Bright. The one thing that he remembers.
A thousand splendid suns in an instant, blinding.
A searing sensation, penetrating pain, hurtful hell
and the light. Unforgettably blinding brightness everywhere.
Wait, there is more, something’s coming back,
Is it memory? But memory is hardly a trustworthy friend
It is a fluid, constantly changing form. It lies to hurt less.
Tell yourself a lie for long enough and it becomes your truth.
There is no truth, there are a hundred versions of it.
And here is the lie he kept repeating. “I am innocent”
Memory invades his unconscious self like a marauding army.
He was a good boy, how could he not be innocent?
Reliving the one moment over and over again, he now remembers.
Hanging by a thread, his mind replays all that happened.
Held back by unimaginable force, he can’t cry out the words he wants to.
“I am innocent”, he wants to tell those standing around him.
But now he remembers that he isn’t. Innocent is a strong word to use.
What all can he see? He sees a party, where he isn’t invited
He remembers crossing the thin line between innocence and insanity.
He sees pictures of him on a screen, hears people laughing
being tied up and having alcohol poured on him, and everyone looking on
He had just walked in uninvited and was punished.
Everyone later saw his fate on the wretched screen.
He lost his will to show his face to anyone, after all,
He was at fault for walking in where he wasn’t wanted.
Unwanted soul, unwanted by the world, driven to the edge of sanity,
He remembers now. He remembers himself stinking of the vile spirits
He remembers lighting a cigarette, smoking his last,
stubbing it out on his alcohol soaked self, then it was bright.
Now he looked hardly human, his skin the wrong shade, his mind irreparable.

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