I don't remember happiness.

I don't remember much, but of the little I do happiness isn't there.

I don't remember sorrow either.

All I can remember is guilt, and regret, as if I'd done something so terrible that I'd hidden inside myself, forgotten much of who I was, and what I was.

Maybe that's a good thing.

What had I done? I don't know. When I try to remember I can just see a face, or recall a name, and than it's gone, slid away like a butterflies' wing. Translucent, and not entirely real.

I am a shadow in full sunlight. Am I a real person, or just a memory myself? Am I even human?

My memory lessens each day.

Did I have a name once? Was I a person? Did I laugh, and joke, and have friends, and read books, and play games?

All I know is silence, and guilt, and the road I must walk, never stopping.

Is this happening in my head? What is real? I feel no cold, nor warmth, nor hunger. I have no thirst save the thirst for memory, to remember what I have done, for how can I know who I am without knowing what I am.

Sometimes I meet people on this road, going the other way, but I do not know them, and I pass on.

Maybe if I see someone I used to know I will not recognize them, and none of this will matter. Maybe I passed them long ago, me not knowing who they are, and them keeping away from me.

Maybe they died long ago.

Sometimes I come to a cross-road, but I do not worry about where I am going. All ways seem the same to me, and I do not care about what awaits me. I keep away from cities and homes.

I have no home.

I am the betrayer, and this is my fate.