The woman I live with deleted her memory again. I don’t know why she keeps doing this. Why she feels the need to go to the Memory Eaters every time her heart gets broken. I’m surprised she even knows who she is, her brain nothing more than a patchwork quilt of disconnected memories.
I watch her as she cries, but I know I can’t go to her as I’d like, because let’s face it, I’ve been to Memory Eaters, too. They made a mistake with me though, or maybe she paid them to, I don’t know. I’ve heard her talk on the phone about the one that got away and I sometimes wonder if it’s me.
I guess Memory Eaters was a good idea on paper. Offer a service to the public with the tagline: “Got a bad memory you’d rather not have? We can erase it forever.” It’s interesting to note that the company never said what happened to the “eaten” memories. Were they truly gone forever or did they just store them to sell to other clients? Maybe like old junk in an attic, your trash was someone else’s treasure. And with that thought in mind, could you erase one memory and pay to have another inserted in its place? I’m sure someone out there has the answer, but like me, they ain’t talking.
For me, it’s because I can’t. A direct result of what she calls the accident, I have been rendered without the power of human speech. Though I think she may have felt remorseful over the incident, nowadays she takes it in stride, and only rarely does she carry that apologetic look on her face. She just sets the water bowl and food dish before me and watches me lap it up. I think somehow she finds it amusing that I was once her boyfriend, and now thanks to Memory Eaters and their “accident”, I am a dog, or at least I think I am.
“Memory Eaters” 2002 Paul D Aronson. All Rights Reserved.