A Second Person Love Story – Version A, or Part 1, or Chapter 1

R.I.P. David Foster Wallace.

“He illuminated the maze brilliantly, even if he couldn’t show us the way out.”

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Here you are, reading this copy of “A Second Person Love Story” by Michael Kim. It’s quite a lengthy piece of work, especially for a short story. Go ahead, scroll down and check out the wall of text in front of you.

Well, it’s long at least for the ones you enjoy. Short, but sweet and powerful — that’s what you want. But you’ve read some other works of his and enjoy him immensely, so you get settled in a plush, comfortable chair and proceed to get lost in the wonderful writing.

Before you go on, please, close your eyes for a moment and pretend that you have amnesia. Something has happened which you obviously don’t remember, leaving you with a huge gap in memory. Pretend you have no memory of the past two years. They never happened. And you just lost those memories today — this morning, to be exact. Purge yourself of every memory that you have ever let into your mind starting from today and ending two years ago. After you have done that, meet me at the intersection of This Sentence and Next Sentence. Okay, now keep that thought in mind.

You got up this morning in a hazy, groggy state, feeling like you’ve been sleeping for years. The most resounding headache is thumping around in your head. You crawl out of bed, wash up, get dressed and head downstairs to brew yourself some coffee. That’ll show that headache who’s boss. You tell yourself some fresh air wouldn’t hurt, so you decide to head out and do something. Maybe go to the park, or shopping, or the bookstore. The possibilities are endless. A decision will come at the bottom of another cup of coffee. Your headache is getting better.

*          *          *          *          *

Oh…I feel exhausted. (Now, don’t be too confused by the shift in point of view. Keep in mind that “I” is merely a label for a character in a story, the same way “he,” “she,” “John,” or “Mary” are, and even “you” were in the preceding paragraph. You are a seasoned reader, you should be able to handle it.) It feels like all my cells are collapsing on themselves in every part of my body. I must have fallen asleep while working on…I don’t remember what I was working on. I tell myself I have to get more sleep.

But I can’t. I have to finish my testing. This is the cure. My entire life has been devoted to memory. Specifically, the preservation and recovery of it. The eradication of what is known as the disease Amnesia. There is a certain power, a taste of immortality, that comes when one has thorough and complete control over even one aspect of his existence. Memory is but one example. My entire professional life has been devoted to conquering it — and I am close.

After ten years of trial after trial after trial (not to mention all the dead rats); after a decade of having every member of the medical community, including my own team, turn their back on me like I was some stubborn, crazed lunatic; after having Rebecca walk out on me for that slime-ball, who happened to be my best friend and colleague.

But after all that, now, finally, the vindication is almost palpable. This is quite a momentous moment. I have finally perfected my RE (Relativistic Electron) photon device.

Amnesia can affect either, or both, long-term and short-term memory. My device is able to cure both because it is exceptionally good at causing both types of amnesia. It sounds counter-productive but I’ve discovered the causes of long-term amnesia and short-term amnesia are exact, polar inverses of each other. The cell changes that must occur in short term-amnesiacs to regain their ability to make new memories are actually the same changes that cause long term-amnesiacs to lose their old memories, and vice-versa.

My lab smells like burnt plastic, a hamster pet shop, and a hospital, all at the same time. The once bright, pure white lights that lined the edges of the ceiling have gradually turned dim over the past few weeks, where they now give off only a faint, hazy glow. The room, which is a converted basement, has been more or less my home for the past six months. It is filled with mostly stainless steel cabinets, tables, and supply-drawers on wheels  — the shiny luster of all of which has been turned into a dull, foggy, soap-scummy coating from several months of heavy use and light (or no) cleaning. I look down at the mess of papers surrounding my desk in the far wall of the lab, and although I still haven’t the slightest idea what I was working on, I’m able to conclude that I was conducting some final stage experiments with the RE-Beam. I apparently moved up to direct testing last night. Yes…okay, I think I’m starting to remember. Preliminary tests on rats have shown progress, but I had reached a wall with them — their brains weren’t responding to treatment after a certain point. I needed to complete a few more successful tests to be approved for human testing. But last night is still a blur, like a dream I had that I’m forgetting with each second.

