Flash Fiction: The Memory Market
Something a little different
If I’d went deeper into this, I would have tried to establish a larger modern urban fantasy world. For this one, I just touched on it. This is a new style for me, so please be kind.
Helheim raced along the cobbled streets, ignoring the neon signs offering all sorts of pills, potions, and magical wares. She had a destination in mind, one that sat tucked away from the busy shopping area. Given her current state, Helheim was thankful for the dim glow from the flickering gas lamps, as well as the bright neon, which made the blood covering her look like some trick of the light.
Just as she thought she has missed the alleyway she wanted, Helheim caught sight of a multi-colored glow emanating to her right. She peered down the ally and saw the stall, just as she remembered it. The vendor, an elder gent with a shaggy grey beard and clothing like that of a wizard glared at her. His piercing blue eyes seem to see right through Helheim, and he beckoned her closer, the faintest hint of a smile touching the corners of his mouth.
With one last look up and down the busy throughfare, Helheim stepped into the alley and a void that sucked up all sound from outside. She moved slowly, entranced by the swirling array of colors dancing within the jars laid out on the stall.
“You seek a new memory, perhaps?” the old man asked.
“I…”
“The blood stains you, but all can be washed away.” The vendor waved his hands in the air as he spoke, as though conducting a silent orchestra.
“I want to forget everything. Please help me.”
The old man tilted his head, his eyes changing color with the movement. Perhaps it was the light from inside the jars, or perhaps something else Helheim didn’t understand. “You must give before you take.”
“I have no money. I was thinking…”
The faint smile became a full grin. “Karsten has no need for money. I require a trade.”
“No one would want my memories.” Helheim said.
“You would be surprised, but the thing is…” the old man leaned in close, the scent of cloves seeping from his wrinkled skin, “…the memories choose you.”
Helheim stared at the row of jars and began to see what appeared to be bioluminescent spirits moving inside. They came and went in quick flashes, but she felt herself drawn to one jar in particular. The essence within shone a ruby red, and as Helheim watched, the jar began to tremble.”
“You have been chosen,” Karsten said, his voice little more than a whisper. “Give me your arm.”
Pausing for a moment, Helheim watched as the movements of the jar became more frantic. Knowing she could not live the rest of her life remembering the murder, she held out her arm. Karsten moved quickly, inserting a needle attached to thin rubber hose into her vein. The hose was attached to an empty jar, but as Helheim watched, black smoke began to swirl within the space.
“This will feel…strange,” Karsten said, as he inserted a second needle, this one attached to the now violently shaking jar.
Eyes rolling back in her head, Helheim began to swoon, the dark alleyway spinning wildly. She thought of a visit to the fait with her father when she was young, but as soon as the memory popped into her head, it was gone, replaced by something new, something unrecognizable.
Helheim screamed as the new memories flooded in, the last of which threw her head backward, neck cracking under the strain. A jolt of pain rattled around in her skull, like bugs trapped in a killing jar. When it finally stopped, a single word repeated inside her head like a mantra screamed at full volume.
MURDERER.
Something wet began to run down her forehead, and as Helheim raised her hand to touch the liquid, she noticed that the blood on her hand was gone…and then the pain returned, full blast. Before she fell for the last time, Helheim felt a pair of ragged bullet holes in her forehead.
Karsten moved out from behind the stall and looked down at his dead customer. “The memory chose you; it chose revenge.”