Tabula Rasa

It wasn’t this way when I left. Marion? Marion? Yes, honey. Sorry. It’s just. I don’t remember leaving these trousers. Marion? Wait a second, I’m coming. What is it? Sorry, I-, I’m sorry. I don’t think these are mine. I don’t remember them. Sweetheart. I know, I’m sorry. Sweetheart, I promise I’ve not touched a thing. Okay, sorry. Okay. I’ll be normal again soon. I’m sorry. It’s alright. I’ll finish making tea, okay? Okay. We pan across a painfully stark room. Some would describe it as minimal. We are going to describe it as bleak. It sets a more realistic tone. Having panned the room, we know what there is. We will never truly know what there is not. What has been lost. What has been forgotten. We might never know if our narrator is reliable, if his memory is solid, or if he was ever lucid. Perhaps he is not. We observe his face. We witness a few different streams float along his features. Confusion. Bewilderment. Something that borders betrayal. Visions of battle? Memories of one type of ward or another? Are you comfortable not knowing? Of filling in the blanks? How much do I need to tell you?