[ WP ] Armed with the ability to steal the happiest memories from anyone , you live the life of an addict , always needing another fix . Write your deathbed confession .

It happened years ago. I was only eight. 
 
 I was with my friend, Amy. She had soft brown hair that was always tied up into a ponytail. It's strange. I ca n't remember the details of her face or the color of her eyes, yet I can still remember the ponytail. 
 
 We were playing in the shack that laid in the forest behind her house. It was our secret. A flimsy wood thing with an old faded blue blanket to act as a tarp to keep the rain out. I spent most of my childhood in that shack. 
 
 Amy was telling me about her family. She was telling me about the Thanksgiving dinner she had with her relatives, about how boring it was. It was inbetween her rant about a particularly overbearing aunt when I noticed the heavy smell hanging in the air. It was the smell of freshly cooked meat. 
 
 Ghostly, indistinct voices surrounded me. They were n't those kinds of ghostly voices that you would hear in some sort of cheesy horror movie. The voices were n't malevolent, just out of focus, like they were coming from some deep, forlorn cavern. 
 
 There was something congenial about the distant utterances and whispers erupting around me that quieted any and all doubts that I had on their goodwill. Something that made me want to get closer to the source of it. Something warm and pleasing. 
 
 So I reached out. Grabbed it. 
 
 Amy froze in that moment. It was as if a demon had grabbed hold of her neck and tore the words right out of her. 
 
 It seemed like a dream at first. I was surrounded by people that loved me. Happy, laughing people with broad grins on their bright and sunny faces chattering away like they were all good friends. They were more than good friends, though. They were family. 
 
 It was such a delightful dream. The details were blurry, but the image was still intoxicatingly sweet. I wanted more. 
 
 Another memory surfaced almost as quickly as that one ended. I was at a birthday party, with a big strawberry cake in the middle of a table filled with good friends. The candle was formed in the shape of a big eight. I blew the candle out and everyone cheered. Someone, my mother, asked me what I wished for. 
 
 I smiled at her demurely. `` If I tell you, it wo n't come true.'' 
 
 The memory evaporated. This time I did n't wait for another to bubble to the surface. I reached under and pulled hard. It felt like ripping maggots out from under the skin of a rotting carcass. The memory wriggled in my hand. 
 
 It was my first day at school. Some part of me knew that this was n't actually my body. It was n't my memory. The clothes I was wearing were too nice to have belonged to me, but I wanted to believe. 
 
 The teacher called me up to the blackboard and asked me to write my name. I took the chalk in my fingers and dragged it on the board. It made a horrible screeching sound. The teacher glared daggers at me as the rest of the class laughed. After a while, I began laughing as well. 
 
 The memory faded once again. I took another one. 
 
 Another birthday. This time the candle was n't in any particular shape and there was more than one of them. Four candles sat on top of the strawberry cake, all of them standing as straight as uniformed soldiers on parade. Strawberry was my favorite flavour. There were n't as many people - 
 
 It popped. I reeled back from the shock, being shaken out of my stupor. Amy sat in the corner of the shack, with a slack jaw that drip saliva and dull, unfocused eyes. 
 
 I reached for another memory. Just one more. 
 
 She always sat alone at lunch and was always so quiet. Sometimes she came to school with bruises, sloppily hid with makeup. Her brown eyes, hidden with straight black hair always seemed to be on the verge of tears. Everyone thought she was a weirdo. 
 
 I stalked quietly over to her as she was sniffing inquisitively at some odd looking peas. I grinned. `` Hello!'' 
 
 When she reeled back, her long black hair fluttered lightly. Her eyes went wide. `` W-what? ``, she said. 
 
 She looked like a frightened bunny. Her nose even *twitched*. She could n't be all that bad. 
 
 `` My name is Amy! ``, I told her, giving her my best smile. `` What's your name?'' 
 
 When that memory disappeared, I found tears in my eyes. Amy was unresponsive. No matter what I did, she was immobile. She hardly even blinked. I do n't remember how long I stayed by her side. Someone eventually heard my frantic cries and discovered me shaking her limp body and yelling her name nonstop. *Amy! Amy! I'm sorry, Amy! Please come back, Amy! * 
 
 The prominent theory is that she suffered some sort of stroke which triggered a new and undiscovered neural disease, causing severe degradation of the brain. I visited her last month. She was an eight year old stuck in the body of someone in her thirties. She did n't remember me, just stared with those same dull eyes that I saw all those years ago. I found those eyes to be oddly castigating. Maybe she knew what I did. 
 
 I ended up taking the rest of her memories. I made her forget how to pump blood through her heart. 
 
 I am sorry, Amy. We should have never been friends. 
 
 
 
 
 

