Nan Long
English Leach
May 2010
Memories
The man could see the house from a distance. It was shining in the moonlight, standing amongst the black shells of burnt buildings. It was a wholesome, welcome sight. The paint looked the standard off-white on the side he could see, a beacon of remembrance. It reminded him of a different life of his, a life of dull intelligence and talking walls. It reminded him of Millie.
He was far away, by a river that used to run by the edge of the town. He stood on the familiar bank, watching the house. If he remembered correctly, the house sat on his old street. Watching it reminded him of his walks home, of the moon, of billboards and blurs.
It started to rain lightly. The man stood on the bank for a long time, staring through the ruins at this one remaining memory. He stood until the sun started to rise behind him, illuminating the side of the house. The light was reflecting off the morning dew, dancing like fire through the air. Fire. The word brought back many memories. They reminded him of friends lost, friends killed. Reminding him of Beatty.
The man moved. He walked slowly, lost in half-forgotten memories. His steps were careful, graceful, the steps of a visitor in a temple. He walked through shells that were once offices, over holes that were once foundations. He could remember every building, every sidewalk. It reminded him of civilization and technology. It reminded him of the Hound.
The man shook his head, chasing away a bitter memory.
After more walking, the man reached the house. He was soaked through with rain, but didn't seem to notice. He stroked the paint, leaving trails in the ash that coated the house. He looked at it sadly, remembering the pristine shine that he had seen from afar. He leaned against the house, not caring that the ash was sticking to him, and sighed. He could remember. He was reminded of his house, of his possessions. He was reminded of the books.
Seven o'clock, time to get up, time to get up, seven o'clock! A voice, from inside the house. The man stiffened, listening. He could tell the voice was computerized, he had heard similar voices a majority of his life. The man started looking at the top of the house, looking for a hole. He wanted to be inside. To remember what a house felt like, to see what daily life used to be.
He knew he couldn't get in the front door, so the man walked around the house, searching for a way to the roof. He climbed a window, being surprisingly agile, and clawed his way up the wet roof. He sat on the top, and looked in a hole below him. The hole was large, a portion of the roof gone. He could see most of the house. It reminded him of his old home, from a far away life.
He watched as eggs and bacon were prepared by the house and set neatly on the counter. He watched as the mice cleaned up all the dust that had fallen in. The man watched, every movement reminding him of his friends, of his rebellion, of his life before books.
Halfway through the day, the man climbed down. He landed heavily on the ground, stiff. He started to walk around the house, paying attention to the walls for the first time. He stopped as he turned the corner of the house. There, outlined in black, was the silhouette of woman, bent to pick flowers. A few feet away from her was a man mowing. He stopped and stared. The finally shook his head and walked by, noticing an umbrella on the front porch. He walked past the silhouette, remembering all the people in his life.
He turned another corner and stopped again. There was another paint silhouette; this one was of a child, his hands thrown up after throwing a ball. The ball was in the air, heading towards another silhouette of a different child. This shook the man. He stood there longer, tears coming to his eyes. He was remembering all the children, how much fun they were, how caring they could be. He cursed the Government.
The man could take no more. He turned back to the window and climbed to the roof, sliding on the wet shingles. He waited and watched the house for the rest of the day, sitting lost in thought. He was on the roof until the sun went down. He watched a dog enter and die, full of pity for the starving creature. He was reminded of the death of his friends. He was reminded of the Salamander.
Soon it was dark. The man started as the house's voice spoke again. "Ms. McClellan," it said. "What poem would you like tonight?" He was confused; houses didn't usually ask that. Books and poems were banned, illegal by the government. He listened as the house read the poem, tears again coming to his eyes. What was the name the house had said? McClellan. The name sounded familiar to the man, until suddenly, he remembered. The one who changed him, the one who gave him a new life. He was reminded of strange talks and company. He was reminded of Clarisse McClellan.
He cried for her. For her house, her dog, her family. He cried for all things lost, all things unknown. And then he stopped. He had a light in his eyes. He looked at the house, the reminder of many things. He made a decision, a decision to finish his memories. The man went to a blackened tree near the house. It was brittle and broke easily under his weight, crashing down through the house into the kitchen. Soon the house was on fire.
The man watched the flame, his mind empty. He was sick of remembering, of the bitterness and heartache. He watched until the house was consumed with fire, then he turned and walked away.
As he walked, he could hear voices in the wind whispering, "We are your memories, Montag, your memories. You will never forget."