remember

[Wonder]

Here he was, forty-three.

Many days he forgot. Most days even.

It was so easy to keep moving on without remembering any of it. Twenty-six years was a long time and Peri had lived many lifetimes since then. But every so often, something would catch him by surprise. It wasn't a memory. As terrible and uncouth as it may be to say, the nightmares did disappear after a time. They did. There were years where he would try and stay awake to avoid the dreams, chain-smoking cigarettes and snorting Adderall just to keep from falling asleep. But with time came forgiveness, self-forgiveness, and through that came process. There was therapy, there were friends. After a time the reclusion stops. The neighborhood is no longer an upgrade as much as a way of life, and the Games no longer come into play. It had been a long time since the Games had come into play.

It wasn't a memory that caught him by surprise in those moments, it was the lack thereof.

Every so often, in quick reflection, he wouldn't remember a name. Long lost were the names of kids he'd never interacted with but the important ones. The kid from nine, my district partner, in quick terms were not their names but simply washed down characteristics. Remained fixed in his mind and heart were Aria, the girl he'd risked his life and reputation as a career for, (as if that ever mattered,) and her brother, Bran - he stayed too. His legacy remained intertwined with Aria's. They both lived on. But every so often, in quick reflection, for just that moment, the rest disappeared.

Peri would pull up a chair, crumble his elbows to his knees, drift two weary thumbs around his unkempt cheeks, and began to direct himself in the act of remembering. As if that were the only deliberate action he could take in that very moment. The boy from nine, the boy who kept us alive, the boy with the clock. The list of characteristics would continue as if they passed. He died at the end, we betrayed him, he loved the girl, his name was... Wesley? No. Wednesdae. Wednesdae. If someone dies the last time another person said your name, today would not be the day.

Here, at forty-three, these were the days that Peridot Myler feared the most.

And every so often when these days came around, he went out of his way to poke around. He would watch the highlight reels, read the articles covering the year - 62. Sixty-two, they were on eighty-eight now. That was lifetimes ago. Seven years passed his games and he no longer recognized the victors. But if that was all Peridot had to do, every so often, was sit down and remember. Well? There were worse punishments for lesser sins.

So he remembered.