“An eidetic memory is rare. Most people don’t remember things in as much detail as you seem to. The other witnesses aren’t holding out. That’s literally as much as they remember. Your memory is special, and it can be a big help to our case.”
An unpleasant shiver traveled up my spine and I pulled my hand away from him. “No. I’m not... There’s nothing weird about me. I’m the same as everyone else.”
Even as I tried to argue, I knew I was wrong. Suddenly, so many things made sense. My therapists always had a strange fixation on my memories. I thought it was just part of the healing process, helping me come to terms with my abuse. Yet, once I thought about it, they always seemed bewildered when I recalled events. Like they weren’t sure what to believe when I described things with such detail.
In books and movies, I often heard characters talk about memories fading with time.
I’d thought that was a metaphorical way of describing something as old, but was it true?
Did people really forget details over time?
I glanced around at the other witnesses, including Clay.
Would they all eventually forget about what they’d been through?
Would they someday wake up without the weight of so many unwanted memories?
Would their past eventually become no more than a bad dream?
It wasn’t fair. I recalled every detail of what the bell ringers had done to me with the same clarity as the moment they happened, and I had no doubt that years from now, my memories would still be just as clear. I could never escape it the same way everyone else could.
Kitt didn’t try to touch me again, but he did move so that he was directly in my line of sight again. I couldn’t look away, even if I wanted to.
“I’m sure this is a lot to take in,” he said, his voice both comforting and matter of fact. “But this will really help our case. Do you remember any names of the bell ringers or your clients?”
Swallowing heavy to keep my nerves under control, I shook my head. “No. They never gave any names. But I remember all their faces.”
“Well, then, if you agree, I’d like you to sit down with a sketch artist. Based on your description alone, I think I already know the identity of one of your clients, but we need to be certain. The more pictures you can give us the better.”
What else could I do?
I’d come there to help with the case in the hope that the bell ringers would finally be stopped. I couldn’t turn back now.
Although my head was still spinning with the revelation that my brain apparently worked differently than everyone else, I nodded my agreement.
CHAPTER 7
Jordy
Half-past midnight,I paced back and forth in my cottage. Despite being a standalone structure, the cottage was only about the size of an average hotel room, so there wasn’t much space to move around.
It had taken three days for Kitt and Sebastian to get a hold of a trustworthy sketch artist. The artist couldn’t come in person, for obvious reasons, so I’d had to talk to them over a videoconference. All day sitting in front of a screen, describing people from my memory with as much detail as possible.
One by one, the abusers of my past were brought to life on paper. I knew none of their names, but seeing their images in front of me once again made them feel more real than they had in years.
After an entire day of work, we’d come up with about two dozen pictures. Many more remained in my head, but the lawyer and investigators working on the case assured me this was enough for now. They would need some time to try and identify the people I’d described.
The break was appreciated, but now in the middle of the night it left me feeling unsettled in my own skin. I was used to reliving old memories in therapy, but it had been a while since I’d had to think about so many at once. Normally, I tried to keep past memories locked away in the back of my mind as much as possible, but now it felt like they’d been let loose inside my brain all at once.
I felt... dirty.
The memories clung like mud, and even after washing my hands multiple times, I could still feel the filth clinging under my fingernails.
The sound of my footfalls fell silent as I came to a stop in front of the cottage’s window. The view through the glass had a perfect view of the bunker’s pool. At such a late hour, most of the lights in the safe house were off, leaving the underground environment wrapped in faux midnight. In the painted sky, fake stars and an artificial moon cast their light over the plastic lawn.
Fuck it.
Who cared if it was the middle of the night?
