“Yes,” he said. “I’ve seen things, strange things…” his voice fell away as his eyes glazed over.
I stood, passed my hand before his face a few times—such empty eyes—and said, “Okay, I’m off.” Doubt he could hear me; doubt he could see me. He was lost again, caught like a bit of jetsam in the madness of a whirlpool, reliving the horror of what he’d seen, what we’d all seen. It hit him the worst of us three. He couldn’t accept it, so he kept forgetting it, remembering and forgetting again and again. That’s my theory, anyway.
Tale Told 