My name is Malcolm. I used to think it was MmmMalcolm. I used to stutter back then, back when Mummy died and everything changed. Now I don’t stutter.
This is my story.
I always wanted regular boys’ shoes. Brown. Mine were always black boots, and one boot was made especially for my gimpy leg. Now I have regular men’s shoes. Brown.
I have learned to talk again and to write. I used to. When I was at school. When I was ‘bright’. I remember that as clear as the day I fell into the goldfish pond. I was showing Julie the goldfish.
One day something bad happened. Then it went dark. And I was back in the mental hospital up the hill from the little railway station where my father and Bella left me. I don’t know why I ended up back there. I thought I would live forever in the little house with my new friends.
Funny things happened there, at the mental hospital, like when they buried all those cats, or like when they shaved everyone’s heads. Some things were funny for a while, and then they weren’t.
I learned to be quiet and watch everyone and everything. I learned to keep my memories safe. If I lost them, would I become like the others? I kept my memories as safe as the little colored pills in my jacket lining. I needed my memories of Mummy and Julie to give me hope…
This is my story.

This is a thoughtful exploration of the profound impact one life has on countless others.
Although this is Malcolm’s story, as I remember it, there is by necessity a fictional element.

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