I gather my notes, pry myself out of my chair, and head upstairs to read over my progress with some breakfast. As I close and lock the laboratory door, I see a note taped near the doorknob:

• Gone to the bookstore to do some reading. Will be there for a couple hours. Meet me, if you can, or want to.
  .
  Love ya, 
Rebecca

*          *          *          *          *

Your story continues…where were you? Ah yes, so you’ve suffered some significant memory loss. You had a headache this morning, drank some coffee, and now you’re out on the town. So, what was that whole last part about the scientist “I” guy finding a cure for amnesia and stuff? Good question. I think that may have been the direction I wanted to take the story at one point. But then I decided to scrap it and focus on you. Because I think you’re special. Really. I do.

You are wondering what kind of a piece of shit story this is, and that’s understandable. I realize I’m the one in whose hands you so trustingly placed your reader mind when you picked up this story, expecting to be walked through at least the basic structures of plot, character development, conflict introduction/resolution, and all that jazz. But I think that having a capable and patient reader like you allows me a lot of freedom. You, being the smart, well-informed, intuitive reader that you are, are still quite alert, ready to sniff out where I, the author, will take you, still holding out hope—never to be taken off guard. I have already surrendered to the fact that you have probably identified all the twists and turns I could possibly take, because, of course, that is the whole point of reading a story: to see how many twists you can sniff out before the story ends. Some say it is also the point of writing: to see how many twists you can put in without the reader catching them in time. That’s what some think, at least.

You are tired of this story. Your patience has been tested to its brim. You put the story down at this point. All this nonsensical, gimmick-filled, post-modern bullshit writing annoys the hell out of you. Why can’t people write normally these days? Why must they try so hard to be different and unique and “genre-bending” or “paradigm shifters”? You don’t like this particular method of “story” telling.

You look up from your spot within the shelves of the fiction section of the bookstore. You take a break from the collection of stories titled, “A Second Person Love Story,” which you picked up at the discount table, to look around the store. You spot me, who you recognize as your husband, just as I walk in. I am a slightly balding man in my mid-forties, wandering in with a very bewildered look on my face. I am a doctor or scientist, and a very disheveled one at that, as evidenced by my wrinkled and stained lab coat. My hair is a scraggly and tussled mess and my beard is looking like an extension of it.

But you are still delighted to see me, your husband of ten years (by your count), except you sorely wish I would’ve showered and shaved before venturing out of the house. You think I look like I’ve aged a year or two since the last time you saw me. Fortunately, it is still early and there aren’t many people in the store.

I spot you. My eyes narrow and I hurry towards you with what looks like a small, white note tightly crumpled in a fist. You engage me with your eyes and give a dazzling smile as you wave the book in the air. “I found your book, honey! I must say, it is a bit annoying at the start. And I think they misplaced it on the discount…”

I slam the note down on the armrest of your plush, comfortable chair and immediately snatch the copy of “A Second Person Love Story” from you, and slam that on the ground as well. “Is this some kind of a sick joke, Rebecca!?”  I tower over you with blood-shot eyes.

You are completely baffled, a little offended, but mostly you’re contemplating whether you should be scared more for me or for yourself.  “M– Michael…are you all right?…” You put a hand on my shoulder with a beautifully concerned look on your face, your brows causing the only wrinkles in your smooth, soft skin.

After a moment of hesitant lingering, I immediately recoil from your touch as if a snake slithered onto my arm. “Am I all right? Am I all right!? You waltz into my lab while I’m asleep and place a note on my door that tells me to meet you in a god damn bookstore!?” I say in an angry, screaming whisper.

“You were asleep, Michael. I called into the room through the intercom…you know I hate going into that lab of yours. There was no answer, as usual, so I just thought it’d be smart to leave a note on the door telling you where I’ll be.”

My face turns a bright red to match my eyes, which look like they are about to burst. “Wow, Rebecca. Wow…I can’t fuckin’ believe this is happening. Where’s Frank?” (Frank is the former friend and colleague of mine that you ran off with.)

