Prompt: Wish You Were Here
His memory was going, that was the problem; not that he had expected to remember names to faces from hundreds of years ago, but he was quite sure he’d coiled this rope this morning. Perhaps the cats had gotten to it.
In all seriousness, James thought, he was having trouble remembering much of the last decade, let alone the century. For all he looked twenty-eight, his mind seemed hell bent to destroy his reliance on his previously remarkable memory, and his speed of thought altogether; he was a quicker wit, once, he knew; though perhaps he could blame Jack, who could still make him feel dizzy in an argument.
What he needed, he thought, was a reminder. Some way to reinforce who he had been, lest he fall from being James Norrington, or even just James. Not a memory of Before, no; but the times so soon after, of days full of smoke and gunpowder and hard work to occupy him, and Jack, still, both of them still awkward with each other, more prone to voice aloud their thoughts; in the days when friends sill walked the earth. And though he tried to forget most of Before, he did hang onto his youth as he could; two good friends, brothers, long dead but instrumental to his life; marks on his body that would see he never forgot them. That, he would remember; the times so shortly Before, he forgot with purpose. He did not desire to remember The Woman’s name, nor The Boy’s. There were other things, more marks on skin, whose cause he wiped from his memory, choosing to never know. He locked the pain away, and instead remembered other things. When had he first met Jack? What of his friends? Scarce memories of his father and mother, of his real brothers., these were the things James clutched at, refusing to let the dregs of memories slip through his fingers.
James sighed, and decided he was trying too hard; he could not force himself to remember that which he had so long ago forgotten. Life was well enough without digging up faint bits of his past. After all, what was done was done, and there was no use dwelling upon what had once been. He reflected upon the fact that he had, at least, found the waffle iron, which had been missing for months, and decided to be quite proud of himself.
In all seriousness, James thought, he was having trouble remembering much of the last decade, let alone the century. For all he looked twenty-eight, his mind seemed hell bent to destroy his reliance on his previously remarkable memory, and his speed of thought altogether; he was a quicker wit, once, he knew; though perhaps he could blame Jack, who could still make him feel dizzy in an argument.
What he needed, he thought, was a reminder. Some way to reinforce who he had been, lest he fall from being James Norrington, or even just James. Not a memory of Before, no; but the times so soon after, of days full of smoke and gunpowder and hard work to occupy him, and Jack, still, both of them still awkward with each other, more prone to voice aloud their thoughts; in the days when friends sill walked the earth. And though he tried to forget most of Before, he did hang onto his youth as he could; two good friends, brothers, long dead but instrumental to his life; marks on his body that would see he never forgot them. That, he would remember; the times so shortly Before, he forgot with purpose. He did not desire to remember The Woman’s name, nor The Boy’s. There were other things, more marks on skin, whose cause he wiped from his memory, choosing to never know. He locked the pain away, and instead remembered other things. When had he first met Jack? What of his friends? Scarce memories of his father and mother, of his real brothers., these were the things James clutched at, refusing to let the dregs of memories slip through his fingers.
James sighed, and decided he was trying too hard; he could not force himself to remember that which he had so long ago forgotten. Life was well enough without digging up faint bits of his past. After all, what was done was done, and there was no use dwelling upon what had once been. He reflected upon the fact that he had, at least, found the waffle iron, which had been missing for months, and decided to be quite proud of himself.