Memory of Another

The attorney forces the gun onto the desk of the witness stand, the clack of wooden desk echoes throughout the expansive courtroom. He stares me straight in the eye, his head on what seemed like centimetres away - I could even feel the warmth of his breath, which smelt rotten just like his equity. "Maybe this will happen to 'refresh' your memory." He viciously demands, expecting to hear some kind of 'good' response. "Have you happened to see this before?" I take up the gun and analyse it to every last dent on the stock, recognition fires into my brain. "This just happens to be my Webley-Vickers 50.80," I state placidly to the attorney. The room arises in angst, but dissipates at the slamming of the hammer of justice. "I happen to believe that you are, 'talented', with the use of firearms, is this true?" the attorney directs at me suggestively. "Objection!" The roar of my attorney causes a buzz to fill the stands. "It has already been shown that the defendant could not have fired the shot, as on the night of the fourteenth of July his right arm was in a sling." I raise hand noticeably high causing a much desired silence to sweep the room. "With any kind of gun given to me, I could have killed Gregory Fitzhurst at 300 feet with my left hand, and with ease". Anarchy makes itself known in the crowd. In the uproar, a howl diffuses out into the echoey courtroom, then suddenly a dark-haired girl had somehow made herself at home in my arms. See looks up at me and whispers, "do you remember?"… "Puppy biscuit, that was it," some kind of relief has filled my body, the feeling is nostalgic but of an unknown origin, as I continue to walk the streets of Waterbury now attempting to find a pet store.