Memory by Sugarcult

I shouldn't take him. I shouldn't have him. I shouldn't accept him. Not even when he was given to me so easily, right on a silver platter for me to take and keep and put away in my pocket, only to let him get destroyed moments later. But I did. And one of the things I'd learned was that you could never rewind your actions—you could regret them until you drove yourself insane, but nothing would change. Nothing productive would come out of it. So instead of wasting time wanting to go backwards, you might as well go forward and try to fix the damage.

And that was what I did. Or what I intended to do. We'd eventually fall apart anyway. What was the point in getting close to him—intimate with him—if it was all going to end up a broken memory anyway? Pointless. Nothing would come out of it, and therefore, nothing should go into it. He should forget about me, before I even become someone worth remembering. I would make him forget—I would irritate him to such a point that he wouldn't even want to remember me.

But it didn't work. It hadn't worked, and it wasn't working now. The more I pushed, the more he pulled. It was endless—and we were both stubborn. Ornery. Defensive. Unwilling to admit defeat. I wanted to go back so badly—so much. Back to a time when it felt like we could've become something—when I'd still been able to pretend we could've lasted together. I'd never been able to feel that way for long. And I knew I'd never be able to.

We weren't falling apart. We were growing closer. Closer and closer, and this wasn't supposed to have happened. We should have drifted farther apart. But that was fine. I could easily fix something like this. If we didn't fall apart, then I'd tear us apart. I'd done it before. It would be simple—so simple. And if I did it quick enough, it might even be painless—just a sharp sting, and then over. I couldn't oppose him—I couldn't even cause him pain, much less become his enemy. So how would I tear us apart? Even if I were to convince myself, that the sharp sting was all I'd feel, I knew that he wouldn't let me ignore how much he'd hurt.

I was losing time. Before I knew it, I wasn't waiting for the right moment to strike—to push us completely apart, and put a stake in between us to keep us at that distance—I was waiting for him to realize what I was planning and steal that stake from me so that I could never leave. I wanted him to stay, and I wanted him to want me to stay. I didn't care if he'd eventually forget me, or if my original intentions were coming undone…I'd be anything to him. As long as I was something, it didn't matter what it was.

And then…everything was traced back to that disaster. I finally did it—the stake went between us, and the walls were erected. All because of that one…mistake. That one occurrence. The spark that ignited the flames—the flames that erupted into a forest fire. I should've let go by then. But I hadn't. I'd been holding on to that period of time—when I was still trying to push him away, dancing away from his touch, and flitting around him so that he couldn't catch me. Even though it was a constantly exhausting game—I treasured every single memory.

Although…two wrongs never made a right, two negatives always equaled a positive. And maybe two disasters were needed to make the first one right. But whatever the cause or reason was, knowing that he was unconscious, knowing I was in his home land…knowing that I would have to face him once and for all…it was tearing at my heart. Yes, he'd severed his arm for me. Yes, he was a man that never regretted anything. But was I a man that would bow my head to that? And if not bow my head, at least…did I want it? Would I have it?

Would I have him?

Even now, I still haven't made the decision. I'm standing outside the door. Waiting. Waiting for when his princess calls me in. If anything, I hope that seeing her for the first time in ages will elate him enough so that he doesn't strike me the first chance he gets. Or give me that look. And…as I'm standing here…thinking…I can't help but remember…that when…that throughout the entire time when I'd still deluded myself into thinking that I could possibly make him forget about me—about us and what we were—I couldn't help but hope…

That even though he should forget about everything we were…

I hoped that I myself would still be a memory.


A/N: It's an old song, but it's a good one. 'Sides, it's been stuck in my head for a while.