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okaywolfWritten to the prompt by make-up-a-wizard — wizard who can hardly even remember how the world ended anymore
Content warning: memory loss
After writing part 1 and 2 in quick succession, this prompt came around and so here’s what happened to the villain who ended the world. I wrote these as a person with pretty significant memory issues, the first part and this one are pretty much just me.
Originally posted on cohost on June 17th, 2024.
Not because the end of the world wasn’t important. Important things were just as easy to forget. Everything was just as easy to forget, because forgetting happened and there was nothing he could do about it.
It all shifted about and faded, even if he tried to remember exactly as it was. He could wake up every day and tell himself the same story he told himself yesterday but thinking back to the moment, the senses changed; the time of day, the temperature, how many eyes were on him, what those people sounded like, how laboured his breath, the tone of his voice, the weight in his hands. It all changed.
And so did the words. He could tell himself the same story every day, but he couldn’t actually know or rely that those were the same words. First the meanings shifted, the connotations. They slipped about like the senses. And then they were misplaced.
With time, just like how he couldn’t remember when it happened—if there were people there, what he was doing, what he felt—he couldn’t remember the story right. He could repeat it every day and the words would still slip away from him. Everything did, all the time. And he was okay with that.
He had to be. He didn’t have any other choice. He had to be an amorphous, abstract, haphazard semblance of a person. He had to live day to day not remembering who he was, hoping there was some immutable part of him so that he didn’t have to apologize to yesterday’s him, and the day before, and all the days stretching back before then—that today’s him was betraying all those past versions of himself.
But he could hold onto the bare minimum. He knew he ended the world. He wasn’t so sure the world was better for it. It was impossible for him to remember every or even most days spent wandering this ended world to make any sort of judgement on “better”.
So he wanders, unsure of why, until he’s not sure if he wants to. And then he stops someplace, for no particular reason, until the immutable part of him that tells him he should be wandering pulls him away.
And all the while, his memories shift and fade. And every day he feels a different type of guilt about something he remembers different from yesterday.
Content warning: memory loss
After writing part 1 and 2 in quick succession, this prompt came around and so here’s what happened to the villain who ended the world. I wrote these as a person with pretty significant memory issues, the first part and this one are pretty much just me.
Originally posted on cohost on June 17th, 2024.
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Not because the end of the world wasn’t important. Important things were just as easy to forget. Everything was just as easy to forget, because forgetting happened and there was nothing he could do about it.
It all shifted about and faded, even if he tried to remember exactly as it was. He could wake up every day and tell himself the same story he told himself yesterday but thinking back to the moment, the senses changed; the time of day, the temperature, how many eyes were on him, what those people sounded like, how laboured his breath, the tone of his voice, the weight in his hands. It all changed.
And so did the words. He could tell himself the same story every day, but he couldn’t actually know or rely that those were the same words. First the meanings shifted, the connotations. They slipped about like the senses. And then they were misplaced.
With time, just like how he couldn’t remember when it happened—if there were people there, what he was doing, what he felt—he couldn’t remember the story right. He could repeat it every day and the words would still slip away from him. Everything did, all the time. And he was okay with that.
He had to be. He didn’t have any other choice. He had to be an amorphous, abstract, haphazard semblance of a person. He had to live day to day not remembering who he was, hoping there was some immutable part of him so that he didn’t have to apologize to yesterday’s him, and the day before, and all the days stretching back before then—that today’s him was betraying all those past versions of himself.
But he could hold onto the bare minimum. He knew he ended the world. He wasn’t so sure the world was better for it. It was impossible for him to remember every or even most days spent wandering this ended world to make any sort of judgement on “better”.
So he wanders, unsure of why, until he’s not sure if he wants to. And then he stops someplace, for no particular reason, until the immutable part of him that tells him he should be wandering pulls him away.
And all the while, his memories shift and fade. And every day he feels a different type of guilt about something he remembers different from yesterday.
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