Remember (39 page)

Sara curls her legs up on the seat. “Oh, that's just a triggering mechanism to start looking at what you have remembered. We program that in also, just a few key words, that’s it. The rest is to relax you so you can accept the memory as your own.”

“I’ll have to look into it more.”

“Ready?”

“Yes.”

Sarah is sitting close to me in her chair. She takes my hand in hers. Sarah says in her lullaby voice, “Take deep breaths along with me… one… two… three… four… five… six… seven… eight… nine… and ten. Allow yourself to completely relax. You are in a safe place. Nothing you remember can hurt you. You can remember every detail of your last dream. You can remember what it means to you. You have everything needed to do as I ask. You just have to trust the Process. You have the memory in your grasp. You have to trust the memory. You have to let the memory fill your consciousness. You have every…”

(—)

I go up to meet with Gary. Last week, I convinced him to meet once a day, before that once a week. We mostly talk about his…

Wed 8/30/17 2:35 p.m.

…a
lcoholism. The meetings fill the standard slot between Gary and each of the various directors, even ones in training. I walk right in after waving to Morgan. Gary gave me almost exclusive access to his apartment, if I’m needed. I start taking off my shoes.

Last night a dream visited me, probably of my own creation.

(—)

A gang of pirates circle on all sides — ensnaring me on the deck edge — poised with all manner of weapons from cutlasses to blunderbusses, rapiers to muzzle-loaders, almost anything scrounged from on-board, including a kitchen knife or two. What right do these scoundrels possess on Her Majesties Ship Du Nord, save death? The guile to even threaten one of the last remaining crew. The trusty sword deployed from scabbard, wielded in my hand tests the veracity of this threat. Found trustworthy, a few backward steps throw me over deck and rail to the dozen flashes of muzzle flare and insistent stares into the deep blue sea.

The coat and pompous dress of the British Navy plunges me into the warm (but still suffocating) depths of these shallow seas. I strip off everything down to skives, while I'm swept away by the currents, away from the ship burgeoning with ordinance and ready to blow. I resurface with a life saving gasp for breath, choking it down, and giving it another, more successful go. Something forces me under, maybe my own action, as right on cue the ship blows into shards, shaking the water, coloring the air, and raining down charred wooden chunks. The surface lures me back for a cheer and a laugh, hanging water from the pocket knife purchased on leave, drips back home.

Swim, swim, and swim as far as my arms will allow. And keep on. Stop not till safe harbor. Such harbor finds me on the back of a pink-fleshed whale, offering up a perch to witness the smoking, adrift wreckage my destruction wrought. Floating refuse and supplies arrive by current, namely citrus and a cargo full of desiccated mint leaves. Easy retrieval of a few oranges adds some refreshment in the hot tropical sun. I open my necklace bound knife, carve a V through the skin, grip the peeled portion between thumb and knife, peel off, and repeat. Separate a segment, ingest, and revel in the slightly waxy capsules containing a sweet, acidic concoction, with eyes closed of course.

They open to something completely different, my lips wrapped around M's, hands holding her shoulders, and her hands snaked under the back of my shirt — reality for a change. Enough. I push her away, and she releases as if it hurts. M tightens her robe, covers her exposed shoulder, and turns to the rain drenched window, gazing at the bare tree straining in the wind. I look through her still wet hair to her neck in the amber light of fire, so much so that the brightness blooms and turns to daylight. M clutches the window frame with white knuckles, mumbling something.

"He did this to me, that sicko." She trembles, before spinning around and gasping with a hand to her chest. "Fuck, how many times do I have to tell you? Don't do that."

The room darkens to a flickering blood red, in time for M to swipe away tears under her eyes, and look into dwindling fire. I circle ‘round to her back, approach, and message her shoulders. "I need to see what that monster did."

M loses the wrap around tie, I free the hem, ease it off her shoulders, and let it drop without protest from M, expecting her smooth back. The burns assault me eyes, nothing worse than I've seen, but still the ideas that possessed him stun, rape, and murder my faith in humanity, resurfacing feelings of relief brought on by escaping the insanity of human life. The staccato triangular scars carve out the initials GS. What is the cost G? Me.

