My sister is in the memory hole.

She has been disappeared, vanished, eliminated, eradicated. The memory hole is a conceit from a book they made us read in school, 1984. Even though the story takes place in the past, it feels very much like the present or the near future. It feels like something incipient, imminent, pervasive. Like a fog so cold it’s a thousand needles in your skin, just barely breaking the surface.

1984 is a full-body tattoo that’s about to start, and it bestowed upon me the memory hole, which swallowed my sister bodily ten years ago.

There are no photos of her in the house.

There is no scrapbook. No baby clothes or stuffed animals or bright, crocheted baby blankets.

She’s been extinguished. She’s been erased.

My sister is in the memory hole because I killed her.