Hello, all. I’m not sure how this works. I just want quick advice, and I need this to stay anonymous, so please don’t go spreading it. I am 54 years old, and I have been faking memory-related issues for the larger part of the last three decades. I want to apologize to anyone who actually suffers or knows someone who actually suffers from issues with memory and cognitive function. This was the only choice I had. I couldn’t forget what he did, but I have to pretend to.
I was 21 when I met him. We were young and in college. I was one of those ex-Christian guys who went wild with his newfound freedom. Entering my junior year and doing everything from drinking my liver into a raisin to spending entire weekends hallucinating. But I was functional, and I was happy. I worked or researched five-six days a week, sometimes starting at 8 or 9 am and not returning home until the next day, at one or two in the morning. Most of my money went into savings, but I splurged on drugs and food.
We met at a party. I’m introverted at best, but when I’m drunk, I love to talk to people. I approached him first; I was honest. I didn’t hold back, and we ended up sleeping together that same night.
Typing this out is jarring. Two years prior, I was only worried about church and my grades and my traditional parents. But there I was, having sex with strangers and turning my brain into mush and loving it.
Anyway, we were inseparable from that moment on. We did everything together. Our backgrounds were similar, and our values and sense of humor reflected that. We just got along so well. I don’t know how else to explain it. It wasn’t just the sex. In fact, after that night, sex wasn’t a part of our relationship at all. He was just one of those people that I clicked with. That I didn’t mind being around when I was high even though weed always made me self-conscious and paranoid. He was patient and understanding. Our connection was the only one I’d ever experienced like it. We were best friends, but we weren’t. We weren’t lovers, but maybe we could’ve been? I wanted him in my life forever, but I could’ve lived just fine without him. All he did was elevate me, my life, and the world around me. He took nothing from me. It was beautiful, and I still become breathless thinking about it. That connections like that exist.
We were 25 and out of college when it happened. One bad trip. I don’t even remember what we had been trying to take, but whatever we were given was 0% that and 100% everything else mixed together. Most of the trip I genuinely don’t remember. Thank God. But I saw what he did. He was so proud.
Blood-stains mean nothing to you when you’ve only seen them on TV. When the worst you’ve experienced is a piece of metal going through your finger, gore like what he showed me is incomprehensible. I still remember how swollen the bodies looked. The way they were piled on top of one another, some of them still moving, wriggling, struggling like maggots at the bottom of a bucket. There had to have been hundreds of them.
Who are they? I remember asking him. It was something we did. Deflected judgement. Ask as many questions as you want, but if you have nothing positive to say, it’s just better not to speak. Kept the relationship mess-free. Kept the connection deep.
Us. This was all he said.
It was at this moment that one of them looked upwards. One of those struggling, naked, half-decomposed bodies looked upwards, directly into the camera. It was me.
Blood moved down my thin, arched eyebrows in drops, like children going down a slide single-file. My bottom lip was swollen. Scabs covered my face, small divots like someone had begun to dig miniature graves into my skin. I, it, began pounding on the bodies it crawled upon. I will never forget the sound. Not quite skin on skin, but like I could hear the bones in its hands threatening to break through whatever was left of it with each hit. Its mouth was full of blood, thick and black and pouring through clenched teeth.
It just kept hitting them. It didn’t stop until they pulled him under. Long, blackened fingers hooked into the corners of its mouth, pushed straight through its eyes, pulling so tightly that I thought they might tear its face in half. The bodies continued wriggling with it now beneath them.
The rest of the night I don’t remember. We don’t talk about it. It was a bad trip, I tell him if he ever asks. I don’t remember anything.
But it’s the lingering eye contact he makes with me. The way my mouth twitches sometimes, with fear of him or the memory, I’m not quite sure. I think he might know. Has he always? We haven’t gotten high since. I’m afraid of being alone with him. Our friendship has never quite been the same. I don’t know what he showed me. I don’t know how he got all of those bodies to fit in that hole. I don’t know if he was the one to do it. Sometimes, I’m half-convinced that it really was a bad trip. But it’s the way he looks at me. Like he’s just waiting.
He asks about that night more often. It’s gotten to the point now, that I’ve begun claiming dementia or alzheimer’s. I have a list of lies, things I’ve “forgotten.” The name of his cat, my childhood home address, what I went to university for, my favorite books and movies, how to get around our small town. He’s been urging me to see a doctor. Feigning worry.
He knows that I know. He scares me. I want to leave, but I’m afraid. He doesn’t sleep. I’m getting older. I don’t think I could outrun him. I don’t know where I’d go. He’s the closest thing to family I have left. I’ve begun the process of getting my passport, but I’m worried he’ll find out and become angry. I have money saved, but I feel trapped. I feel like I’m running out of time. I hear him re-watching that video sometimes at night. Sometimes, just outside my bedroom door. Please help. Any advice is appreciated.