“Frank? Honey…what’s going on? I don’t know what you’re communicating to me. Remember what Dr. Sharp told us. We have to communicate.”

Fuckin’ communicate. This is funny to you. I back away and start pacing the aisle close to us to keep from striking you. I want to tear down every shelf and rip up every book in the store.  You ran off with my best friend, and only remaining colleague, just last month. “Who’s Frank…” Twelve damned years! I filed the divorce papers last week for Christ’s sake! No. I will not “communicate my feelings.” I will not “open up the lines of feeling and connection.” You will not know my “intimate thoughts.” I refuse. Dr. Sharp…you were probably sleeping with that bungling prick, even while we were seeing him.

I sit down on the chair next to you, tense anger traveling through every fiber of my body. But I want to remain calm. There are a few questions I want answered, questions I’ve been wondering about for the past month since you left me for him.

“Rebecca…” I start with as controlled and calm of a voice as I can. I pause, thinking of where exactly to begin.

You reach out and grab my hand. It feels warm and comforting. “Michael, sweetie…what’s happening? I’m your wife. I need you to talk to me.”

Wife? Judging by your tone, I think you know I’m your husband. You really believe it. A sudden feeling of understanding, and shock, washes over me. My mind races, confirming, checking, and concluding. Blame it on what I’ve been devoting all my life to for the past several years, but I think you may, just might have amnesia.

I turn and look into your big, round, and intensely clear eyes. You are still looking at me with the most sympathetic and concerned expression. Your brown hair falling over your shoulders, resting on your oval face. Your small, slightly upturned nose, your soft lips, your…You are just as beautiful as you were when you walked out on me. I want you back…but I shake it all off. It’s over now.

“Rebecca, what did we do last night?”

“C’mon now, you didn’t work so hard in that lab of yours that you forgot what we did last night?”

“Please…just answer the question.”

”All right, Michael. If you need to know, we were both at that long, tedious book release party of yours. After we got home, we had sex for the first time in seven months. Then you snuck away in the middle of the night to work in your lab, where you were still holed up when I left the house this morning.”

“Rebecca, I think you have retrograde amnesia.”

“Retro-what?” you ask with an exaggerated look of confusion, and a noticeable dose of sarcasm. “Michael, sweetie, you need to work on your word-choice for foreplay…perhaps something to go over in your next individual session with Dr. Sharp?”

“No…I am saying that you are showing the symptoms of having a form of memory loss called ‘retrograde amnesia.’ Just going by what you’ve told me so far, you have lost all, or most, of your memory of the past two months. But I’m not sure, it may be more extensive.”

“Michael…don’t give me your jumbled science jokes. We both know they’re never funny.”

“I am not joking. My book release was last month. As for last night, we had a simple dinner at home before I pulled an all-nighter in the lab. No sex. No sneaking. No Nothing.You stopped caring about what I did long ago.”

I have already determined in my mind that I will not tell you about the fact that we are now divorced, and how that came about. That will just complicate things and get in the way of the goal. How fitting that the woman who cheated on me and walked out is suffering from the very disease that was the reason why she left me. I’ll eventually let Frank know about you…but I don’t think it would hurt to test out my device on you. It’s the least I could do.

“Rebecca, what is the date?”

“April 1st, 2006”

“You mean 2008.”

“No…I mean 2006.”

“That’s strange….your memory of events and circumstances seem to be missing only the past month. But the date you’re telling me is two years ago.”

I spend the next half-hour or so convincing you of the date by various methods, many questions, and even more answers. You still think it’s 2006 though. Which would make your amnesia a two-year loss. But what is peculiar is that you remember everything up to last month, only you are off by two years on the date. This could be a new form of what is commonly known as “selective amnesia,” in which, for whatever reason, the brain forgets from both long- and short-term memory. This would confirm what I have found in my research — that amnesia is actually similar to a mutating and adapting virus, like cancer, and it can develop new symptoms, depending on the type of injury, area of the brain, or the level of stress from a variety of factors, which can include, among other things, cold feet after walking out on one’s husband, for example.

