(Scars do not appear to be cause of death –shock ... - Bad Request

of any poor sod living in this pit.” He nodded at the monument. “Every name
on there is blest in my book, it is.”
That ache again: that small, infinitely deep hollowness in my soul, dwarfing
the void where my memories should have been. The dull ache in my chest
was an old wound, I knew, but it came from no knife or spear. I closed my
eyes, mentally probing that rough-edged slit, dipped a bit in, and found that
terrible, yawning void again. Grander than the tallest mountain, darker than
the deepest sea.
My eyes snapped open, and I slid my hand along the stone with a newfound
reverence, the scratches rough under my fingers. Perhaps one day my name
would be laid to rest here.
“What’s in a name, anyway?” I huffed.
“Nothing special, I say. Just something the innkeeper hollers at you when he
wants your tab paid,” Quentin sighed.
I wanted to believe him.
I left Quentin to himself and circled the memorial slowly, reading names
here and there. There were too many to count, but hopefully something
would trigger my memory.
“Chief, you just got out of a Mortuary and you’re wandering around in a
graveyard? Why don’t we check out a bar or something? There’s this place
down several blocks that serves the best-”
“I think I remember this place,” I interrupted, only half-listening to Morte’s
chatter.
“Why can’t you reminisce at a brothel or a bar or someplace fun?”
I chuckled, “Maybe we’ll try that later, Morte.”
The Dustman standing in the corner had been staring at me for a good
while. Despite the crooked smile was frozen on his face, his eyes were as
dull as stones. His right arm was shorter than the left, and he kept it tucked
to his side, as if cradling a small child.
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