Eric Powell

A thing about him was that he always used those never-ending sentences,
No means no
means no
means yes
means no.

He was pulling out photos from a cardboard box in an empty house.
This was the new agenda of Eric, drawing a time-line of truth through his childhood.

Staring at the bruise wouldn't make it heal, he knew that.
But he needed to try.

He checked into a hotel with a bunch of stolen photos, matches and a mental surgical saw.

Scattered on the bed infront of him;
Exibit A, a smiling baby.
Exibit E, a blur forming just above him.
Give a little
to get a little
to give alittle.

At the hotel he outlines the basics for the memory rewrite.

On the back of his prom picture, EXIBIT T, he recognizes his handwriting.
It says, ”Best night ever. ”.

This is why he was here, he reminded himself, to edit the raw-material.
He stepped out on the balcony for air. He said to himself: Find new truth
in the old truth
in the new truth
in the old truth.

Back in the room he scanned the picture to his computer, made a note.
”I wasn't stupid, not knowing better”.

He opened the window and in the bathroom sink he burned the picture.

Looking at the ashes, he thought that this was easier than he thought it would be,
polarizing his youth.

The way the word ”slut” written on your chest dissolves in the mirror,
he desperately needed to know there was something else could reflect the way he was now.

He went back to the computer and sat down,
erasing was impossible, he knew that.
He just needed to change the words he used to describe it.

He grabbed another exibit and put it in the scanner.

The thing with photographs are that when they are taken you're never alone.

When there's a camera around, you never have the chance to wash away the blood running down your legs.

On the screen a scanned photograph of him sitting in the middle of the old living-room appeared.

He wrote,
”My life can start when this is over
my life can start when this is over
my life,
when this is over.”