“So, what do we do?” you ask with some resignation, and surprising calm.

“Well, remember that machine I started working on with Frank a few years ago in our lab that is able to restore memory?”

“Yeah…the one you guys got a patent for last year…”

“Precisely. Well, I finished testing the final version of it this week. And it is fully operational. I’ve gotten approval from the FDA to get it mass produced by the highest bidder.”

“You’re sure it works…?”

“Yes, but we have to hurry up and apply the treatment as soon as possible. Memory and amnesia get harder to correct the more time that passes since the onset of symptoms.”

You are scared and nervous, and rightfully so, but what other options do you have? If your husband knows anything at all, it is his research. And for once, it looks like his research will do this marriage some good. Maybe — you think to yourself as you sit with your hand resting in your husband’s — just maybe this little ordeal can wake him up and give this thing a jolt of life — one more chance to make it work.

With a squeeze of my hand once again, which triggers all kinds of memories within me, you say with a soft, reassuring voice,  “Let’s go. I can’t be two years behind you. We just got caught up in our marriage.”

I pick up the copy of “A Second Person Love Story” off the ground and, as we walk out, my arm around your waist, I look for the discount table. Sure enough, there are about eight copies of “A Second Person Love Story” neatly piled up, with a sign on the table indicating that they are being sold at a “special” marked down price. “Special” my ass.

I knew the initial reviews were horrible. I knew the pre-sale orders didn’t total more than a literal handful. And I also knew, via my dimwit of an agent, that the book was already set to be remaindered — printing was stopped before it even made it on the shelves. That’s how badly it was received. But that’s not the issue. The agreement was that it would at least be given a shot at selling for the first month. It would be featured on the racks and given the same marketing as any other new release. The book stores were explicitly forbidden to remainder it until they had sold fifty percent of their initial stock. Needless to say, I’m a little irked.

“Hold on Rebecca. I’ll be right back. These idiots made a mistake.”

I grab the entire pile of “A Second Person Love Story,” head to the “New Release” stand and pile them up one by one, where everything written by “Kim” should be. I do this briskly and naturally, with purpose. A confused, scrawny boy at the register, his first day on the job, looks on, wanting to say something but too scared of my apparent authority.

I return to you, standing at the table near the door, with a worried look on your face, biting your lower lip.

“Honey…you could’ve just informed one of the employees to do that for–”

“Half of them wouldn’t know if a good piece of writing hit them upside the head. I’m not letting them handle my book.”

“Michael, I’m sure it was just a mistake. There is no reason to — “

“It’s all right, Rebecca. The problem’s solved. It’s okay.” I give you a smile as I place my hand on your back and lead us towards the door. “I’ve wasted too much time already. We have a much bigger problem to take care of. I’ve got to fix my wife.” I pull you in a little closer to me.

You haven’t felt this reassured and comforted in too long a time. In any other time, you would insist on me doing the most logical, reasonable thing, as you usually did. In this case, that would be to inform the employees of the error to ensure it doesn’t happen again. But the feeling of actual, real, genuine care coming from your husband, to you, in such a long time, is too valuable to ruin.

We walk out of the store.

I feel a slight tinge of guilt at what I failed to tell you. I conveniently left out the fact that I’ve been having some trouble balancing and controlling the extent of  the “curing” part. What the RE-beam does is focus an extremely concentrated laser beam of electrons and radiation into the medial temporal lobe of the brain, more specifically, the pair of hippocampal structures in there, which control both short-term and long-term memory. It alters the genetic make-up of the malfunctioning cells. The problem I’m having comes from the fact that, as I stated earlier, the very changes that “cure” retrograde amnesia (long-term memory loss) are the very mutations that cause anterograde amnesia (short-term memory loss). I basically haven’t been able to figure out a way to stop the machine from “over-shooting” and getting rid of one amnesia only to cause another one.

