Out Of Muscle Memory Narrative

I wake up with crusty eyelids from the dry tears of the night before. Standing over is an animal licking my face. I jolt up to see a dog right in front of me and in the distance I see a state trooper running over to me. How did they find me? I knew I should have kept running. I feel my walls collapsing inside of me. The trooper is to me now and begins to say, “River Martin, you are a wanted fugitive and you have the right to remain silent…” I had stopped listening after he said my name.

How dare they incarcerate me within this infernal penitentiary with all of these, these MADMEN. Every excruciating day and night I am imprisoned like a rat in a cage, watched constantly by guards who merely view me as another poor player in this ghastly band of lunatics, with no respect for my brilliant abilities which they falsely deem to be madness. With each passing day, my senses grow more acute; I hear the tormented screams of the insane who have resided in my cell as I sleep, I can feel the very ground muttering to me with each stride across the crude stone floors of this accursed fortress. I must prove my sagacity to these foolish overseers and make them behold the true extent of my powers in order to finally receive

This book presents two individuals, named Richard and Perry, who strived to do a few things once they were out of prison that were very horrific, and unbearable which by any means is not permissible. During and after the killings of the Clutter family, Perry comes to his senses and speaks on the aftermath of what these killings have brought upon him. “The sounds of breathing, the gasps, the hysterical inhalations of a man with a severed windpipe. When Perry said, “I think there must be something wrong with us,” he was making an admission he “hated to make” (110). Criminals who admit on their behavior. The position becomes, are they human beings anymore, or are they dehumanized? The fact that Perry Smith comes to the realization that they are demented, should they be given a chance? The level of detail that speaks

The fear of the POW prison camps still lurks in Louie’s mind and every prisoner returning home. To sooth their war-torn minds and souls many veterans turned to alcohol for comfort;in fact, Louie was one of those who turned to alcohol to ease his mind. Drinking made Louie violent and full of rage and if life is going to get any better something had to change. Louie’s determination like a presidential race pushed him to overcome insurmountable obstacles and refused to admit defeat. One night Louie attended a sermon and something clicked in Louie reminding him of a promise he made to God:”If you will save me, I will serve you forever”(382). That night when Louie arrived home,”He carried the bottles to the kitchen sink, opened them, and poured their contents into the drain”(383), this was the beginning of the new and improved Louie. Later Louie created a camp to help young boys who’ve gone through the same experiences as him, such as getting into fist fights or creating trouble with the law. When Louie wasn’t with boys at camp he gave speeches of his experiences. As years passed Louie was still climbing, running, and taking on new activities like skateboarding: “‘When I get old,’ he said as he tossed a football on the Kwajalein beach,”’I’ll let you know’”(392). If Louie could stand he was moving. The determination Louie possessed to help others, do what he loved, and persevere through the hardships of if never escaped

I revere Memorial Day, but it isn’t the only day that I remember our war-dead. Not a day of my life has passed since then that I don’t recall the horrors of decades ago. And, while it doesn’t happen with persistency any longer, I still bolt upright in bed in a heart-pounding cold sweat. Only I’m clutching my pillow and, mercifully, I realize that the blood-soaked lifeless soldier’s body and the horrible stench of thick, sticky, bloody goo are, once again, only a nightmare. And, somehow, I’m able to fall back to sleep.

What have I done? Its all my fault. Your dead and its all my fault. You tried to escape, but they shot you, they shot you seventeen times. They shot you dead. I’m the reason you were in prison. If I had ne’er of kissed you, then you would not have been in that situation. If my father wasn’t an abusive mongrel that was drunk the whole time, he would’ve never blamed everything on you. I don’t know how I can live now that your gone, and it’s my fault. I had a hope that maybe the court would do a re-trial and you could win and be released, but what was I thinking? You’re a nigga and this town is full of nigger haters. Bloody Maycomb!

I used to be proud of who I was. I used to be free, but I’ve fallen, slowly stripped bare of all I was and could have been. I resent them, those who gruesomely ripped me from my haven and shackled me beneath their feet. I resent the world for abandoning me in this hell, leaving me to suffer. I resent who I have become, a puppet, used only for their entertainment. The devil only grows within me, plaguing my mind during the sleepless nights. Feeding images into my mind. Images of their blood splattered across the walls of their beloved blue and red (tent). My teeth sinking into the fatty flesh of their neck. The horror painted on their faces as I gleefully avenge the loss of my sanity. And I detest myself. I loathe the satisfaction that I feel fantasising about their murder. I fear myself, and what I have become under their control. I yearn for the days I spent in my

