“I ran an automated warehouse system.”
“System?”
“Yeah, I lived and breathed FIFO – you know. First in, first out. My job was to store things and keep track of the date they were stored, so that the oldest was pulled first and shipped.”
“So, in your mind, you’re trying to figure out the human brain and memories in the same terms you would storing packages in your warehouse?”
“Well, not exactly, but–-”
“I see where you’re coming from now. Okay. This research I’m doing, it’s rather
delicate. Even though you’re the person being experimented upon I can’t tell you much about what I’m doing and what I’m looking for. But I can give you an answer to this
The software in your brain is not accessing your memories directly though the hippocampus, like other researchers are doing. It’s going through your temporal perception.”
“My, uh
what’s that?”
“There’s a section of your brain that controls your sense of time. I can manipulate this time sense to retrieve memories that were stored at a specific time.”
“So even though time data isn’t recorded with my memories, I have a section of my brain that
indexes the memories in a, um
sequential log of some sort?”
Dr. Kline was shaking his head. “That’s what I’m trying to find out,” he said. “It must be
it’s working. But part of my research is to understand how it’s working.”
“That’s interesting,” Scott said. He wondered if he should tell Dr. Kline about the way he was able to cause the reference index to skip numbers. “Um
“
“Let’s try going back even further,” Dr. Kline said. Before Scott could interrupt him, the image of the spring brightened in his mind and began spinning counter-clockwise.
#
Scott’s dinner tray always came with a little half-can of Coca-Cola. It was never enough, and he figured it was part of his punishment. He couldn’t have a whole can, only a half-can. And they wouldn’t give him more.
In the silent, stale air of his cell, Scott ate his dinner mechanically and downed his half-can of soda – an act that always left him wanting more – and after he finished it, he replayed the memory of drinking it. He hoped that in some way it would be like drinking more. It didn’t work, though, because the feelings of wanting were present in the memory. He went back again, remembering drinking it for the first time, then remembering the memory of drinking it. Still nothing. He went back one more time, and out of frustration he poured the soda onto the floor instead of drinking it.
He stared at the foaming puddle of soda on the concrete as it spread, wondering how in the hell he’d done it. The empty can was in his hand. He looked at it and at the puddle again. I changed my memory? he thought. That was weird. Scott tried to will the image of the spring clockwise again, but it wouldn’t budge.
He was in the present.
#
“Of course it’s possible to edit your memories,” Dr. Kline told him. “We do it all the time, even without the intrusive software. I knew you’d discover this. I’d been expecting it any day now. There was a chance you wouldn’t, and I was hoping for that
that’s why I never brought it up. But now that it’s on the table so to speak, here’s the deal.” Dr. Kline leaned forward and spoke in a low, evenly measured voice. “With this software in your brain, you can edit yourself right into an impenetrable wall of delusion.”
Scott folded his arms across his chest, frowning. He hadn’t really figured Kline out as a person, his motives, likes and dislikes, his quirks – they were all a mystery to him. But the words the man was saying, the inflection in his voice, the expression in his eyes
it didn’t ring true. “What do you mean?”
Scott asked him.
“If you start going back and editing your memories, you will cut yourself off from reality and go into a catatonic state. It won’t help you or me.”
“How would editing my memories do that?”
“It will change your inner reality and cut it off from outer reality.”
“You mean, I’ll be insane?”
“Yes.” Dr. Kline fumbled with his watch. “Delusional catatonic. Completely turned inward. It’s a really bad idea and I’m asking you not to do it.”
It occurred to Scott that not only was Dr. Kline lying, but also he was frightened. Frightened for Scott? Frightened for himself? Frightened that if he lost one more test subject that his funding would be cut off? Scott decided to play it safe and appease the man. “Okay,” he said. “Becoming a delusional catatonic doesn’t sound like a good idea to me, either.”
“Good,” Dr. Kline said. “Good. Good.” He nodded. “Good.”
Throughout the rest of their session, Scott’s mind was unable to focus on what they were doing. He just gave control over to the Doctor while he kept hearing the man saying “Good” over and over again. Kline must have been able to see it on his computer screen, because he kept giving Scott dirty looks. Something was definitely up with this wall of delusion thing. Maybe, Scott thought, that’s my way out. Maybe it doesn’t cause insanity as much as it causes some sort of fatal brain seizure.
He could only hope.
#
There was one glaring memory of Scott’s that Dr. Kline never visited. Until today, Scott had no wish to relive it either. But after his session was over and he’d eaten dinner and downed his half-can of Coca-Cola, Scott turned off his light and flopped back into the cot and stared up at the ceiling. He took a few deep breaths, preparing himself for the trip. The image of the spring came to mind, and he turned it counter-clockwise.
He was taking a morning walk through his old neighborhood, up to his house. There was the old 1950’s car in the driveway.
John Wahler’s car. Scott already felt the deep, black undercurrent of fury. It carried him into the house, down the hall, peering into the bedroom. His wife and John Wahler deeply involved in mutual oral pleasure. It was too disgusting for her to do with Scott, her own husband – why was it okay to do it with this guy?
That was it, Scott realized. That’s what pushed me over the edge.
His wife’s betrayal was deeper than he’d thought possible, harder for him to accept. Impossible to accept. Shut it off, his mind just wanted to shut it off.
The dark veil went down over his eyes. He went for the gun, the big old heavy shotgun. Pulled it out of the case, loaded it up. I was going to stop this, he thought. I can’t stop this. It has to be done. The moment demanded it be done. Scott burst into the bedroom, more outraged than the first time, screaming and pointing the gun. “Was it worth it?” he shouted at them. “Was it worth it?”
“Oh god, no
” John was muttering, holding his hands out as if they would block the blast of death, like he was going to catch it. “God, no, please
don’t, no, please
“
“Scott,” Terri said, breathless, her voice quavering.
“Scott, no
“
He swung the gun on her, the barrel right at her face.
“Well?” he shouted at her. “Was it? Was it worth it?”
She shook her head. “No
no, it wasn’t.”
Scott swung the gun back toward John. John was shaking his head, still holding his hands out as if to block the shot. “No,”
was all he could manage.
The gun swung back at Terri, then back at John. No, Scott thought, it wasn’t worth it. It wasn’t. It never was. He lowered the gun, then swung it around, trying to figure out how to point it at himself. He couldn’t do it, though – the barrel was too long. In frustration he pumped the two pathetic, unspent shells out and dropped the gun on the bed. Looking up at his wife and her lover, both of them trembling and completely white, he said, “I’ll be on the front porch.”
He left the room, walking down the hall and out the front door. Sitting on the steps he took deep breaths, trying to calm himself. He could hear the two of them arguing with each other but their voices were indistinct. It didn’t matter. Scott didn’t care what they were saying. This was all just a delusion anyway.
Scott summonsed the image of the spring and willed it to spin clockwise. Just as he’d hoped – and feared – it wouldn’t spin. As far as the software was concerned, he was in the present.
After ten minutes or so, Terri and John stepped fully dressed out onto the porch behind Scott. Scott turned to see John holding the shotgun. It was obvious he’d thrown his clothes on in a hurry, as his shirt was only half tucked in and his buttons were done up crooked. “You going to shoot me?” Scott asked.