What's the first thing you remember?

You don't.

You don't remember any of it really. Not because you don't want to, it isn't like that. It's because it isn't you. So you can't remember any of it, it just isn't logical. And you remember being logical once, even if was a way that'd been all your own. And maybe it wasn't a first memory, but it was one of them.

You don't remember the loud, howling wind in your ears that left your feet aching to run for the cellar and safety. Or the twin suns, beating down so bright and blinding. Walking and touching and learning --- so curious and so much even as you walked blinding into town, eyes wide open and so blind all at once.

It's not your memories. Because it isn't you.

You don't remember being taken, captured. Stone walls and harder hands. Hands that collar and hit and hurt and test and...hurt. It hurts but you don't remember it. You don't. You see the pictures, the bruises. Hear the sounds and the silence. But you don't remember the hurt. You just -- you can't.

It's not your memories. Because it isn't you.

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