~ Prologue ~

  A perfect memory is supposed to be a gift.

  I remember my mother’s face. The way she looked at me – relieved and, more importantly, happy. My father was more reserved. He was a tough guy brought up in an orthodox household. Acting on emotions wasn’t his forte. My sister would peer down at me when I was in my cradle. She would speak words of encouragement and love. Sometimes she would pinch my cheeks when no one was looking.

  I also remember the loud noises when my village was bombed into oblivion. The whistle of artillery flying overhead was the most terrifying sound I’d heard. No one knew if it’d keep flying onward or drop on their heads. Mother stayed strong throughout, believing the world would intervene before our village was overrun. My sister didn’t smile as much, but she always looked out for me.

  A few years into the war, my father was drafted. Only a jar of ashes came back. They said there were too many pieces of him to put back together, so they cremated him then and there. Casualties of a long and difficult war, they said.

  Then the shelter got bombed. Mother was among the first casualties. She’d gone to get some rations. That’s when the explosion shook the shelter and almost buried all of us. Then came the soldiers, raining bullets on everyone and everything that moved. I remember watching the neighbouring uncle get cut in half, held together by whatever was left of his intestines.

  My sister took me and fled. I didn’t know where we were going. I doubt my sister knew either. We just ran away from the explosions and, eventually, got separated in the ensuing chaos.

  So, tell me - is perfect memory still a gift? You’ll never forget. The good times and the bad - you remember them all. If you’re like me, you’d remember the bad times more than the good ones. If whistling artillery and bullets are all you had for your childhood, you bet your memories are going to be as messed up as mine.

  I believe I was born to suffer.

  The easiest answer would be Karma. Maybe I tortured people in my past life. Maybe I committed genocide. Maybe I kicked some puppies down the stairs while the Puppy-Gods were watching. I had to be guilty of something. How else would you explain the shithole that is my life? When my village burned, we were converted to statistics – civilian casualties of war. All the people I knew were buried six feet deep in a mass grave somewhere. I’m sure if I dig deep enough, I’ll find my dead mother.

  Still, nothing has changed. One of the perks of having a good memory is that I still remember each and every motherfucker who rained terror that day. I’m sure they had their own reasons or were following orders from someone higher-up, but what do I care? There’s a list of people I must kill - some quickly and some as painfully as possible.

  After I’m done, I’ll return to my village with my sister and build a home on that forsaken place which took everything away from us. A closure, of sorts, to this loop of my life. Perhaps that is my destiny.

  After that, who knows?

  ~*~*~*~

  Author's note:

  1. I have no editors, so any mistakes here are all mine.

  2. I hope you enjoyed a glimpse into the story I'm creating. Any comment/feedback is appreciated.

  3. This is a pilot project with the tentative goal of 1-2 chapters per week, with emphasis on the word 'tentative' so please be patient if the next chapter is delayed. Messaging me won't make the chapter upload any quicker.

  Thanks for reading.