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84 Amit Bobrov
flesh and spilled blood. I strained with all my might to open
my eyes, and flee this place which I knew by name now. ‘Hell,’

Raymond called it, and the name fit perfectly.
My eyes shot open and I bounced from my bed, shaking
uncontrollably, soaked in cold sweat. It was the middle of the
night now — I judged by the darkness outside and the sound
of the Raymond’s snoring. I lay back in bed as soon as my
surroundings became familiar again, not wishing to disturb
my host’s rest. Mutely, I stared at the ceiling until the light of
day came, my mind deep in conflicting thoughts. A part of me
wanted to remember who I was and what had brought me to

this place. Another part wanted to forget, to start afresh — as
far as I could go from the Hell I had been trapped in before I met
my present host.
“Raymond,” I began, come morning.
“Aye, boyo,” he answered as he cooked us breakfast.
“If you were given a choice as to whether or not to have
memories, though you know deep inside that most of them are

unpleasant, or to start afresh as a different person, which would
you choose?” I asked, as clearly as I could pose this question
that was troubling me so much.
“Well … that’s quite a deep philosophical question, coming
from someone so young. I don’t think I can give you a simple
answer,” he replied. I lowered my eyes and clenched my teeth
in disappointment.
“Will you give me a complicated answer, then?” I asked,
cheering up a bit and allowing myself to be bold.

“Ye sure seem passionate about an answer,” he replied in a
pseudo-casual manner.
“Yes, I am,” I replied, hoping to press him further for an answer.
“Well, to be a new man, to start over, sure has its charm. I