You leave your memories, for me to take.

Henry Ashford sat rather tiredly in his office, waiting for the wanted patient. He didn't want the job, but he couldn't decline it. It was his job and he can never abandon helping people. But what if I die? And he laughed at his idea. I can’t. I shouldn’t. But nobody would notice anyway. Nobody would ever know. Except for my wife and son, who are memory-wise protected. His job was made to erase all people's memories, and erase his identity too. If anybody knew about his ability, he would be in trouble. He doesn't want to. He glanced at his fake desk name. Every time he looks at it, he just laughs. A “therapist”? Really? What was I thinking? How did people even believe? Well, everything in my whole life is fake, they won't even know I exist after they get out of this room. Which is an advantage, since he is a rather shy person. But it was a disadvantage, because it always hurts. They only remember him when they need him, when their memories are too much of a pressure for them. He takes them. He “helps people leave their old lives behind” by taking it from them. He buried his face in his hands. Those memories are killing him, weighing him down, but he will not leave his job, he shouldn’t die. I don’t want to leave it for my son, anyways. When he dies, his son takes the lead; a memory sparks in him, calling him for his job. He doesn't know how he did get that memory in the first place. Wait, how don’t I? I am supposed to, how can’t I remember? This shouldn't happen. This shouldn’t. He broke up into weak, silent tears. He is tired. Really he is. But there is no escape.

After managing to calm himself, his patient arrived. She was strong but a sad young woman, he guessed she may be in her twenties. She got off her woolly hat to reveal tall red hair, which gave her the aura of an Irish woman, with her freckles added. A weird case; for unlike all his patients, who come crumbled, broken, and filled with despair, she was calm. Like most of his patients, however, she had those brown eyes that can be easily read. For me. Only me. He stood up, shook hands with her, and then sat back again, where she also sat on the chair in front of him.

           “Good Morning, how can I help you?”

           “I came here to ask you some questions.”

           He frowned. Question. People always come asking for action. Not for talks. Oh, but wait, I am “a therapist”. He smiled a little smile before he realized that there is a human in this room. He gently said.

           “Sure, go on”

           “How can someone remove his memories permanently?”

           This time, he could not hide his shock. How can she know? How can she want? Who is this woman? What should I do? He took a deep breath. Act like a therapist, although you never managed to, but try.

           “Why would you want to do that?”

           “They are too much for me. I can't bear them.”

           “That’s why I am here to help. Now tell me, what is too much for you?”

           Instead of answering, she just clutched her head and bent down, after minutes of silence, she whispered

           “No one can. No one can help me.”

           He answered softly, “I have met people that have had sadness that you would never imagine. So please tell me”

           She whispered weakly, very unlike the first time she entered, “I don't have too much sadness. There are too many memories.”

           He sighed. It's time to help her, by hurting him.

           “If you insist, then.”

           She looked up, and slowly said, “What do you mean?”

           Now, is the time for explaining. The same scenario for each patient. But they won't remember.

“I, unlike my desk name, I am not a therapist. I am not like any person you have seen. I am a memory taker. Passed down by my father, grandfather, we are people that take your memories away, the memories that you hate, and replace them with happier ones” he stopped, and added tiredly “you leave your memories, for me to take.”

She stared at him, unbelievingly. She thinks I am lying. Well... time to prove

“I can see, for example, that you have been on an airplane two days ago. From Spain. And I can take it away, too.”

She was so shocked that it took her moments to respond. After waiting again, she slowly said, “You can do it, now?”

“Of course I can.” he steadied himself, took a deep breath, trying to ready himself for the tiredness that awaited. But it is always unpredictable, for people are different in their memories. They always are. She watched him carefully, and then inquired slowly,

“How do you do that?”

She really is a weird patient. Why would she want to know? Should I tell her? It won’t make any difference, for she is not going to even know about his existence. Then, I shouldn't lie.

“From your eyes, I could reach the part of your brain that controls memories. I view them. The brain would easily let go of memories since they tire it the most. So," he added tiredly, but restlessly. It’s my job. My ancestors’ job. “You leave your memories, for me to take.”

She stared at him for what seemed like a year. Then, she abruptly said. “Does it tire you? To have all those memories, you know. All your life you’ve been just taking. Haven’t you ever thought about giving?”

Giving. I never thought about that. The idea just made him feel so comfortable. Sometimes he wondered, why should he do it? Why should he do all this memory taking, tiring job? Leave people alone. Deal with their own problems. But then, he remembers. The memory that now rarely comes because of the heaps of memories that came afterwards. His father. He was sitting at that same chair, in that same office. He spoke tiredly, like he always remembers he was, and always wondered why. But when he spoke, all his senses were alert. He always wanted his father’s attention. And on that day, he just said. “You know, sometimes, you may wonder why should you have this job, and you will have it, yes you will”, he answered when he gave his father a questioning look. “You might be tired, you might hate those people and wish you were never born. But remember son, as long as you can remember, that you are not doing for them, but for me, for our ancestors. And when you feel so, when you are weakened by them, just come to me. I’ll be there, here.” And he pointed on the boy’s, on his chest, where his own heart lay, and smiled with a tear that had fallen right where his heart lay.

