Forgetting History

History forgets most things. It doesn’t remember the way you sit in your chair. It doesn’t remember the kiss your mom forget to give you before she left to work. It doesn’t remember all the times you fucked that asshole. No, history doesn’t remember that. It’s not written down in our information databases. It isn’t etched into stone tablets. 

History remembers the big things most vividly. Events are stars in the night: only the brightest can be seen. Some connect and form into constellations, but they don’t capture the entire picture.

Sure, there is a personal history. We are the result of memories. Time etches itself into our brains to make us who we are, but, like I said, what you may think is important is inconsequential to the vast and still incomplete history of humanity.

Few of us will get our biographies written down. Not many will learn about us in schools. I don’t desire such a thing. Notoriety. Fame. Glory. Those are all vain attempts at immortality. Even so, my task is a momentous one, and I will live on.

“Can you do it?” Greg Sendero eyes pleaded with me. He, too, is a man of history. As the Deputy Secretariat, much has been written about him. Pages upon pages. Yet this conversation will only be remembered by him and me.

In moments like these, I try to remember every little detail. My hair pulled tight, tugging my scalp. My starched uniform remains stiff even as I move. I look at the rivers and tributaries of the wrinkles on Sendero’s face. I take note of how his beard is uneven and scraggly. His suit is tailored and clean. I feel the warmth of his hand on top of mine. His palms are soft and fingers slender.

I sigh. “Yes.”

He smiles. His legacy will travel further with my future actions. He hopes for success, but people also live on in infamy. “Then, good luck, Madame–”

“No,” I say. Sendero looks disappointed. He thinks I’m destroying his legacy. I’ll correct him. And I’ll correct him on adding me to the record. “For this, I have no name.”

I have no wish to go down in history. Not for this.

A few days later, I was off to Pluto to look for Alexander Branch.


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