MONO ISSUE 2 - Flipbook - Page 66
the sofas, and chairs are a glossed leather. The office is dark like a cave, with glowing
lamps casting shadows over books. Lots of books. The same citrus scent permeates
the air in the room. Even the large chair I sit in smells like oranges. An orange envelope
sits in front of her. This time her nails are a baby pink.
“I’m going to hand you a series of pictures. I want you to tell me if you recognise the
images.”
I nod, rolling the chair closer to the large oak desk. So large, Dr. Roger’s looks like a
small girl behind it. This feels like kindergarten, only the photos are of my life. People,
Animals, Places, Things. I mean: “Animals, Places, Things,’ since humans are animals,
too. She lays a picture in front of me. I take it and feel warm. “It’s Cuddles.” Cuddles is
my eight-pound chihuahua. She smiles, sitting another picture on top. I grin
sardonically, “Highschool.”
Come to think of it, I should've had them blot that out, too, but I’m sure that would
have cost all my limbs. This goes on, with me pointing out pictures of friends, family,
and other points of value in my life. There were only a handful of pictures I could not
explain: the image of a woman, a man, a child, a cat, a house, a service station, and a
park. Dr. Rogers gathers the pictures back into the envelope, and hands them all to
me, except for the ones I did not recognize. “These are yours.”
“So, it worked?”
Yes, all of your memories are intact—except for the one you wanted destroyed.”
So, it was just one memory. One as in one event, or one person or a single series of
events or series of events with one person? I did not know. My heartbeat jerks around
a bit. I peek again at the pictures I could not identify. A woman sits on top of the
others, with green eyes, freckles around a wrinkled nose, and a wide grin. Whoever the
woman was had been genuinely laughing when the picture was taken.
“Now remember, the first few hours to days, you may experience some depression,
anxiety related to fear, and curiosity of the lost memory, but it is best to distract
yourself. Also, make sure to show up for the mandatory memory grief sessions for the
next three weeks. After which, you can decide whether to continue the meetings or
not. Many patients do not need them after a session, but we do require the 3-session
adherence.”
I nod, still staring at the contagiously happy woman.
“How do you feel—?”
Someone taps at the doctor’s door, and Dr. Rogers winks at me. “Can I help you? I’m
with a patient.”
“Take about 30 seconds,” a male voice pleads, and I wonder if he is a past patient or
staff. He sounds desperate.
“Can it wait?” She smiles at me, embarrassed. She knew I had paid for state-of-theart attention. “It can’t,” the man whines.
She stands up, meeting whoever urgently needs her at the door. I can only hear
whispers. Spontaneously, I yank the picture of the smiling girl from the stack, shoving
it into my purse. The voices stop, and the door closes. Dr. Rogers sits down, using her
elbows as a stand for her almond face. “Please forgive that.”
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