Memories In Memories: The House Of Memories

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The House of Memories

Memories are like bullets—coming in all shapes and sizes and unknown impacts.

Some are blanks, only hitting the sky as fine powder. Others whiz by, only spooking you.

But then there are the select few, that even when your armor is on, even if you are protected

by walls of steel, will find a way to tear you open and leave you in pieces. These bullets are

the ones that no matter how much time passes, no matter what takes place in the interim,

hit you deep in the bone, rock your whole structure—the memories that remain with you

forever.

So, you can only be a blind soldier when entering the house of memories. Every

memory—the fragments, the strings, the bursts—will be thrown at you. All you can do

before going out onto the field is brace yourself in your armor and helmet. You, soldier,

have created these memories, but not even the veterans of the House can accurately recall

the force of their memory’s bullets.

You arrive at a winding staircase—smooth mahogany and cold to the touch. As you

begin to descend, time slows and quickens. The stairs themselves change: one moment, the

too tight bricks of your first house, next the stained, jam-filled carpet of your lower school.

Your feet meet the cracked cobble stone walkway of Shanghai, China and then the rough

planks of your grandparent’s home.

An etched sign in neat, small letters reads: This is not a museum. You will not find

plaques with descriptions interpreting pictures; you will not be given answers. This is a house

filled with rooms, and it’s up to you to discover its heart.

The first door comes into view. It looks harmless—paint chipped frame and all. You

wiggle the knob and put your whole weight on the wood before it...

... middle of paper ...

...ss shatters.

You slam the door shut to the room only filled with shards of glass, and your feet are

already at the top of the stairs. And you’re out of the house, out of the warzone. The first

thing you want to do is sit in on one of Grandpa’s salt and pepper interrogations. The two of

you together will be blind soldiers. And whenever Mama goes looking for you, all she will

see are two pairs of gleaming eyes: one broken with the sharp edges of stars and sky and the

other with shards of glass. Mama will know to leave.

There is a girl running through our hallway with bullet holes through her shirt and fire

beginning to eat its way towards her scalp. But worse than the missing arm and scorched

hair, she has a house, but not a home, a chocolate ganache cake, but not a Carvel, a grandpa

under a table, instead of on a chair, and a broken reflection.

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