You gotta hand it to your therapist... imagining a palace in your mind, where your worst memories could be literally and metaphorically unpacked, was an ingenious technique. Every month, you lay on the couch, and visualized taking your worst memories out of battered cardboard boxes, decorating the rooms of your mind palace with them, giving them a healthy space in your psyche. Of course, there were some of them you were better off without. For those, there was the incinerator. Those you solemnly placed on a dolly and took to the basement, sliding them down the soot-stained chute and watching as they were consumed by the flames. It was therapeutic.

This session, your therapist was helping you work through your sexual hang ups, and...hold on, wasn't there supposed to be a hallway here? Something to bring up, I suppose...you weren't too worried... until you stepped into a room and saw what was on the walls. Normally, your memories manifest as framed pictures hung in the walls...but there was a pit in your stomach as you stared at the picture of you, on your knees, face buried in your therapist's crotch, their hands tangled in your hair. There...there had to be a rational explanation for this! You were lonely, and touch starved, and projecting your feelings. Yes, that was it. You tried to tell yourself that, tried to keep yourself from panicking as more and more pictures appeared. Your therapist bending you over their desk and fucking you. Your therapist dragging you around on a leash like a pet. Your therapist trashing or selling all your belongings, as a steel cage in their basement became your new home.

A growing dread haunted you, as it became harder and harder to deny the truth. You stood, shaking, tears running down your face, as you watched your own sex tape, watched as you were passed around like a sex toy, whipped and chained and used by anyone who wanted to. You watched as it was uploaded to the internet, and spread like wildfire. But even that paled in comparison to walking into a room and seeing the phone laying there in it's cradle, the red light of the answering machine flashing.

You couldn't help yourself...you reached out and pushed the button. "Hey, bestie! Thank you so much for that recommendation for a therapist! I have my first appointment scheduled for next week. Maybe we can meet up afterwards? Anyway, talk to you later!"

Screaming, you ripped the phone out of it's mounting, hurling it against the floor, shattering. Behind you, the answering machine clicked. "Hey, bestie! Thank you so much-" It didn't matter how many you destroyed. You found yourself panting, exhausted, in a pile of smashed answering machines, all jabbering endlessly, all repeating the voicemail. You staggered out of the room, only to find yourself face to face with a picture. There was your therapist, your best friend pleasuring them with their mouth, their eyes wide and filled with tears. And there was you, guiding them, pressing their face into the therapist's crotch. Screaming, crying, you tried to rip it off the wall, but it wouldn't budge.

You tried to run, only to be confronted by image after imagine of your friend's fall, mirroring your own, but with you there every step of the way, bringing them deeper into slavery. You couldn't take it anymore. You couldn't take it anymore. You burst into the room containing all the memories of your best friend, tossing it all into a wheelbarrow, running down to the basement and chucking everything into the incinerator as fast as you could. Finally, you collapsed, staring at the picture on the wall.

There was you, and another slave, and your owner. You knew the other slave from somewhere...but where, you didn't know. It was better that way. Your memories only hurt you. One by one, you took down all the memories of your life and carted them down to the incinerator. It helped...for a while. But then you would need to go and dispose of more, their presence too painful to bear. But eventually there were no more memories, just pictures, you and your owner and all the other slaves that they added to their collection one by one.

They covered the walls, the ceiling, the floor, reality breaking down as your sanity slipped away. You couldn't take it anymore. It had to stop. You made your way to the basement, to the incinerator, finally determined to end it.

You took a deep breath, opened the hatch, and climbed in. You slid down the chute, down, down, down, down, down.... landing hard on the floor. Looking around, you saw every surface was plastered with images of you, your owner, and your fellow slaves....there was no escape.

[END]