The Lost and the Broken

A certain sense of weirdness

Where is it?

My attic held so many stories. So many secrets. One in every corner but for all of that, all this wonder I couldn't find that book.

Why is it when you're looking for something you suddenly remember every time you had it? Ah yes, all the wonderful memories come flooding back. Cue that wry smile again.

That fucking book...fuck it. It's important but no matter, we'll come back to that later.

My attic worked in a kind of panoramic sense: so, stood in the middle it's not so big but there's all these little nooks and crannies...that's where it's all hidden. You just have to look.

Anyway, it's just wood. Typical, old wood floors, high ceilings. Just a few wardrobes, some boxes. Not been touched in years.

My mother was the last person up here. That's the last I remember anyway.

The memories...and there it is. No, not the book. The chest.

A grand old chest sat in the back of the room. Now when I say old, this thing predates that shit. This is pirate-crap...just so you know. The times we'd had when we were kids...

"You're the pirate!", a young voice shouted.

"I'm ALWAYS the pirate"

"Well, that's who you are. You can't change that."

Twelve years old and already destined for this.

Just once I'd like to be the hero.