Officer Wyler sighed this time. We drove to the psychiatric hospital but it was too late. When we went in, I asked the desk clerk if I could see dr. Marian Hammond. The clerk looked at me strangely but noticed I was a police officer. Dr. Hammond walked down the hallway towards us. She nervously stared at us with her light blue eyes. “Hello, i’m dr. Marian Hammond...oh..youre police officers. What would you be looking for here?” she said in a caring voice but it turns into something more nervous. “We’re here to see Dean Roderick Moxley. He is a patient of yours, is he not?” I answered. “Yes...yes he is. Are you here to interrogate him for something? If anything, he’s been here for 5 years. Won’t say a damn word to anyone…” responded Hammond. I told her that’s fine. She directed us to his room. All white walls with a bed and a table with a pen and tons of papers. Dean was there. Sitting in a corner, but silent. Not sleeping, just silent. At least I could sigh with relief that Dean is still here. Officer Wyler and I look at some of the papers. The words “Libertatem, magistratum, morte, exactor, sanguinem” were common on these papers. I looked to Wyler. “We should probably translate these”. I headed over to Moxley. I stared him in his cold, dead and glazed over eyes and…...wait….dead? I looked closer at Dean. Wait. That’s not him. I glared at Dr. Hammond. “This isn’t him! This is a dead look alike! Where is he!!!!!!!!!!????? DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU JUST LET

Hearing the cell door slam shut the first time, there is a gripping realization, almost spiritual for some, that the consequences of crime are terribly real. Every single memory, all of the past, good and bad returns to haunt.... This sensation of being torn apart from within by conflicting emotions vying for control is the most frighten human experience. Nothing compares to the realization that I am being confined and controlled so totally. “Oh, God, no.” I cry to myself. “Please don’t let this be!” (Clear, 260)

I pray this letter has reached you safely, else I would be unable to explain my grim fate to you. However, it is likely you know the precise events which followed our brief encounter as you greatly influenced what happened henceforth. Nonetheless, I will continue to tell the tale of my woes in case you have overlooked something. Let me begin by introducing myself: I am Roger Mubin, the little boy who you lured into your home after he had attempted to mug you. If you have forgotten this name, know I have never forgotten yours, Mrs. Luella Bates Washington Jones. That name is forever ingrained in my mind, as if you have taken a knife and carved it in my brain. I apologize for my harsh tone, yet I am sure you understand as I have been rotting

The times made me think that men lost their minds. My anger grew more when saw what happened to soldier Quincey. It was Really late at night when I heard people cheering. I woke up from the disturbing sounds. I went down to his tent. From tiredness, I fell in the mud. Everything went Black. The next time I opened my eyes, was the next morning. There were about 20 soldiers. I kicked them all out. Then, came the pain. An volunteer wanted to speak to me. “I have news about last night”. He explained. “ The soldiers were drinking and

Scuttling innocently through the twisting corridors I bore the same expression; head down, shoulders hunched, avoiding any eye contact - my desperate attempts to deter the despot for one day at least. Despite my efforts, there was no escape, as seemingly within the second of having that naively optimistic thought, a cruel, callous voice demanded I surrender my broach. Fear spiked, as it always did, but with it came something else, an alien emotion ... Looking back now, I see that it must have been the cumulative effect of months of torment that brought me to the realisation that at this point I had reached the nadir of my life. Deriding cackles pierced my ears and this time I recognised the emotion, fury. It burned through my veins, along with the memories of the past to form a feeling of overwhelming power. I met the daggers that would usually invoke terror, and calmly, I said “No.”

As I boarded the ship alongside the others a flood of emotions came over me. I didn’t know it was possible to feel so many at once. Joy, anger, confusion and misery; but most of all disappointment. I am disappointed in how we acted, turning against one another, and how we lost control of our ability to act in a civil manner. Disappointed that we couldn’t come together in unity to survive. I looked over at Jack and his hunters, Jack shot a nasty glare at me. I couldn’t bring myself to glare back. I realized that I am just as guilty and savage as he is; I am no different. I didn’t deserve to be here, none of us did. We acted recklessly and viciously like wild animals. I thought of Piggy and his innocence, if any of us deserved to be here it was him.

It's a few days later now, they caught me the last time I wrote. They ended up taking my journal for a few days. I’m pretty sure that the date is April 3, 1726. I don’t know where I am, we haven’t been near land in days. The captain and crew won’t give us any information, about what’s happening. I’ve gotten at least 12 bruises from being treated so poorly. Everybody has been pushed and thrown over and over. And I don’t know where Aloogo and Heyenah are because we got seperated into different rooms. I pass them in the mess hall, where we ate porridge, fruits, and a lot of gross foods. They made sure to give us Vitamin C at least, so we don’t get scurvy and they can still sell us. So far no one has died, but people have tried to starve themselves

Flashbulb memories are a phenomenon that occur directly from the discovery of a shocking event. People who witness tend to report that they remember very clear details about the situation surrounding the event such as, the place they were at the time and what they where doing.