Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
CHAPTER 7
She dragged me to bed, her hands small and wiry but pulling me forcefully. She wants it as much as I do. We are chemical reactions burning: an enormous burst of endorphins bubbling over our libido thresholds.
She began holding me down there, and I gasped.
"Fuck, you always put me on the edge." I looked down at her, trying to take me in.
"You're nearing so fast?" She said, slowly drawing me.
"You do realize that we haven't seen each other in about a week right?" I said, as she stopped. I laid down on the bed, her straddling my waist as she leaned down to whisper.
"Precisely."
**********************************************************************
6:37 PM. She was sitting down, looking forlorn. Blankly looking across the table, to his chair. The soup in the kitchen boiled over. The pasta's burning. Everything's out of time. Like her hopes, they ran out and were totally out of her control. Utter hopelessness isn't the exact term to describe the enormity of pain she was experiencing. Maybe she shouldn't have accepted this. Maybe she was foolish to try to change things. He was not hers anymore.
When they said they would treat him, she thought he would become better. That he would recall everything. He was so lost in this dream world he created, losing focus of what was real.
She was distraught at this, and sought any and every kind of traumatic psychological cure. Even a false panacea. Nothing. Nothing would work, even after all these years. She had almost quit. Like now, like how she felt when they said it's not working. There was this brooding sense of loss, all over again.
**********************************************************************
Her tattoo is etched in his memory. This memory of her cuddling him, taking his heat, under the covers, wrapping her body in his. Him, thoughtlessly sketching with his fingers the complexity of her tattoo. Line by line, curve, color and hue. Everything was his. And hers. And ours.
She giggled.
"Stop tracing me."
"So, you're ticklish here?" I said, repeating what I did earlier. She giggled.
"F-fuck stop." And then she laughed, hard.
"What's so funny?" I asked, deliberately tickling her until she gave up. She then stopped giggling and laughing like crazy. She turned, looking at me with deadpan eyes.
"The fact that I let myself see all of my faults in a short amount of time. That's what's funny."
"What's hilarious is that I fell for you."
**********************************************************************
He grinned. He would not take that statement lightly. In fact I think he would revel in that. He would hang it on his walls, proudly like a diploma.
"And you finally admitted it."
"That I've let my walls down? Yes. I did, you are my most blatant mistake."
He yawned. He pulled me closer to him, his chest pressing towards my face. Damn his adonis body. He then proceeded to caress my hair and face with his fingers, which scored as many commercials as his grin.
"At least I topped one of your lists." He chuckled. I looked at him confused.
"You like that?"
"As long as I'm here. By your side, I don't care if you see me as the worst mistake."
How does he find the perfect words? I don't know.
"Fuck your words." I sighed, crawling deeper into his embrace.
**********************************************************************
Project is now complete. Altered memories now implanted.
**********************************************************************
"Dr. Jung, the tests are now cleared. There are no spikes. Test subject now neutral." She said, writing ineligible words on her notepad.
Dr. Jung sighed in relief. He sat himself down to the nearest chair, where he pondered the gravemen of his unethical treatment. Poison and electrical short-circuiting the brain to his liking, and implanting memories to replace traumatic ones: this is an exercise of science that the world has considered dangerous and unethical.
But who could stop him, really? The scientist who refused his treatment methods? Those who branded him a murderer for trying to experiment on humans, whereas those people foolishly hid themselves from doing the same thing?
He stared at his office, with those random thingamajibs running across him: a Rube Goldberg machine. He stares at it, balls falling and climbing and sliding. Thinking that in some way, everything is now done and complete.
He has successfully did and proven his experiments are now possible. That we could alter human memory and thinking and inhibit and exhibit the powers of the human brain. But somehow, Dr. Jung feels empty.
**********************************************************************
6:47 PM. She walks across the street to look at the skies. As though all thought has left her, she walks mindlessly, bumping a large number of people towards moving towards that park across the street.
She waits for rain, beseeching the skies. The forecasts told her the rain would come today, a large downpour at around nighttime.
**********************************************************************
She walks towards Room 637. She hasn't still got quite used to seeing him. To him, he was just a lab rat. To her, he was human. A broken man, faced with trauma. A human who'd been injected and opened and re-broken numeral times to figure out how his pseudo-Alzheimer's worked. A human who has been tested too far by any and all pharmaceutical companies.
Who loved too much. Who broke out of his own mind. He was her brother. And she was a willing participant to his brokenness.
She gazed at him, somehow she hoped this cure saved him. That the mild disconnect between his reality and this reality, where he lies drugged and mentally mapped, could be merged into one. She gave up enough of her pride and stomach for this.
He laughed hard. She heard him across the glass observation pane, somehow breaking the monotony of thoughtful silence she had while observing him. They didn't know, Dr. Jung and the other psychs. They didn't know how deep she was in this subject.
When Dr. Jung started treating him of his false memories, of his breaking his mind with drugs and surgeries, she was kind of elated. This was a medical breakthrough: a patient in his 20s severely traumatized enough to shut his senses to a reality, enough to break his memories to the point of not acknowledging his present stimuli and be stuck at the past like some pseudo-Alzheimer's while alternatingly changing his memories at a quick emotionless pace - they had a number of these patient cases but what he had was something else. He had this predilection to change his memories to fit his reality: changing he to she to he, talking about his love dying in a car crash while that wasn't really the case, him stating a differing number of odd details about his life that didn't come true. It was as if he was implanted memories of a life that was not his. A life of a fiction.
**********************************************************************
6:57 PM. All she saw was light. White, blinding light surrounding her whole being. She gasped, her breath losing quickly.
**********************************************************************
"So great, huh?"
"What is great? This feeling of complete oblivion?"
"Yes and no. The feeling of forgetting all your woes away."
"With sex?"
"No, with fucking love out of our systems."
No comments:
Post a Comment