too tight, hand too cramped, body too fatigued, mind too melted, soul too spent of squandered time and sapped of every final fiber of faith in the limitless labor that had stolen every remnant of the person that once was.
A creak resounded as the scribe shoved herself back. The rubber stoppers beneath the ancient acacia chair had been burnt to the bone from repetitive friction, and now nothing could prevent the scraping of wood on wood. Every second of sound was a reminder of every second of life that had been wasted, witlessly, ruthlessly, upon a body that could no longer uphold it; a young soul wilted gray from exhaustion. Eyelids flitted down upon pale eyes, only to snap open once more, with a renewed sense of vitality.
A goodbye.
How could something so important not have been remembered?
The metallic surface of the mechanical pencil glided gracefully beneath calloused hands, toughened against a soft frame, extending the last few sentences from mind to body to paper. Words flew across the page, quick and messy and critical, competing against the clock to appear with every dot of the i and crossing of the t. Thoughts swirled within the essayist's head. What should be said? What needed to be? How was one to leave their entire existence in fate's hands — a life that was once her own, now gone, fully entrusted in some unseen force, some dastardly destiny come to destroy every remaining reminder of who she once was and who she now is.
Soon, the writer, too, would fade from memory. Out of sight, out of mind, nothing more than a skipping stone splashing and sinking and drowning, chained, to an end never expressed desire for and a beginning never bespoken. Soon, her being would be forgotten. Her deeds would disappear. Nothing would be left behind besides what her creations.
The memoir would be all that was left.
The only question remaining to be answered was the one the writer feared the most.
She would be forgotten soon, surely, just as her pencils, now useless from overuse, broken from biting, fractured from force, cast aside from caution, had decayed. Nothing remained inside either receptacle but regret.
But would they forget her first? Would he?
Or would she herself become lost in her own world of missed memories, mistaken macrocosmos, and massacred memoirs?
She would fade. This, she knew. This, she accepted.
But being forgotten was the only thing left on the appalling planet that she really, truly feared.
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s t a r r i n g
s h o u t o t o d o r o k i
as
the boy who wants to forget
[ y / n ] [ l / n ]
as
the girl who wants to remember
a n d
h i s a o [ l / n ]
as
the sibling who cannot do either
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dedications
TDOROKI ;; for being a kind soul and one of the most fantastic authors i've ever had the pleasure of meeting. your writing is some of the most inspirational works that i've ever been graced with the opportunity of reading. thank you, chloe. ♥
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disclaimer
[ i do not own BNHA. all credit lies in the hands of its respective creators, authors, artists, and teams. ]
[ as always, unpredictable updates. thank you for reading c: ]