I spin M around, wrap her in my arms, and just hold her tight, whispering "This isn't over," over and over again. M cries into me, shaking as the sobs rack her body. I hold her at arm’s length, and say, "By blade or barrel, you will have retribution."

I leave M there, naked, tear soaked, weeping, hair wet, moist legs and body in front of the dying fire. I grasp one door handle, lead it over to the other, and pull both closed. I walk at a blurring speed with hands tucked into pockets, scrunching up the bottom of my sport jacket, un-tucked dress shirt, and the stretched open tie flaps and whips in the air. A burst of urgency frees my hands and lights the surroundings as in day. Reaching G's door, I pound it gently (my strength could easily throw the door free of its hinges) still concussing the air with loud bangs.

Inside, G boasts about his exploits, "I marked her as mine in every way possible. All with an enthralled audience." Bang, bang, and bang. G twists and unlatches the door, opening a gap, while remote controlling the vid chat off, over his shoulder.

I slide through the gap, close it behind, and take in the roaring fire, bed-clothed G, sheet strewn bed, along with empty dinner tray. G announces, "Care for a drink?" Without my answer, he helps himself, turning around and offering again. In the intervening time, a metallic nodule forms in my left palm, growing behind my back, and stopping as a huge semi-auto. I draw into hands, pump out all six shots, the first through the heart bisecting the liquor bottle, and the rest through lungs, guts, and lower. A new cartridge materializes in my other hand right upon ejecting the other clip from the spent weapon and once again pumped into the slowly falling G.

The weapons vanish as they appeared, replaced by a dagger in each hand. A quick jump of 2
meters lands me over G's splayed legs with a dagger in each lung. What a waste of good blood. I right myself, review the scene, walk away, hearing rushing footsteps, a weepy scream, and a body falling besides G. I'll be here for you and yours, M.

(—)

At the time, it felt like another dream someone put in my head. After a few hours sleep and waking up, I realized the true meaning was not hurting Gary. The message to myself: Gary needed help before he messed up something important. That would likely have ended up my responsibility. That's at least what I thought. No one except Morgan, Gary, and I even know what his is doing.

Gary tied my hands when it came to treatment. My research tells me, treatment based on percentage of blood alcohol works best. The closest thing I have experience with is heart failure. The worse the diagnostic test results, the more intense the treatment. Gary refused medication to help him get better. He wants to wait for minor alcohol toxicity before intervening. I just monitor his blood toxicity levels and haven’t been able to change his mind. My shoes are on a shelf.

I enter the apartment. Yesterday, he hovered at 12 percent. At anything over 20, he will start becoming unresponsive to most stimuli, a conservative value but still. Gary offered access to the medical data collected by his tech. He is at 13 percent now, and it's 3 in the afternoon.

I look for Gary and find him outside the window to the balcony. The glass door just inside the apartment leads me there. Neighboring windows reveal the array of plants out there. The window at the shorter end of the seat shows his bedroom. It always displays the same thing, his room neater than truth. I step out to join him. He covets a glass in his hand, almost full. The same decanter lounges on the table next to him. I need to somehow convince him to get treatment.

I take a seat on one of three padded stool around a glass topped cantilever table. “How are you feeling, today?”

“Nothing a drink won’t fix.” Gary takes a sip with a spill. "Shit."

“Are you sure you are just fine. I’m concerned about your alcohol level.”

Gary leaves his stool for the table, with drink. “Don’t worry. If alcohol’s my way I go, you can’t change anything about that.”

“You know that isn’t true.”

“I don’t care! Just leave me alone.”

Gary runs up the stool to the tabletop, putting his foot on the rail, like a conquering pirate with a glass instead of flag. Gary just stands there unmoving, as if challenging me to stop him. The intention is clear, the threat of walking off the balcony. I’m not sure what to do. If he wanted to do it, he would have done it alone. I can use that.

“You don’t want to do this. You know I’ll stop you.” I hold onto his foot.

“I want someone to remember me doing this.”

