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daily writing (FMA)
This is part of a prologue for Alchemy and other Lies, archived on AO3. 146 words.
This is ancient history, as far as Roy is concerned. It happened a long time ago, and so he only remembers bits and pieces of it. He never had a perfect memory--though he might have had, had he trained himself to, had he been like other alchemists, had he learned hundreds of arrays. Had he needed to be able to sketch them in the dirt, scrape them on the barrel of a gun, scrawl them in blood. But Roy was always a one-trick pony, and the only array he needs is stitched onto his gloves. He has no cause to remember everthing. Like most people, he has forgotten most days. Ordinary, unremarkable things rest in dusty corners of his mind. The only things Roy remembers are the ones that stung him; the things he remembers in perfect clarity are the ones that hurt the most.
This is ancient history, as far as Roy is concerned. It happened a long time ago, and so he only remembers bits and pieces of it. He never had a perfect memory--though he might have had, had he trained himself to, had he been like other alchemists, had he learned hundreds of arrays. Had he needed to be able to sketch them in the dirt, scrape them on the barrel of a gun, scrawl them in blood. But Roy was always a one-trick pony, and the only array he needs is stitched onto his gloves. He has no cause to remember everthing. Like most people, he has forgotten most days. Ordinary, unremarkable things rest in dusty corners of his mind. The only things Roy remembers are the ones that stung him; the things he remembers in perfect clarity are the ones that hurt the most.
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Ouch. Nice.
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