I Want To Forget

“Willow?”

The world was black and resonant. 

“Can you hear me in there, Willow?”

“I’m here… You’re sure this will work?” I asked.

“This all sounds a little… unbelievable? Sorry to sow any doubt, Doctor...”

“Not at all,” Dr. Barone assured me as a warm hand rested on my shoulder.

“The SHARD is capable of making snapshots of the human brain as accurately as 98.6%.”

I quietly mused upon the numbers from underneath the heavy helmet. 

“And the other 1.4%?”

Dr. Barone cursed as the whirring of machinery and hissing vents cut me off. 

A klaxon sounded as her footsteps receded… and returned, the room finally in silence once again. “Temporary memory loss as the result of artificially-induced hypermnesia.”

Her cold confidence ensured I was brimming with determination.

“Hyper-what? I’ll lose my memory?”

“Quite the opposite, rather it will feel like you’re reliving every memory all at once.”

My voice faltered. “Will it hurt?”

Dr. Barone didn’t answer.

We sat in stagnant silence for a bit longer, aside from the occasional mechanical disturbance that resulted in more sirens or progressively worse cursing from the good doctor. I’d have spent my time untwirling my tangled honey-brown hair or scratching at my dripping nose were it not for the (at least) twenty-kilo helm over my head and the several wires and tubes implanted into the base of my skull and the nape of my neck.

I couldn’t wait to get out of this chair. But a deal was a deal.

In exchange for the best bleeding-edge medical treatments available, I had to spend every dollar, exhaust every favour and most importantly, donate myself to science.

They offered me lots of choices, but I chose to contribute to the Synaptic Heuristic Archive for Recollection and Duplication - the SHARD. A library of human memories, emotions and consciences used to research and develop solutions to mental and cognitive afflictions that our species have had to tolerate for hundreds of generations; at least one of which my husband Gale suffers from.

Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease. Rare, incurable and the lethal cost of transhuman augmentation.

We’re hoping that my memories will be able to cure him. With some minor addition to his augmentations the doctors should be able to replace the functions of damaged brain tissue and use the same SHARD process to fill in the gaps. The doctors are confident that we can reverse his memory loss, his sudden violence - everything. Maybe he won’t be perfect, but that’s OK. As long as he’s here, with me.

God knows how long had passed until Dr. Barone finally spoke once more.

“The SHARD is ready.” Dr. Barone’s voice echoed from across the room. An indistinct voice agreed with her, and another pair of footsteps slowly retreated from earshot.

“Ready?” I called out. “Are we done?”

“Yes and no,” Dr. Barone replied as her voice drew closer. “The SHARD can extract memories from the surface level, meaning anything in your short-term memory and important information in your long-term memory. The emotions attached to these however are completely separate.”

The world was no longer black. Instead, I saw what looked like television static in front of me. “To put it simply, you must attach your own emotions to these memories, so that they can feel the same way.”

“They?” I hesitated. “Do you mean-”

The static became reality. I saw a room. A bedroom..? No, it’s a hospital room… Gale’s room! Here, in the Institute! I can see him! Lying so still with a gentle smile and snoring so peacefully as if there wasn’t a care in the world. 

“This may be very taxing, mentally and physically. Your life will flash before your eyes, literally. I have a team monitoring you, but you must make sure you focus on nothing but the memory. Otherwise, I cannot guarantee the success of this operation.”

I was barely listening. I was enthralled by my screen, simply staring, watching him sleep.

In his slumber, I wondered if he knew that he was dying. I wondered if he knew the lengths that everyone was going through to try and keep him alive at this very moment. I watched technicians fawn over the rows of computers that surrounded his bed. I counted each nurse and doctor that approached him, hidden behind latex and scrubs to examine his decaying body. I wondered if he knew how much it all cost. I indulged in his face now and I envied him. I wished I could be the one being smothered in attention, to have my hero sacrifice everything so that I could close my eyes and lie peacefully - just as he did. 

All I wanted was him, in my arms once again.

“So what do you need me to do?”

“It’ll feel like you’re there again. All you need to do is feel what you felt then.”

“We’ll start by showing you the strongest memory, then we’ll work our way down.”

“OK…I’m ready.”

I’ll never forget the day we fell in love. April 30th, 2533. 

We were seventeen, and inseparable.

