Remembering Murder, Forgetting Mom
Beauregard’s brain was a cunning curator, its filing system as capricious as a distracted librarian. Murder, She Wrote: stored with crystalline precision. Wi-Fi password: obliterated without mercy.
He’d catch himself mid-conversation, realizing he could trace Angela Lansbury’s fictional detective work episode by episode, yet his neighbor’s name slipped away like water through cupped hands. Yuval Noah Harari might theorize about memory’s narrative purpose, but Beauregard’s mind seemed engineered for an altogether different mission: collecting the most gloriously useless fragments of human experience.
Yesterday was his mother’s birthday. He knew this not through remembrance, but through the missed call log and the quiet accusation of his phone’s dark screen. Another year dissolved, another connection frayed by his brain’s perverse archival instincts.
RAR
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