Miles Stanton, the man who took too much, is dead. Will anyone mourn the loss of a hero they never wanted? He was a martyr through and through, but no one man could hold that much. In the end he wasn 't much more than a thief, he wasn 't quite the force of good he wanted to be. If he had managed to succeed and stuff all the negative emotions and experience of the human race into one being, trust me when I say that the result wouldn 't be anything spectacular. Memories are what make us. Without them we can hardly know ourselves. Some people may wish that they 'd forget certain parts of their past, but if they knew it was possible and saw what the alternative was I think they would change their minds. Miles had a gift, or at least what he …show more content…
I don 't know what to say to that. It isn 't every day that you meet someone who came straight from the funny farm. But had he? I look once again at the young man, there is a glint of genuine care in his eyes. "Alright I 'll play along" I say. "What do I need to do for you to work your magic." The young man immediately brightens. "Think about what is troubling you." He says. "Line up all the negative memories and emotions you can that have anything to do with how you are feeling. Now I can take those memories from you. You won 't have them anymore, your mind will be free from any worry or care related to them. All you have to do is touch my hand" I look from his face to his outstretched hand and can 't help but smile. If this is a scam at least the bastard is original. I wonder if it could work, if he could take away the memory of the doctor 's diagnosis, or maybe the fact that I had no family left that wanted anything to do with me. What would the rest of my life look like without that knowledge? Would I be happy? I grab onto the boy 's hand and the moment I do he smiles at me. The sound of the traffic going by …show more content…
*** This is the third time in as many months that I have been robbed. This store is my livelihood and my family relies on me to provide for them. I can 't do nothing anymore. The man in the black sweat shirt gives me an opening as the little punk places his gun on the counter with a worried look on his face. I wrap my hand around the textured grip and lift it. It is much heavier than it seems. I level it at the robber, the thief. The anger which writhes in the pit of my stomach says this is self defense. This is justified. This will make them think twice. I make sure the man in black isn 't too close. He has a horrified look on his face and reaches towards me. I squeeze the trigger and the gun jerks in my hand. I look away from the aftermath as the unshaven man grabs my arm. The