I stand up still holding his foot. “You don’t want to do this.”

I reach up and grab his wrist, instead. He can jump at any minute. I can’t do anything to stop that. I just have to show him, I want him to stay here. With firm, gentle pressure I pull him back. He starts helping me get him down. He didn’t want to do it. I just helped him figure it out.

He sticks his glass over the rail. What is he doing? This must mean something. I can’t figure out what. What should I do? I take a breath to stay calm. I have to put a stop to this “game”. I have to get him inside somehow. How?

“How about this, I just drop this glass on someone down below?” He peeks over the railing.

“You don’t want to do that.”

“Stop telling me what to do!” In his excitement, a small amount of liquor makes the trip to the street below in a little over 2 secs.

“Gary, I’m trying to figure out what you want. Just give me the chance.”

“I want to drop this glass, all 170 feet to the pavement.”

“No you don’t.”

I grab his arm and steadily pull back. Gary helps me get the glass down on the table. I put myself between Gary and the railing. I don’t want him doing anything like that,
again
. My willingness to help him any way possible convinces him to go inside. He sits on the widow seat just inside the door, while I get the tray with the decanter inside. I lock the door for added measure and put the tray on a table near Gary. I have a chance to make him get treatment. I just have to take it.

“You know what this means? I have to report this to the Security Division.”

Wed 8/30/17 3:04 p.m.

“Y
ou can’t,” Gary wails.

“I have to. If any of my patients do anything that puts themselves or others in danger, I have to report it.”

“You can’t!” He starts pounding his fists into the seat. I wait for him to stop. He looks away contemptuously. That can’t make me go away.

“I know you are worried about the Stephens Institute. When people find out about your drug problem, the Institute is bound to fail. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes!” He beseeches me with his eyes.

“I can let it go, if you agree to get treatment. Will you go to treatment?”

“If you are making me.”

A non-committal answer won't do.
“Will you go to treatment?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, you stay here. I will get you in the computer, under a pseudonym. You’ll have to cover your face. I can get you some gauze for that.”

Gary gets his drink, empties the glass in three big gulps, and gets another glassful. I look through the wall of cabinets covering over the door and the rest of that wall, finding sheets for the bed. Clothes stored for different weather. Pots and pans for cooking. One or two cupboards completely empty. Medical supplies. Three rolls of gauze occupy one side. Different dressings, compresses, bandages, and suture kits adorn the back wall. The right side harbors medication patches given to tech for administration. Stuff like cold meds, sleep aids, anti-histamines, and other meds. The coagulation modifiers, pain meds, and emergency meds kneel in the front. I grab two of the three rolls. With the gauze in my hands, I reconsider. Gary grew a stubble beard from a few days inside. Just a hat is enough.

Gary busies himself lovingly pouring another drink.

I need to get the pseudonym ready and agree searching for a hat last.
“Gary, I’ll be right back. Don’t do anything crazy.”

I leave him there, since I don’t have a choice. In his unpredictable state, the only comfort is I provoked the first episode. Leaving him to his own devices isn’t going to be a prob. I go to the cabinets, push on the center one, the door slides towards, a handle pops forth, and I open the door. Put on my shoes.

What Gary is doing is uncommon. People struggle affording real alcohol. Gary and others in high positions retain the means to get it. Sim drinking never encroaches totally drunk, with a max ethanol toxicity of 5 percent. Ethanol medication patches provide a hack around. The user sets the target toxicity level and the tech maintains it, if possible. This tech enabling efficiently facilitates alcohol inebriation. In fact, only one store barters in old-fashioned alcohol here within the confines of Mountain Overlook, costing anywhere from 1 meal to 5 meals, adulterated stuff mixed with a cocktail of other drug (might cause Gary's behavioral swings). Gary’s income buys the real stuff.

With my shoes on, I leave the room and go through the serpentine hallway to the office. Morgan abandoned her desk for a late lunch. Gary simple runs her around with responsibility. She hangs on to her tech for just times like these. I enter Gary’s office, which he has given me access to also. Behind the desk, I pull out my pad and the computer flashes to life in this just amazing office.