

                              Wall of Delusion

                          2000 by Jerry J. Davis



          Scott Hague couldn't feel the microscopic nanobots tunneling
    through his brain, but he noticed their effect. Every once in a
    while it was like a flashbulb had gone off in his small cell. He
    would jump, startled. The brightness would fade, leaving the
    gray-blue walls, wires, and medical equipment. Sometimes he could
    hear noises that he knew were not there. Voices from the past. His
    mother, his father, an occasional old friend, and ... his dead
    wife. One sound that happened over and over, torturing him, was
    his wife's laugh. It was right in his ear --- he could even feel
    her breath. He would give an involuntary start, and turn to see
    only the unblinking eyes of the monitoring equipment.
          The way Dr. Kline explained the nanobots and what they were
    doing, they sounded like happy little Disney creatures --- like
    microscopic dwarves singing "Whistle While you Work" as they
    tunneled their way though his brain, leaving sparking trails of
    connections. They were building a spider's web network so Dr.
    Kline could plug him in and peer into his memories. After they
    were finished they would die, or go away --- Scott didn't know,
    that part hadn't been explained to him. All he knew was that his
    brain would become compatible with Dr. Kline's computer network,
    and Scott would be reduced to a peripheral.
          Of its own violation, his arms or legs would suddenly give a
    jerk. Out of nowhere, Scott would give a single hiccup. Once his
    vision froze, like his mind had taken a snapshot picture and
    that's all he could see. Before he could worry about it the
    picture was gone, replaced by normal vision. It was annoying, but
    Scott always tried to look on the bright side. There was a good
    30% chance this would kill him. That would be such a relief. Scott
    felt he was the living dead anyway, he had ended his life as he
    knew it just a little over two years before. He had needed three
    shotgun shells, but fate had only given him two.

                                     #

          The clues that something was wrong kept appearing, sad
    little warning signs that Scott had tried to ignore but never
    forgot. A broken shoelace on the bedroom floor that did not belong
    to one of his shoes. A blue bandanna between the bed and the wall
    --- where did that come from? Terri washing the sheets when she'd
    just washed them the day before. Why? Checking under the bed
    because he couldn't find his shoes, discovering a disgusting,
    dried up used condom. They hadn't used condoms since he'd had his
    vasectomy. Could it have been there that long?
          Terri worked nights. Scott worked days. They had four hours
    a day together plus weekends. Scott never saw a problem with it
    until the sad little clues started chipping away at his
    willingness to ignore them. He didn't consciously admit to himself
    the reason why he took a day off from work and didn't tell Terri
    about it. He got up that day and prepped as usual, ate breakfast
    with Terri (it was her dinner), kissed her goodbye and left. Scott
    drove five blocks, parked, and walked back. There was an old
    1950's car parked in his driveway, shiny and lovingly maintained,
    and Scott knew exactly whom it belonged to. It was an intern that
    worked with Terri at the trauma center, a cocky jerk named John
    Wahler. That quick? Scott thought. John must have been sitting in
    his car waiting for me to leave!
          He crept into the house feeling like he was floating,
    feeling light and full of air. Like he was dreaming. He was
    detached, calculating, suspended in utter disbelief. Terri was
    cheating on him? Terri? A side of her he didn't know, his own wife
    ... they shared everything with each other, they told each other
    everything. He loved her with a conscious single-mindedness that
    he felt was pure and joyous. It had never occurred to him to
    mistrust her, to be jealous of her ex-boyfriends --- Scott simply
    accepted and loved her. She was it, his woman, his wife, and his
    life partner. How could it be otherwise with her?
          The bedroom door was open a crack and he peeked in. He heard
    noises, and expected to see him on top of her. It was a shock to
    see them side by side and upside down to each other, pleasing each
    other orally. All he saw was Terri's black hair and John's hairy
    legs.
          It was like a dark mask was pulled down over his face. The
    light seemed to go dim and his vision pulsed and flickered, the
    scene lit by flames. His chest hurt. Scott spun on his heal and
    rushed with terrible purpose to the hall closet, yanked open the
    door, and pulled out a long gun case. The sound of the zipper
    ripping open filled his whole head. He pulled the long, heavy gun
    out and then fumbled with his free hand for the box of shells on
    the top shelf. It rattled as he picked it up. There were only two
    shells. He didn't think about it, he just chambered them with a
    reflexive motion and walked back down the hall.
          "Scott?" It was his wife's voice. It sounded scared and
    startled. "Is that you?"
          He heard scrambling sounds and rustling cloth as he pushed
    the door open. John Wahler was hopping on one foot, trying to get
    into his pants. "Was it worth it?" Scott said to him. He let go
    the first shell, a shocking explosion in a small room. Fire
    blossomed out the muzzle of the long barrel, and skin and blood
    sprayed apart from John's hairy chest. It slammed him into the
    wall, his eyes bulging. Scott didn't see him fall. He turned the
    gun on his wife, who was on the other side of the room, naked, her
    mouth wide open. She was trying to scream but couldn't get enough
    air into her lungs.
          "Was it worth it?" Scott had to shout to hear his voice
    through the loud ringing in his ears. "Was it worth it?" He put
    the barrel right into her pretty face.
          A few seconds after he pulled the trigger, the horror of
    what he'd done wiped away the rage of her betrayal. He turned and
    became violently ill across the gore-spattered bed sheets. Lying
    there, shaking, finding it hard to breathe in the smoky room, he
    bitterly cursed fate for only giving him two shotgun shells.

