The Memory Therapist - ONC 2020

Chapter One

After years of studying memory technology, I never would have imagined that I would be where I am today: hearing a patient's violent fantasies. This is my specialty though, this is what I chose. The more brutal the fantasy, the more likely they were referred to me to treat.

Of course there are controversies to my line of work. Half believed that I was an enabler of these dark impulses while the other half believed I was saving countless lives through this treatment. Then there were the radical religious groups who thought we should burn in hell for distributing snuff porn.

No denying that that's essentially what I provide. Violent memories to help release their urges.

In my defense though, it's not like I went to university to provide pre-criminals with gratification. But after graduating 10 years ago, I have found myself here as a memory therapist.

I could have worked in a hospital, providing the beautiful sound of music to deaf people through memories. Or have provided a beautiful sunset to a blind man, so real that they would cry at the sensation of sight. But those experiences wouldn't provide me with gratification.

So I find myself treating patients flagged by the standard therapist for violent tenancies. Depending on what their taste is for, they get sent to a memory therapist. It was my decision to pursue a specialization in murder fantasies.

The idea is that if the subject experiences these impulses without actually committing the crime, then they wouldn't actually commit the crime. The process was to save lives, not to heal whatever was wrong with the individual. There was no fixing that level of fucked-uppedness. I would know.

And since there is no fixing them, what I do can only be described as a life treatment. Whenever they felt the urge to do something, they would come for a session and leave believing they actually experienced it.

In theory.

"Mr. Ross," I ask after several moments of silence. He's one of my regulars and his visits have been increasing steadily. That is the biggest problem with this: serial killers. The intensity of the murders and frequency always increase, otherwise their thirst is never quenched.

When he doesn't respond I add, "What is it that you are craving today?"

"Kill the bitch," he replies. Helpful. I write his response down anyways. It helps the patient to feel like they are understood.

He's not much of a man. He's scrawny to the point of almost non-existent. Heroine will do that to you. If he ever did try to attack someone, I'm sure even the smallest of children could fight him off.

That's not my call to make though. As long as the government wants to keep funding these 'rehabilitations' to keep the community safe, then I would gladly keep accepting the money.

"How do you feel like doing it this time?"

"Acid." I simply nod at the request. Nothing fazes me anymore. His eyes are wild just at the thought. I would fear being in a room alone with him, if I didn't have 100 pounds on him.

"Lean back." He follows my instructions knowing that he is so close to the release that he wants.

I move to sit behind my computer from the classic therapist room - a comfy chair and a couch for the patient. It's nice with the regulars. I don't need to explain the process.

I open the file conveniently labeled "murder memories". Since I am meticulous, I have sub-folders listed in alphabetical order by murder weapon. And acid is near the top. It always intrigues me the ingenuity of the human brain and what it can create a murder weapon from. The file seems endless.

Within the acid folder, there are even more folders to choose from. More so to answer the question of how the murder weapon is used. People can get quite creative with even the simplest of objects. The world is a sick place.

He remains silent as I choose the memory that I want to share with him. It's a new one, and he's the first to request acid. Who knows when I would have a chance to put this memory to use if not now? Acid was a rare request.

After selecting the file I named injection, a loading bar appears on the screen. I fit a vial filled with black smoke into the computer and watch it move through the glass. Once the loading bar is full, the computer pushes the smallest of technological particles into the vial to mix in with the glass.

Normally here I would have to explain to the patient that these make up the five senses of the memory. It's what makes the treatment so successful - patients believe they are truly there committing the crime. They can feel the syringe as they push the liquid into the body. They can hear the screams of pain.

I remove the vial from the computer and approach Mr. Ross. "Are you ready?" He only nods enthusiastically. I place a surgical mask over my face and open the vial, releasing the techno-black smoke.

Mr. Ross inhales deeply, causing all of the black smoke to enter his nostrils. I can't see the memory that he is experiencing, but I know how long it is to last before he comes back to reality.

I sit across from him and assess his reaction to the latest memory that I've acquired for my patients. He visibly relaxes and smiles faintly while his eyes remain closed. I smile myself, knowing that he is enjoying the selection I made.

If only he knew he was watching my memory.