Amelie Daigle

I like this. I think the imprecise "You" helps the narrative, the same way the imprecise "you" of the popular love song helps its narrative. Here it could very well be a lover, but it could also be anybody. And it also could be the philosophically abstracted "you" of the dialoguer.

One comment re: syntax
"...Others speak of a warm, safe place—they call it home—some being, god or parent, whom they once believed omnipotent..."
In the following sentence, I confuse at first reading "being" for a verb, when it is in fact a noun, because I believe "some" refers to 'some' of the 'others' who are the subject of the sentence. Did I get that across well? Anyway, I think capitalizing being (Being) would make that problem vanish.

Perhaps my memory, in addition to being terrifyingly long, is also extremely precise

This is a bit of a sidebar, but have you seen the show Unforgettable on CBS? Poppy Montgomery from Without a Trace is in it, playing this cop who solves mysteries with the use of her crazy memory, which has preserved every moment of her life (I think back to when she was ten years old or something). She literally remembers everything. She has this real life medical condition that allows her to do this, and only about ten people in the world have it. I'm sure you didn't mean that literally, but this piece reminded me of Ms. Montgomery's character.

I like how you pepper your narrative with someone else's and with an outside narrative. You leave some up to interpretation, but I think it offers some contrast but also some solidarity at the same time, with that last line. I found that last line the most surprising, because the piece expresses a dark idea, but there was some hope in that the speaker wasn't alone, even if it was only something that existed in the speaker's thoughts. That might just be me, but I liked it.

Although I was a little thrown off by the sudden "you," the core of this piece and what you present about childhood and its parallel with the Edenic story in Genesis really grabs me tightly.
"And I wish I could believe that your childhood was somehow different. But I do not think it was." Really great line right here; we all think of ourselves as pure individual (especially as children) but are we really? interesting answer to this question.

A kind of confessional first person directed at a specific "you" who appears near the end of the first paragraph. The narrator finds the you's childhood narrative compelling but in the end does not believe it, believing that it was the same as hers. This remains in the realm of abstraction (memory, childhood, innocence, villains, sincerity); the monsters and shadows, the climate and home too are all metaphorical, leaving us with no place to stand, no real sense of who is speaking or from where. Give us some sensory details, a sense of who these people are. I'd avoid the second person, which forces the reader into becoming either character or voyeur.