I was sitting alone in a park wallowing in a painful pit of worry and despair, staring at the stars and the sky up above. In my hands, a handwritten letter from my older sister - telling me that she would be deployed on the surface of Mars, not to navigate the new world, but to quell the brutal insurrection, corruption and rebellion that had emerged from the prospect of a new land. It was impossible to focus on my schoolwork, so I snuck out of the house.

“Think it’ll rain?” came a voice.

I turned around to see a boy. He sat at another bench, adjacent to my own. A cigarette between his lips illuminated his pale, bony features and a terrible raven-haired mop.

I snatched the pack of Estranha Lights out of his hand and tossed them into the closest bin. 

“I don’t get how you can suck on those things. You’re disgusting, you know that?” We locked eyes for a moment and he sighed as he spat it from his mouth and onto the concrete. “Only because you told me so nicely.” he grumbled as he snuffed it out beneath his shoe.

“This is Dr. Vi. You’re doing great Willow. How do you feel?”

“This is… amazing. Yeah, I’m more than alright.”

I moved closer, and a little bit closer still, tilting my head to rest on his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around my shoulders, thick coat draping over my shivering body. Eventually, it did rain and we took shelter at home together. Mum wasn’t happy.

“Synaptic activity is green, Doc - she’s holding strong. Ready when you are.”

“Wait, wait, wait, can’t we stay a bit longer?”

“The more we extract, the more she’ll have to work with when she comes to. Next!”

April 12th, 2550. My family and I were having dinner at some restaurant downtown. 

We hadn’t known that he was sick.

As we waited for the bill, we all sat at the table in satiated silence. To my left, my daughter Evie fawned over my sister’s prosthetic hand. “Can you still write?” she asked as her little hands ran alongside the cold edges of servos and plates.

“Of course,” Sage replied wryly. “I can write, read, point, poke, and… do this!”

The deafening clatter of silverware and crockery over Evie’s echoing laughter jolted me awake, and Gale even more so. 

I turned to him as a warm smile stretched across my face. His hands were twitching. Then, he reached for the spilled glass of water, but he couldn’t seem to hold it in his hands.  I inched closer to him, hand now resting on his. “What’s wrong, dear?” His head bobbed as he finally met my gaze. His eyes met mine, but he was still silent. Sage relented. “Sorry. You okay?” she asked as she stood the glass up herself. 

“Don’t be,” he finally replied as he stood up. “Just a migraine, excuse me for a moment…”

“No, no, no. Why are we here?”

“Her blood pressure’s spiking, Doc…”

“Siphon aldosterone, keep her stable. The body needs to be intact.”

“Intact? Are you talking about me?”

“Stay focused, Willow. Think about Gale.”

He was the same in the car too. He became numb. Indifferent. Ignoring everybody. 

Then, he became forgetful. Apathy became animosity. Animosity became violence. 

There was an ear-piercing scream from downstairs, followed by guttural shouts and grunts and the violent crunch of pots and plates shattering and skittering across the floor.

“Sage? Sage, what’s wrong?!” In the warm light of the outdoor lamps, Sage was slumped against the couch, keeled over in a pool of blood. Gale turned to me now, knife in hand and eyes devoid of any sort of warmth or familiarity. A robotic claw tightly clasped around his wrist, his skin bruised a rich velvet hue. 

“Willow, are you there? Doc, she’s risking subcortical burnout, we should-”

“This is the most progress we’ve made in months. If you’re not going to help, then go.”

“...”

“The rest of you, continue monitoring. Salinas, take over his station.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“I don’t know who you are, but you need to leave. Now!”

He lunged forward like a cornered panther, sliced through the air and across the width of my left palm. A neat red trail splattered across my face as I winced and doubled back, crashing against the bannister behind me. I felt my eyes water, the pressure build up in my throat as I struggled to sputter out the words.

“Evie, go to your room honey…” I uttered behind tears and gritted teeth.

The little girl refused to leave her auntie’s side. She tugged at her jeans, trying to stir her awake. “Aunt Sage!” she cried and cried. My hands were open, empty wine-stained palms facing him. My legs defied my orders to move towards the door, instead choosing to collapse beneath his shadow. “Gale…” I quivered. “Please put it down…”

“Subject unresponsive, Doctor.”

“Her synapses are still firing. She’s still in there, somewhere.”

“It’s your call, Doctor.”

“Keep going. We’ll extract what we can before our subject flatlines.”

“If we’re lucky, the Director will make a flawless recovery...”