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The day started out fine.
It was his master’s birthday,and for Wukong it was a memorial day.
A day to remember all his dead and gone friends. It was alway a melancholic,bittersweet occasion,with Wukong sitting by the small shines he made for them,cleaning them,decorating them, and reminiscing on the times he shared with his long-dead companions.
He was cleaning Ao Lie’s shrine,sweeping away all the old paper dragons he’d made for his friend. He smiled fondly,remembering all the times the White Horse Dragon had asked him to teach him how to fold paper the way Wukong did,but his claws would always tear the paper. His face would-
His face
Wukong paused
Ao Lie’s face.
Soft features
Long,white (or green?)hair
And his smile.
Why couldn’t he remember his smile?
A cold,panicked feeling gripped Wukong’s chest. He couldn’t remember one of his closest companions smile. Wukong’s breathing sped up as he tried and failed to calm himself down. His smile. What did it look like? What was he like?
Wukong’s panic only spiraled deeper when he realized he couldn’t remember his favorite food. Or the sound of his laugher. Heck,even his voice seemed off in his memories.
Wukong turned his head to the other memorials. How much of them did he really remember? What parts were just replaced or removed my his memory?
Wukong dropped his broom and rushed to his hut,he rummaged frantically through his bookshelves,looking for his holy grail.
Finally,he found it . Journey to The West. The Journey to the West. The first one written,and the most accurate as some parts were taken directly from Tripitaka’s journal.
He spent the rest of the afternoon re-reading the book,using a pencil to take notes and correct anything that wasn’t a hundred percent accurate. At times he’d have to pause and stare at his notes for a while, frantically scanning his memory to make sure everything was perfect.
It had only been a couple hundred years since they’d all passed away. He shouldn’t have been forgetting them already.
What else had he forgotten?
———————————
Wukong traced his hand along an old,weathered wooden table. It felt like just yesterday he’d been at this table,feasting with his sworn brothers. Now all his brothers were either gone or dead and only he and this table remained. He kicked a cup, and it crumbled into shards before his very eyes.
Wukong sat down where he used to,at the end of the table,facing Azure,who sat at the other end. The place where Azure once sat was overgrown with vines and blue flowers,he recognized the flowers,they were……
Wukong paused. Another thing he couldn’t remember. This was happening more and more frequently,where small bit of his memory seemed to disappear. The other day,he’d forgotten the name of one of his first subjects. They were so impressed with him,they’d loved him! And he couldn’t remember anything about them. It was like who they were was just out of reach,like fog dissolving in sunlight.
Wukong could only pray that he didn’t forget anything more.
(The faces of his sworn brothers were faded and hollow. Their eyes were full of the blue flowers)
—-____________——-
[Don’t make me do this!]
No
[Macaque,this is your last chance-]
No
[You leave me no choice ]
No!
This wasn’t how it went.
Wukong had been having a lot of dreams about Macaque lately . All of them ending in his death.
Each time,the event went differently.
And after each dream,Wukong was finding it harder and harder to recall what actually happened.
He’d been painting his memories as best he could,hoping that if he immortalized them on a canvas,it would help his dumb brain not forget.
And it was working! Somewhat. Wukong was aware that his paintings weren’t an accurate depiction of what happened,but he just didn’t want to forget.
Maybe the painting were just making things worse,maybe he was blurring the lines between reality and his mind.
He just wanted to stop forgetting.
(He can’t remember his masters face now.)
——————————-
Wukong was sitting under a tree again. It was and important tree,he could remember that at least. But he couldn’t remember why. Why.
The field of blue flowers. The tree standing alone in the middle of the field. A warm spring day. A tuft of black fur caught between the tangled branches.
It hit him like a mountain.
This was where he promised him.
That he would never forget .
That he was so much more than just a shadow. That they’d conquer the world together .
Wukong felt hot tears running down his face but couldn’t care less.
He’d forgotten the very things he promised never to forget.
He tried to recall Macaque’s face,but all that came to him was a bashed-in skull frozen in his crooked smile and haloed in shadow. He was young and old and dead and alive and everything else but him in Wukong’s memories.
Oh gods,when would this end? Was this his punishment for everyone he’d hurt? Was the mountain and the journey and the blood on his hands not enough?
How much would he forget?
Would he forget everything?
Himself?
-
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-
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Forget-me-nots. Wukong stared down at the fist full of small,blue flowers. They were called forget-me-nots.