What Was I Saying?

One Prompt, One story, One Thought

Every now and again I give an AI a single prompt and let it write a short story. I do not edit the result. I simply choose one worth keeping. Below you will find the exact prompt, the story it produced, and one brief thought that stayed with me after reading. Nothing more.

The Prompt

Write a five hundred word grim monologue in the voice of a man who is slowly losing his memory, blending dark humour with genuine pathos.

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The Story: What Was I Saying?

I came into this room for a reason. I’m fairly certain of that. The reason, however, has done what reasons tend to do these days, packed a small bag and left without leaving a note.

I’ve started narrating my own life out loud. “I am walking to the kitchen. I am opening the fridge. I am staring into the fridge like a man who has never seen food before.” My son thinks it’s funny. My son thinks a lot of things are funny that aren’t. He gets that from his mother.

The specialist asked me last week if I knew what year it was. I told him it was a deeply personal question and I’d rather not say. He wrote something down. They’re always writing something down. I’d love to read those notes. I suspect they say things like “still difficult” and “inappropriate humour” and “prognosis unchanged.” Which is doctor for: he’s still losing, he knows it, and we can’t do anything about it.

I’ve taken to watching the television with the subtitles on. Not because I’m hard of hearing, my hearing is magnificent, thank you very much, one of the last things still working properly, but because if I forget what’s happening I can scroll back and check. My wife thinks I’ve gone deaf. I haven’t corrected her. It’s easier. Also she now speaks very clearly and slightly too loudly when addressing me, which I find oddly comforting. Like being narrated.

There are things I do remember. Useless things, mainly. The entire back catalogue of a football team that hasn’t won anything significant since 1973. The words to songs I didn’t even particularly like. The registration plate of a car I owned in 1987. My brain has apparently decided these are the load-bearing walls and everything else is dispensable. The name of the woman who cuts my hair. Gone. The PIN number for my bank card. Gone. The plot of the book I finished last Thursday. Completely, utterly gone, as if it never existed, which makes me wonder why I bothered.

Here’s what nobody tells you. The forgetting isn’t the worst part. The worst part is the remembering that you’ve forgotten. That brief, horrible window every morning when you wake up and feel entirely yourself, sharp, present, fully formed, and then spend the next ten minutes discovering what’s gone missing overnight. Like checking the house after a burglary. Something’s been taken. You’re just not sure what yet. You walk from room to room, testing the locks, counting the silverware.

My wife leaves the radio on all day now. She says it’s company. I think it’s so the house doesn’t feel too quiet when I can’t think of anything to say. Which is kind. Kinder than I deserve, probably.

I was going to finish with something profound. I had it, briefly, this morning in the shower. A thought so clear and complete it felt like it had been waiting years to be thought. I stood there, water going cold, absolutely certain I would remember it. I didn’t. Never mind.

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The Thought

The humour here is sharp and defensive, the wit of a man who has decided that if he can still make jokes he hasn’t entirely lost himself. But underneath it sits something lonelier and harder to name. The ending doesn’t reach for comfort or resolution, it reaches for a grand conclusion, fumbles it, and quietly moves on. Which is, of course, exactly the point.

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The Lights Dimmed Thoughtfully

Lost Property, Unclaimed

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