Memories
I direct the woman to sit down on the examination table and instruct her to lean forward while I shave her hair before I attach the nodes. She complies mutely, passively, but I can read the desperation in her body. Being in this line of work, I see a lot of desperate people. People trying to make enough money to pay the bills, addicts who need it for their next high, even parents like this one trying to care for their child. You’d think I’d get used to seeing this part of humanity, but I don’t. I manage to maintain a clinical tone as I instruct the woman to lay face down.
I grab the nodes from the countertop and apply the Mnemonica gel, then attach them, one by one, to the woman’s head. She flinches every time the cold nodes touch her newly bare scalp. I don’t speak as I prep the computer, a process that takes five minutes or so. The gel has to sit on the client’s head for a cooling period of at least two minutes, so I can’t prep the computer before attaching the nodes. It is uncomfortable for the clients, I’m sure, but nothing can be done. The computer whirs to life and I click the necessary buttons.
“Think about the memory you wish to sell, please,” I instruct the woman, “give it your full attention.”
The woman whimpers slightly, and a moment later I see a blurry image appear on the screen, then fizzle out. That’s not unusual, rarely does a memory take on the first try.
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“Again, please.”
The same thing happens, with slightly more success. The memory has an odd discoloration, but that might be because of the strong emotional connection to the memory. I’ve seen it before with similar memories.
“Again.”
The image comes into focus and it’s golden. Bright and beautiful, this woman’s little boy as an infant laughing as only an infant can. Mesmerized, I stare for a moment, almost too long before I click a few buttons, extracting the memory. The woman goes limp. This also is normal. She will experience some confusion when she comes to, but other than that there will be little to no adverse side effects.
Later that evening, before I shut down for the day, I replay every memory to make sure everything transferred the way it is supposed to. When I get to the golden memory, I play it again. And again. I’m not sure why this memory has such a strong appeal to me. I’m a single woman in her late thirties; I’ve never been in a serious relationship, and I’ve never wanted children. But this memory . . . there’s something so beautiful about it. I don’t know how many times I replay it before I decide to do something very illegal.
I will implant the memory into my own mind.
