The Memory Vault

Reads: 83  | Likes: 3  | Shelves: 1  | Comments: 6

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: May 31, 2018

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Submitted: May 31, 2018

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The Memory Vault

Do you have one inside your head? A secure vault that no one can get in to, to tamper with. The only one with any access to it is yourself, and even then it seems that there are a lot of areas that are out of bounds. Access denied! Who knows just what they contain any more because you surely don’t.

Sorted, stored nice and neatly inside of little vials and bottles are memories. Some are quite pretty, while others are dark grey, stormy or even black. I have my own filing system for them, just as you have probably developed your own unique arrangement.

The inside of the vault is lined with shelves on which these memory containers are arranged. I had believed the shelves to be firm, sturdy, up to the task. They’d last long enough to do the job they were meant to do.

I’m making an unplanned trip to the vault today, unlocking the door into the memory chamber that is, when you think of it, what makes me ‘me’. On the rare occasions that I visit, i do so just to browse, have a look through this, a peek at that. Not today, though. Today’s visit is going to be very different.

At the door I pause and take a deep breathe before going inside, me and my sledgehammer. This is a big hefty piece of equipment, hard for me to lift, but built to cause maximum damage. Today I will destroy this place and everything inside of it. Nothing will escape intact.

The shelves were rotten, contaminated. Every single thing is ruined, tainted, turned sour. There is no decontaminant available; the only option is annihilation.

Firmly gripping the handle, I lift up the sledge-hammer and swing, catching as many bottles and vials as can with it. Then again and again. I won’t pause until everything has been reduced to splinters and shards, until those shelves have been pulverised to dust. Every single memory stored there, gets loose, takes flight until it dissipates in to nothingness.

Only when I am sure that there is not one single intact remnant left will I leave the vault, barricading it firmly. I don’t want any more stored memories that ultimately are nothing more than lies. The sledge-hammer swings against the closed door, smashing it, mangling it, ensuring that it will never ever open up again.

The only question is quite how much of ‘me’ remains.


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