I was always a little proud of the seemingly simple fact that I didn't have a crew. I had friends, and those friends had groups. These groups I passed through were my temporary resting grounds while I clung to nothing more than my shuttering mind and the singular pair of hands shaping and guiding it.
When I cut those hands away, I still clung only to myself and to a few solitary others I decided could stay close. Try as they might to loop me into their rings, I'm an expert of pulling back, pushing away. After everything that had happened, I was proud of that.
Now I'm scrolling my mind for memories I've forgotten. They're still there, still guiding my path, still pushing me to think like this or scream like that. But I'm trying to pull them out so I can push them onto anyone else, someone to take some the weight I laid silently to rest, to forget. I admit I did the locking and the hiding, carelessly believing I could erase his impact. But I still resist any other's influence. Forgotten means it happened, but I don't want to remember.
And because I was too proud or too frightened to do anything but push back pull away, those memories are locked and an extraction would require bonds I lack and words I have long refused to say. Because I, too, am forgotten.