                                     #

          Scott pleaded guilty and asked for the death penalty. The
    judge called it a crime of passion and gave him 20 years. For the
    first few months in prison all he could think about was how to
    kill himself. Having all that time on his hands and a single
    thought going through his head was worse than death. I deserve
    this, he thought.
          None of the guards or his fellow inmates ever gave him
    trouble. Everyone knew why he was there. It was as if the local
    gang leaders and the warden herself felt badly for him. It was the
    warden who approached him about the medical experiments. When it
    was explained to Scott that there was a possibility the procedure
    would leave him lobotomized or dead, Scott agreed to do it. The
    warden nodded to herself, as if it confirmed what she'd been
    thinking.

                                     #

          The FMA Center in Livermore was a long, four-story glass and
    brick building built in a semicircle, curved around a park with a
    fountain. From his cell window Scott could see the fountain; it
    was usually surrounded by medical personnel standing around in
    small groups, smoking their cigarettes. FMA, Scott learned, stood
    for "Federal Medical Authority." From what he could tell, the sole
    purpose of the FMA Center was for performing mandatory
    sterilization and abortions, and for conducting medical research
    using convicted felons. It was high security with auto-locking
    doors, metal detectors, and video cameras everywhere he looked.
    Scott never came in contact with any of the other prisoners. He
    only saw Dr. Louis Kline and armed guards --- and there were
    always armed guards around Dr. Kline.
          Dr. Kline ran him though a series of medical, psychological,
    and intelligence tests. Scott enjoyed the intelligence tests, as
    they were all trick questions and it appealed to his sense of
    humor. He thought they were funny. He gave a little laugh as he
    answered them, which made Dr. Kline frown. Scott couldn't tell if
    Dr. Kline was mad that he was laughing or because he wasn't
    falling for the tricks in the questions. "I'm going to tell you
    the truth," he said to Scott. "I don't like you."
          "I don't like me either."
          "I know." Kline, who was a small balding man with a gnarled,
    graying beard --- actually more hair on his chin than on his head,
    so that his face looked upside-down --- he looked over the top of
    his glasses at Scott, peering at him with owlish eyes. "I have
    strong reservations using someone with a death wish as a test
    subject. I prefer someone who hopes the experiments succeed."
          "If they do, they do. If not, then---?" Scott shrugged.

