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The Journals of Raymond Brooks 85
mean, life’s painful enough, and surely there are memories
I can live without. But on the other hand, my life, with all its

blissful events and its suffering, has made me who I am today.
So my answer is, that I’d rather be the man I am today than live
a life of blissful ignorance,” he answered. I stared at him quietly,
somewhat disappointed.
“I’m sorry, boyo, I didn’t mean to make you sad. I’m sure your
memories will come back eventually.” He misinterpreted my
sadness.
“I don’t know if I want them to,” I replied, frustrated with
myself.

“How so?” He asked as he served us breakfast, keeping his
composed manner.
“Because I have this feeling deep inside my heart that my
life has been quite hard, and every time I close my eyes, I see
this place — ‘hell’ as you called it. So maybe I don’t want my
memories back,” I answered.
“What about fond memories. Don’t you think you had any

of those? Family? Friends? Maybe a special lady-friend for a
young man like you? Don’t you think you had any of those?”
I tried to think hard, to see if any bells started to ring in my
mind. Family: not even an echo there; complete nothing —
couldn’t remember any family. Friends: even more dark — the
feeling was like the absence of anything, so I knew for a fact
that I had no friends. When I tried to think back to see if there
was any special girl in my life, I did recall a face. It appeared as
a blurred white visage, surrounded by the dark of nothingness,

her blond hair shining like the sun. But I couldn’t see her facial
features; couldn’t make out her eyes.
“There was a special girl in my life, I fink,” I said after a long
pause, spent in contemplation.