Didn’t care.
He capped it.
Labeled it: “Doesn’t matter.”
Andplaced it gently with the rest.
∞∞∞
He didn’t sleep.
Just sat there in the half-light of morning, the sky outside his narrow window dull and gray, like the color had been drained from the world overnight.
The crate waited beside his bed, rows of neatly labeled vials nestled in straw. He picked one up.“First time.”He uncorked it and drank.
It was cold going down. Thicker than it should’ve been. Not viscous, just… heavy. The effect was subtle. Not a shudder, not a scream. But something… peeled. He blinked. Could still feel the tension in his jaw. But couldn’t remember why.
He set the vial on the empty bookshelf. Right side up. Label facing forward. Then reached for the next. Down. Gone. Placed.
“Failed Attempt 1.”Gone.
“15 minutes of revenge.”Gone.
One by one, he drank them.
One by one, they left.
There was no order now. No logic. His hands moved before his eyes could focus. Some labels blurred. Others he didn’t bother to read. They were all echoes now. Each vial took less time to finish. Each memory vanished with less protest.
Soon, the rhythm was steady.
Open.
Drink.
Place.
Repeat.
The bookshelf filled like a row of gravestones, each one a marker for something he no longer remembered. Something he no longerwas.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t cry. Didn’t pause. He drank until the crate was empty. Until his gut ached. Until the world felt… clean.
He sat back, staring at the shelf. They gleamed in the pale light, glass bones in tidy rows.
A mausoleum of his own making.
His pulse was steady. Too steady. He could still move, still breathe, stillfunction. But something was missing. He wasn’t sure what. Couldn’t remember.
And that, finally, felt right.
He wasn’t Symond anymore.
He was the act of forgetting.
He was the hand, the knife, and the severance.
He was silence.
