The woman’s voice was strikingly sweet, in a way that made Angela want something strong to wash it down. It was her first visit to The Memorist, and she hoped it would be her last.
“Call me Dahlia,” The Memorist instructed. She looked tired; exhausted even. It was an exhausting thing she did for people, taking on their memories.
“How will this work?” Angela asked.
“First, you’ll read and sign the contract. Then, the tattoo, as evidence that you’ve left a memory behind. In case you ever want to come back for it.”
Dahlia nodded sympathetically. “Nonetheless,” she went on. “Lastly, the Passing. We’ll hold hands and you’ll think about this event for the last time, so that I can take it into my mind for safe keeping.”
The act of Passing was swift and dizzying. Angela hated to recall all the details, but Dahlia experienced them as overwhelming bursts of emotions and colours and smells. So many smells. When it was over, she looked faint.
“Miss?” Angela tried to offer her help but was too out of sorts. She knew where she was, and why she was there, but she was in a fog.
“I’ll be fine. Go.”
Angela rose to her unsteady feet and stared down at the infinity symbol branded against her wrist. It was over – whatever it was.
Word Count: 225
© Shyla Fairfax-Owen