But I really believe — I could swear by my entire research, profession, and life — that it’s the rats that are the problem and not the device itself. A rat brain, although it’s very similar to a human’s, does not have anywhere near the level of complexity and variables. It is too simple. Going by my notes, what I found out last night was that rat brains did not know how to handle the “instructions” of the RE-beam and was simply defaulting to one or the other type of memory loss. A human brain wouldn’t do that. But I can’t convince the FDA, let alone the scientific community, of that. And I suppose Fate took matters into her own hands by dropping off my ex-wife here. If I could just see how it works on a human brain, I will be able to tweak it and make it precise enough to show it works for a rat brain as well.

I’m confident that with a human brain, I could even pinpoint and manipulate just how much memory loss to leave lost or how much memory to erase, if necessary…and as I hold you close to me at the edge of the street, hailing a taxi down, I can’t help but think of how much memory to leave erased to take back a marriage, and how much memory to restore to prevent the loss of a relationship.

I smile a little as I wave down a taxi with you holding onto –

*             *             *            *            *

I wake up in a smelly, old taxi that is being driven by a skinny black man with two-dollar sunglasses who is playing some Bob Marley a little too loudly. Am I drunk?  Was I drunk? There is a woman holding my hand, leaning on my shoulder. She smells like…she smells like my ex-wife. I look down at her as she looks up at me with a tense but calm look. She is my ex-wife. I immediately throw my hand out of hers.

Now, you may say that since I am writing the story (perhaps in my head at the moment), that I could just go back and see what happened, and how I got to be in this situation. You have always been the reasonable one in our relationship. You’ve told me many times that I’m too stubborn for logic. I could just return to the end of the exposition, where this wonderful story took flight, climbing higher and higher in suspense and intrigue…

But the problem is that I can’t seem to find the other pages. I don’t remember where I put them. And I don’t remember what I wrote on them anyway. They’ve got to be here somewhere…somewhere. When I do find them, I could make sense of all this. In the meantime, I am in a taxi with my ex-wife who recently cheated on me and married my best friend. I never knew so much anger could shoot up to my brain all at once.

“What the hell are you doing here?! What the hell am I doing here!?”

“Michael, honey, please…try to calm down. We’ll work through this.”

The volume of the Marley tune goes up a few notches.

“I…what?! You…you fuckin’ walked out on me!” I slam my hand down on the headrest in front of me.

She is taken aback. She leans away from me, her hand briskly leaving my arm, where it’s been resting the entire time — enduring, hoping, sticking around. The sad, helpless, and concerned look on your face is frozen for an instant as you take everything in and turn it over in your mind. Then everything shifts. The color, the resolve, the now firm, terse lips.

“Michael…we’re on our way back to our house, to your lab. You just told me I had retro-fuckin’ amnesia and spent an hour convincing me it was 2008!”

My mind can’t focus on anything other than, “You walked out on me!”

“Yes, Michael, I did. Like I’ve done before. If it wasn’t for this damn book release of yours, I might have done it again…for the LAST time. I hear the book is horrible. You’re not a writer. You’re a damned doctor. A doctor who only has his precious research to live for while driving away every last person in his life.”

The book. That damned book. It is an inevitable failure. And you’re right…I have no one. I have nothing left. This research is all I have now. All I’ve had for quite a while. And who the hell cares if it works or not?

“I…I have…I just don’t know what’s going on anymore. My research, my life, our marriage…everything is just…a blur.”

There is a short silence. We’re now on opposite sides of the cab, both staring ahead. She turns her head and just looks at me for several seconds, eyes brimming with tears.

The story is shifting back and forth from a third to a second person, and possibly a first person mixed with that second person. In fact, it’s been shifting like that for the whole story but it’s only gotten blatantly noticeable and bothersome because the shift from second to third alters the way a character is seen. Frankly, it’s confusing the hell out of me too. The story seems to be shifting perspectives on its own. I can feel it intruding on my mind, limiting the axis, perspective, and point of view on which the story hinges. The story is having trouble revolving around both “you” and “I.” I should have seen this coming. A story can’t have two narrative points of views at the same time. Even if it does, sooner or later, it has to settle down and pick one or the other. If it’s any solace, like I said, this is all a bit disorienting for me, the author, as well. It’s like I’m not being presented with all the facts to write my story with. It’s constantly shifting, changing, evolving, just when I think I have a firm, solid grasp. All I know is there’s a certain gravity picking up on one side, a resolution, perhaps an epiphany — a slow creeping realization of reality that is pulling everything down with an enormous force into an inescapable, powerful, spiraling conclusion.

