The Memory Therapist - ONC 2020

Chapter Two

I guess I didn't make myself clear before. I studied to be a memory therapist to protect myself. No one suspects someone like me to be committing these atrocities only to share them in my sessions.

I wasn't here to help rehabilitate these 'pre-criminals'. No. It was so that I could implant my memory to multiple people, and no one would know who had the real memory. Each patient left truly believing that they committed the crime. Not to mention it wasn't strange that I knew the details as I would have had to watch it myself.

It definitely made being a detective more of a challenge - but I guess they need to follow the evidence more now. So it's a good thing I never left any.

Bonus points to me, too. They never suspected a woman. We just weren't capable of being violent apparently.

The irony wasn't beyond me. I knew that I should be a patient. But I wasn't naive. I knew the difference between an implanted memory and a real one. I studied it. I know what blood really feels like on my hands.

My method of acquiring memories is what makes me the best in the business and why everyone refers their patients to me. Why have a standard simulated memory downloaded from the internet when you could have an authentic memory?

"Dr. Rayne Clowd?"

Damn hippie parents. I know my name is terrible - perhaps that is why I murder people. I couldn't control my name, but I can control when they live or die. That's what a real therapist might say to me. If I saw one.

I turn my head to see my receptionist, Phil, in the door way. He looks as if he has been trying to get my attention for a while now. I haven't heard a single word.

"Is time up already?" This one isn't a complete idiot and he knows I'm referring to the cleansing of the room. As a precaution, it is procedure to keep the room quarantined for 20 minutes before opening it. Just in case there is smoke lingering around.

Which is rare. These patients use the treatment as if it was a drug - they wouldn't let any of it go to waste.

Phil is terrified of the possibility of seeing my memories though, not that he knows they are mine. He's never had to watch anything on my computer, unlike myself who needed to ensure the memory was perfect for the client. There was some worry that an unsatisfied client would leave only to commit the crime that they came here to feel instead.

I have a sense of pride knowing that my clients leave here very satisfied.

I usually got a file before the client came in with their preferences to ensure that I had something to please them. If I didn't, I simply went out and got them what they needed. It was a win/win. I get some relief and I have a lucrative business.

Most professionals referred their basket cases to me. And boy did I have a colourful basket of sickos. It was a good thing that I wasn't picky. If I stayed rigid to my victims selection and murder weapon I would be discovered. But since other people were picking the victim types and how they were murdered, creating a profile would be near impossible.

"It is."

"Alright, Mr. Ross. That concludes our session. Next time, let's talk about what you experienced in more detail, okay?" I couldn't force patients to discuss the memory, though I did encourage it. Some would chat enthusiastically about it, while others like Mr. Ross just sat in quiet bliss.

Obviously, I enjoyed talking patients better. It's nice to know when people admire your art.

Mr. Ross only nods in my direction before getting up and slinking out of the room. I estimate that he will be back within two weeks.

Phil follows the patient out - he has to process the claim of the session so that we get paid. Thankfully, Phil is more competent than my last assistant and won't be bothering me for the remainder of the day. Which is ideal as this is the best time for self-reflection.

I'm now sitting behind my computer, adding notes about Mr. Ross' reaction to the video. It's part of the job and for my own benefit. If you aren't growing in your craft, you won't get better after all.

Within several minutes, Phil's poking his head back into my office. "Yes?" I try not to sound irritated but I am.

"Dr. Clowd, Mr. Ross is processed -"

"Perfect. Thanks for your help, Phil. You can head on home - there's no more appointments today. Scheduled anyways." Who knew when someone would have the urge to murder someone? Speaking from experience, it wasn't exactly a 9-5 job.

Despite everyone in my life saying that Phil is perfect for me, I can't see it. I wouldn't say I love him, but he's not on my kill list. So I guess that means something. He isn't a complete idiot and sure, he is handsome. It has also been pointed out to me that he is my age. As if those three things amounted to soulmates. Maybe it was because he was the longest assistant that I've ever had that people saw chemistry when there was none.

Regardless, I have no time for a normal life between my job and creating memories. Priorities.

But it's the possibility of him being interested in me that is saving his job. Feelings are such an easy thing to use against someone. None of my other assistants have lasted because I couldn't have the level of control over them like I have with Phil.

Despite my dismissal, he remains by the door with a concerned look on his face. When he doesn't turn to leave I ask, "Is there something else?" I silently plead that he's not worked up the courage to ask me out.

He clears his throat before he states, "The police are here."