Mnemonicide
Angie holds the gun while you tie a humiliating memory to the chair.
You bind his hands behind the wooden back, fasten his ankles to the chair legs, the coarse rope scratching your fingers. An August breeze flows through the open garage door and tickles the sweat on the back of your neck. The memory’s name is Robert. He stares at you with wide, watery eyes, terrified Angie will shoot him if he makes a sound. Dirt and grime streak his crooked tie and tailored suit. Blood trickles down his face from a gash where his head cracked against the hood of your trunk. His face is your humiliation, his eyes witnesses to your shame, his existence a lifeline for a cold shadow from your past, a distant moment you want to erase.
With the memory secured, you step outside and collect the pad