Rebecca wipes a tear away just as it begins rolling down her cheek.

“Come on, Michael, honey…you’re a mess. We’re both a mess. I don’t know what the hell is messed up anymore. According to you, I have amnesia. According to me, you’re falling apart. You need to get out of that lab. These memory lapses of yours…they’ve been happening too much lately. And judging by today, they’re getting a lot worse. If anything, they’re rubbing off on me. You almost exploded on me earlier this morning as well. And there was that small lapse last week, and the week before… Your work…it’s destroying you.”

“I did the same thing this morning?”

“Yeah…you did. Before you told me about my ‘retrograde amnesia.’ Before you told me it was 2008. Before I believed that nonsense,” she says with a tear and sob-muffled laugh. “It’s time, Michael. You need to stop and get yourself help. For both of us.”

“Okay…okay. You’re right. I’ll take a break from my research. We’ll get things straightened out.”

I take your hand and hold it firmly in mine. We both smile with contentment, and relief, that two souls who are apparently in different points in time, with seemingly different pasts and different futures, even possibly residing in different states of minds, can somehow find some place to meet in all the mess — and find some hope…together.

The taxi driver figures it is safe to interject as he finally turns down the music. He glances up through the rear-view mirror and yells out in a thick Jamaican accent, “You know, miss, if the date’s what you’s arguin’ about…your man is right. It is 2008.”

And just then, as if right on cue, the dee-jay on the radio exclaims, “All right! April Fool’s 2008 is finally here! What are your plans for today!? Call in to…”

You look over at me, your face turning slightly pale, eyes frantically searching for confirmation, as if you can’t believe what you just heard. For a few moments, I can only mirror the expression. I have to think fast.

“Rebecca…I need you to tell me exactly what I told you earlier, before we got in this cab.”

With an apprehensive but steady voice, she fills me in on what we discovered at the bookstore.

“Michael…can that device of yours fix all this?”

“Yes, I’m going to fix this right now.”

I know the machine is operational. I just haven’t tested it yet. But I know it works. And…and I know I can still save this marriage in the process. I’ll restore your memory up to last month, before you walked out on me. It doesn’t matter that I’m cheating the system! You don’t need those other memories. We’ve proved in this taxi cab that we don’t need any of them. We’re just fine together. You’ll wake up after your procedure, and I’ll apologize for forgetting you, for neglecting you. I can fix this. And…my research doesn’t have to completely die. You’ll be more supportive now…I mean, we’ll both be more supportive of each other. I can fix this.

*          *          *          *          *

We arrive at our house, and race downstairs to my lab.

You gasp at the condition of the room. It looks nothing like a lab. There are piles of papers strewn all over the equipment, and there are pens — broken, spilling out, new, empty boxes of them — all over the place. The microscopes and high-tech tools and all the cords that go with them are buried under more papers and dust. A few chairs, desks, and rolling equipment shelves have toppled over, and have gathered so much dust, it looks like they fell over months, maybe years, ago.

“Oh…just ignore all this. The device is in the other room. C’mon.” I pull you along as you stare dumbfoundedly at the mess.

Just then, someone else’s footsteps are heard coming down the stairs to the lab. We both stop.  It’s him. That bastard. Frank Turner. My friend, my colleague, my wife’s lover, in that order. He’s bigger than me. But all I can feel is my anger rising…

I turn to face him as he runs straight to me and lands a hard punch right on my jaw.

“Frank!” she screams. “What are you doing?!” She hurries over to me as I hold my face and lie crumbled on the floor.

Frank gives a flash of a pained, tortured expression. “Becky…sweetie, I’m your husband now…I won’t try to explain much of anything to you when you’re like this, but it will all come back in time. Your memory loss…it’s temporary. Just sit down here on this chair.” He steps forward and pulls you away from me to help you sit down.

