The carrier

The first rays of the sun were slightly showing from behind the imposing mountains. The snow was glowing shyly creating an atmosphere of surrealism. Some ice particles were trying to change their fate of melting and shine brighter. Dying in seconds, each frozen drop was an atom of an impressive molecule of glass.

From his well-hidden hut, Amos was watching the spectacle anticipating each second. For decades he had been watching this theatrical and fascinating process. In the end, his day to day occupation had the same characteristics, tragic and yet addictive. 

A repetitive and jerky knock at the wooden door woke the frosty image from its reverie. The violence of the will to enter was nearly knocking down the drilled by time door. If only it had not felt that urgency before… Amos stood up in slow motion, with well-known and studied movements. His eyes glided upon each detail of the only room. The old coffee table was there, concealed carefully in the darkest corner. Its wood was hardly surviving in front of the time’s catastrophe. Next to the table, two old objects, hard to be called chairs, were waiting patiently. They did not seem that affected by the passing, but they were far from being in good condition. The only splash of color was the carpet, bringing a slight and dirty shade of red into the hut. Some constructions along the wooden walls were housing multiple books, sheets, files. The knocks were intensifying. Amos opened the door.

A scared and somehow ghostly face showed up. The body that was carrying it seemed rather mummified. The last drop of energy had been drained from that poor human being. Amos was unimpressed by the dramatic appearance. He was too used to it, the way up there was arduous, a first test for the will of the one who is coming. Amos was standing in the threshold waiting for the visitor to defrost his lips and name his wish. After seconds or minutes, the first words were spoken. The visitor became a guest with full rights and stepped confidently inside. 

Sitting at the old little table, the real conversation was ready to be started. There was no name needed from the mysterious man, Amos worked with memories. The purpose of the visit was clear enough to not be mentioned: the erase of the past, completely or just partially. Amos was the master. Some papers were waiting to be filled with words, the pen was soaked in ink. The guest had to talk. The disconcertedness made it clear to Amos that the procedure was still unknown to his newest client. So he explained it once again, the same words as usual, the same inflections of the voice:

“You have to decide exactly what events, parts or details you want to erase from your past. It can be your whole life or just a second, just choose carefully. You are then going to narrate it to me, I will write them right here, on these sheets. Once written here, they will be gone, no proof of them happening or existing. There is no chance to reverse the process. Once we are done, you leave this hut and never come back, nor you talk about it to anyone else. Just live your life, make new memories, be proud of them or learn to live with them as you can go through this just once. Once my pen touches this paper, the act begins, the portal of forgetting opens. You still have time to change your mind.”

The visitor was watching the pen with hollow eyes. Amos could read in his eyes the suffer which motivated him to come, he could see the love that kept him behind, he could almost feel the fear. What Amos was surprised to realise was the scare of the future. His visitor was not frightened to erase his past, he was more than ready to let it all go. He was actually afraid of himself, of the fact that he might make mistakes again, that he will not be able to forgive himself. His pen was still motionless, the sheets were staring at the cloud of indecision… the guest was still not ready. 

The silence was suddenly cut by some brushwood disappearing into the stove. Both pair of eyes moved directly to that corner. The fire was hypnotizing. Amos decided to go shuffle the embers. While watching him walk, the visitor’s yearning became clear. While Amos was intermingling the carbon pieces, the visitor was arranging his stories in order. While Amos was returning to the table, the visitor’s eyes’ shining made it all obvious. Amos sat down again and grabbed conclusively the pen. The visitor started his story nervously. Amos’ pen was sliding elegantly on paper. Each inflect of his handwriting was well studied and implanted so well in his nature that it was almost an instinct. The ink was merging with the whitish surface, Amos was fusing with his magical pen, the visitor was segregating from his past. The whole process seemed as a hurricane, events gravitating around them, details flying away into the oblivion, future entering shyly the stage. 

The visitor stopped abruptly. He reached the end. Amos looked at his sheets, not too many, not too few. His client’s mind was now void, ready for new events to be poured in it. Amos watched him leaving ghostly. He closed the door delicately. His hut’s structure has been weakened once again. The rays of the sun were still entering through the window, the ice was still glowing, but Amos was not watching that spectacle anymore. He approached the table. The papers were still there, waiting quietly. There was the past of a human being, a forgotten past. So were all the other files on those poor old shelves. Amos could not remember when he first started doing this cursed thing. For a long period of time he had thought that he had been born with this crown of damnation over his head. He even tried to apply the same operation on himself, to erase this terrible idea. Nothing worked, he had to always remember his destine. Even his damned name was an ironic paradox. He was convinced that it meant that he was borne by God, but the decades proved him wrong. Amos then found the hidden message, he was the carrier, the carrier of others’ maledictions, he had to carry what others could not.

Amos snatched the papers. Their rustling echoed in his head. Amos’ eyes started to burn, his heart could not take it anymore, he started to shake. He approached trembling the shelves. The horrific grandeur of his work overwhelmed him. His knees were too weak to sustain his body. With a last force, Amos collapsed on his armchair near the window. 

         The last rays of the sun were slightly showing from behind the imposing mountains. The snow was glowing shyly creating an atmosphere of surrealism. Some ice particles were trying to change their fate of melting and shine brighter. Dying in seconds, each frozen drop was an atom of an impressive molecule of glass.

From his well-hidden hut, Amos was watching the spectacle letting himself be surprised by each second. For decades he had been watching this theatrical and fascinating process. In the end, his day to day occupation had the same characteristics, tragic and yet addictive.

         Amos closed his eyes with the frigidity still on his retina. All his past, the whole album of memories that he collected, everything was sliding in front of his closed eyes, his lids were the enormous screen for the most horrifying film he could have ever imagined.

         Amos was saving others from their nightmarish minds by collecting their memories, by erasing their pasts. But who will save Amos?