A sad, memory-filled tear fell down to his pale cheeks. When she noticed that, she hurriedly said, “I am so sorry, I just wanted to know how you feel. I am so sorry”

“It’s alright. The question is always in my head. When memories are too much, when I am tired of helping people, I remember him, my father. It’s always hard, you know. But I can deal with it. I am alive, can’t you see me?” He laughed at this, for he’s alive but not well. And his “can’t you see me?” was also funny; for she won’t very soon. But it also felt kind of comforting to tell someone his feeling. Not giving it, but just saying it.

She smiled, for the first time since her arrival, and then he said “let’s start.”

He went and sat on the chair beside her, where she turned it so she can be facing him. She looked at his grey eyes. In an infinitesimal second, he was there, inside.

She was a newborn, her mother whispering softly “Lenora”. She was one year old, her parents beaming as she stepped her first step. She was two, in a shabby café babbling “mama, daddy,” and other incomprehensible words he didn’t understand. She was three, peering at the cradle in a hospital, her eyes wide with joy at the sight of her twin siblings. She was four, at the entrance to her kindergarten and waving excitedly to her father and mother. She was five, six entering her school, seven, having a terrible fight with another girl in her same age, and a lot of memories in that same shabby café. Eight, nine, ten, eighteen, hugging her parents, wearing her cap and gown. Nineteen. She was attending a funeral, her twin sister’s funeral, crying silently with her lasting family. She was twenty, discovering, for the first time, that her parents were part of a secret group, and her sister’s death was no accident, but vengeance. Twenty-one, looking at her parent’s murderer, and running away for her life, hitting a rock and falling, screaming at the sight of her bloodstained face, looking scaredly at the man running after her. The murder was right behind her, but he fell on the ground with the sound of a loud gunshot, his face filled with shock, revealing her brother, with wide, glaring, hateful eyes, full of hatred and sadness. At the sight of his sister, however, he ran to help her, but she fell right unconscious. She woke up, in a hospital, not remembering anything, and, not wanting to. Walking through streets, having glimpses of memories where she, dazed, tired, fell unconscious, to find herself in an old lady’s house, going out to know that she knows this place, traveling, to escape her memories, but then going back; for going there was no use; for she always remembered. She thought about going to see a therapist, and Henry Ashford occurred in her unconscious mind, like a spark waiting to be lighted. She was inside his office, knowing he reads memories, knowing that she can get rid of them, but feeling sorry for that poor man in front of him.

As he finished, tiredly, dazedly taking her sad, miserable life, it’s time to give her another happy one. He had those too, for every time he removes a sad memory, another one, a happy one is born. He went back to the start, to put those. But wait; her memories are still stuck, never going out. How is that possible? He got out from her mind. She looked at him. She remembers me, too. What is that? But he couldn’t think of it more; he was so feeling so dizzy; he never felt that before. Oh, but in the last few visits he did. But not that much. But how can she and I have the same memories, how can she? How didn’t her memories go? But wait; it’s increasing, the vertigo, oh no, what is happening to me? What is going on? Why is that happening? A moment later he was driven out from his thought by her

“Mr. Ashford, are you alright? I wanted to ask you when my memories will go.”

“This is not supposed to happen. You need to have forgotten them, forgotten me. I need to have got them. I don’t know what happened to me, and you. You should forget, you should leave your memories for me, you should, you really should,” “you leave your memories, for me to take.” He buried his face in his hands. Too weak, too fragile, he can’t bear it anymore. He can’t. His son, my son. What is going to happen to him?

She gently nudged him and said “Mr. Ashford, it’s alright. Don’t worry; I can deal with it. I can get used to it. It isn’t fair for you, taking all those memories. I can share it with you. Don’t you worry at all. And for you, I think you would be better if you took some rest.” He looked up, and found a tear on her cheek too. He stared at her brown eyes. She is tired too. Weak, but not as much as me. But her life is really miserable, I can’t deny it. He shook his head and said “no, I can’t rest, I have a job to do, people to help.” He paused and slowly and said “I have a son to protect.”

Suddenly, he couldn’t feel his body. A distant, pleading voice calling “Mr. Ashford, Mr. Ashford, are you alright? Wake up. I’ll call the hospital, hold on, please hold on.” But he was falling into a dark hole, seeing his first memory as a newborn, slipping away; his one years old memory, slipping away. His memories one by one slipping into nothingness, he can’t remember them. And then, he saw that memory. His father pointing at his heart, a tear falling. And then, this one too, slipped away from his grasp. He tried to catch it; it was too far away. He scrambled to follow, but he can’t; he doesn’t have it anymore; it’s a gap; he doesn’t even know what he is looking for. His first patient, his second, third... all falling away. But he didn’t care; he needs that gap, somehow, he can’t live without it; what is it anyway? No, no. he clutched his head and pressed it, he fell into a non-stopping nothing.

Help, he whispered. Help.