Rebecca looks like you are at the limit of any sanity or understanding. A glimmer of some understanding, some recall…all being overcome by a deep blankness of confusion and a wave of fear, are shown on her smooth, oval face. A plume of dust rises from the cushion seat as she sits. You can’t think, you can’t move, and I can’t bring yourself to utter a single word. All you can do is watch the events unfold.

I groan, and slowly pick myself up off the ground. I’m weaker than I thought I was.

Frank steps forward. “Becky called me this morning. Said she had to stop by to pick up some stuff. She was supposed to come here with me, but she didn’t listen…she didn’t realize how dangerous you were.” He stands between you and Michael — watching me, guarding you.

“Dangerous? No no no, Frank…Rebecca has retrograde amnesia. What the hell happened while she was with you for the past month? It’s a two year loss, Frank. I brought her here to cure her with the RE-Device, which I have finally completed.”

“Cure her? Just look at this place, Michael!”

My eyes narrow. I’m going to show this incompetent, wife-stealing bastard what exactly I have been working on. I step over chairs and over-turned tables to get to my desk and grab my folder of notes. They’re a little torn up and unorganized, with some of its pages scattered around the room. I toss them on the desk in front of him. “There! Look. That is my work for the past two years. It’s all there. I’ve done it, Frank. It’s about time you acknowledge my success.”

“Mike…you’ve completely lost it, haven’t you?” His voice takes on an entirely different, almost pitying tone as he flips through the notes, scanning them with a sigh. “These are notes and fragments for that collection of ‘stories’ you wrote two years ago. Nothing is real in here. Look…this is the last page of the book!”

I feel dizzy, nauseous, and confused. What he says does ring vaguely familiar in some hidden corner of my memory. I sink down on a pile of pens and papers. “What?…What are you talking about?”

“None of the reports and ‘findings’ you have been sending out have been published. You’ve been sending them ever since the research for the RE-Device started to fail, and my book didn’t sell…and Rebecca walked out on me…maybe these “reports” were just your denial. Or a joke. That’s what every scientist in the community thought they were. Mike, what I were sending were all revisions and re-workings of this damned book. We didn’t know it was this bad though. We just didn’t know…” His voice trails off as I sigh and take a step closer, squatting down beside me. “Damn…the once great Dr. Michael Kim….”

I shake my head and stare up at me. “But…the RE-Device. It works.”

“The RE-Device…Mike, I’ve said it all along. All it can do is induce symptoms of amnesia. And only temporarily at that, with no real accuracy either, especially when it’s used to manipulate a chunk of memory beyond even a week. You started testing the device on my own a few weeks after Rebecca walked out. And my guess is that exposure to it has been inducing an artificial anterograde amnesia, resetting my short term memory every night. I’ve been setting your calendar in the morning and resetting my memory at night.” Frank looks in at me with a soft, sympathetic expression.  “Mike, my mind has been stuck in one month for the past two years…”

I feel my head squeezing tight. My mouth is dry and my stomach is turning. The room begins spinning around in circles. “What…what about Rebecca? What’s happening?” I ask to no one in particular.

“I exposed her to the RE-Beam this morning and put her on the bed before I woke up. I was desperate to get her back. To erase everything and start over.”

“What…?”

“Mike, I’ll get me help. I’ll be all right. While my damage is extensive, there’s no reason to think it isn’t just as reversible as mine. Permanent brain damage has not been documented with the RE-Beam, as far as I know.”

My notes come tumbling down from the desk and land beside me. I look over to see the last word, the last letter, and the last period of the final page, just before everything goes blank again.

And again.

And again.

Blank.

.

.

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._______________________________________________________

“Amnesia and Memory: Man” by Zhang Xiaogang

Songs of the Day:

Johnette Napolitano – “The Scientist (Coldplay cover)”
Camera Obscura – “Tears for Affairs”
The Mountain Goats – “You or Your Memory”
Elbow – “Forget Myself”