Memory Dump | A flash fiction story
69 of 💯
When I look at the empty passenger seat on my side, I remember sitting there a couple of days ago, when the truck driver was still alive. I remember everything very clearly: the hot air of the desert barging in through the window, my short clothes to withstand the heat, and the dirty looks from the driver. I remember well, but I don’t want to.
I don’t want to remember his rough hand on my sweat-covered leg. I don’t want to remember jumping out of the truck in panic. I want to forget him on top of me, the sharp rock my hand found while I tried to claw myself free, and the blood — all that deep red blood, covering him, covering me.
I don’t want to remember his limp body on the side of the road. I just want to drive this damn truck and get to Argon. I want to forget I ever took this ride.