                                     #

               The nanobots finished their job. Scott knew before Dr.
    Kline told him, as the annoying flashes, spasms, and images grew
    less frequent then stopped completely. The fruit of their labors
    was a cerebral interface that allowed Dr. Kline to connect Scott's
    brain to a computer network. The idea didn't please him, but he
    was resigned to it. Kline used the interface to load very special
    software into Scott's brain that would give Scott --- and Dr.
    Kline --- complete control and access to Scott's memories. Dr.
    Kline called it a "memory browser."
          Scott closed his eyes and pictured something in his head,
    and there the image was on the computer screen. But also, Scott
    could picture the image of a three-dimensional spring, thick and
    red, looking like it was made out of shiny plastic. It was the
    control for the software. If he willed the spring to spin
    counter-clockwise it would take him back through his memories, and
    spinning it clockwise would bring him forward again. There was a
    numeric counter that had no real relevance except as a reference
    point for Dr. Kline's notes. When the spring was red, Scott saw
    the memories as still images, pictures from his past. Scott could
    will the color to change to green, and then the memories came
    alive.
          He saw Terri when she was twenty. Amazing how vivid the
    vision was --- it was like he was there, he was completely
    reliving the memory. They were at a friend's house, and she was
    being silly and childlike, rolling around on the floor and
    giggling, a bright-eyed, free-spirited dark haired girl. He was
    sitting at the living room table, talking to his friend's father,
    and she was there on the floor at his feet. Looking down at her
    smiling face, he slipped off his sandal and placed his foot on her
    bare midriff. She reached up and took hold of his leg, smiling at
    him, still giggling. It was the moment he fell in love with her.
          Dr. Kline took control; the spring turned red and then spun
    counter-clockwise. Memories were dim, then bright, blurry then
    sharp. Scott's mind had recorded every moment of his life, but the
    quality of the memory was only good when there was some importance
    attached to it. The next bright memory was from a day or so
    earlier. Scott was sitting with Terri and their friend Leo at a
    white metal table beside a swimming pool. The image of the spring
    stopped turning, and changed to green.
          Leo was a small guy, blond and skinny and always smiling. He
    was the one who'd introduced Terri to Scott. They were all dressed
    in tee shirts and shorts, a weekend during spring break. Scott had
    brought them all home to his parent's house from college.
          Another one of their friends, a redheaded guy named Kelly,
    was over in a corner of the yard beside a birdbath. He'd had too
    much to drink and was now on his hands and knees, puking. Scott
    was drunk himself --- as were they all --- he lurched to his feet,
    walking unsteadily along the swimming pool, and knelt by his
    redheaded friend. "You're going to be okay, Kel," he said. Leaning
    over, he put his arm around Kelly's stomach and hugged, supporting
    the stomach muscles as they contracted. He held on, lending
    support, trying to ignore the disgusting sounds and smells.
          Through the waves of alcohol, he heard Leo saying to Terri,
    "I could never do that. He's really strong to do that."
          "He cares," Terri said.
          "He's a good friend."
          Scott felt lifted by the words. Proud. Barfing was a hard
    thing --- he didn't want Kelly to go through it alone. Besides,
    Scott had bought the tequila that was making Kelly barf. It was
    partially his fault.
          The memory froze to an image, and receded away from Scott.
    It was no longer immediate and live. Again he perceived the
    phantom image of the spring, unmoving and red. He opened his eyes
    and saw Dr. Kline across the room tapping at a workstation
    keyboard. One of the two ever-present armed guards was giving
    Scott a strange look.
          "What was the significance of this memory?" the doctor asked
    him. "It's very vivid."
          "Oh" Scott felt his face flushing. "My wife told me it was
    the moment she fell in love with me."
          "The wife that you killed?" Dr. Kline said. "Interesting."
          Scott opened his mouth to tell him he'd only had one wife,
    just one, just one damn wife. One. But he let out his breath. Why
    be mad at Kline? Kline didn't kill Terri. He swallowed his anger
    and turned it inward, self-hate like needles in his heart.

                                     #

          Alone at night, Scott lay on the cot in his cell and
    mentally fiddled with the software hoping he'd crash it and give
    himself a lobotomy. He would go back five minutes, then back five
    more minutes, then forward five minutes, then back again until he
    got completely lost in his short-term memory, not knowing if he
    was reliving a memory or in the present. The clue, the giveaway,
    was if he willed the spring clockwise until it stopped and
    wouldn't go any further --- that was the present.
          He found he was reliving memories of reliving memories, and
    so on, and so on again, and he kept it up all night, hoping it
    would foul the programming code. Jam it up. Freeze his thoughts
    into some horrible hellish spiral. It didn't work, though. His
    memories of remembering --- no matter how compounded --- were just
    more memories. A guard had told Scott that this was how one of the
    other test subjects had died, going into a catastrophic seizure
    and expiring of heart failure. Unfortunately Dr. Kline must have
    fixed this bug, or the nanobots had done a better job in Scott's
    brain than they did in the other poor bastard's.
          Strange, though. He was lying there, deep in his repetitive
    memory review, and he suddenly got tired and annoyed and he sat up
    and said "Shit!" He got up and walked across the room and then
    back. But he realized this was a memory. He was in a memory. But
    he didn't remember  remembering it. He willed the spring to turn
    clockwise but it wouldn't budge. He was in the present. It was
    like he'd broken out of the memory into the present without
    transition. He was disoriented for a moment, but it quickly faded.
    He brought the memory back so he could review it, experience the
    transition, but there was nothing strange about it  it wasn't
    disorienting in retrospect. Except, oddly, the reference number
    readout jumped several numbers the moment he sat up.
          Scott wondered what that meant.

                                     #

          It was early morning but it was already hot, because this
    was the desert and the sun --- even the morning sun --- was harsh.
    Scott didn't really notice. He was used to it. To a young boy who
    had only known harsh sunlight and dry heat, this was just like any
    other day: he and a friend out in the desert beyond the small
    Tucson suburb where he lived. They were looking for horny toads
    but found a jackrabbit instead. It was trapped under a board, and
    his friend was laying on top the board, pinning the rabbit down.
    It was brown with soft fur. Scott couldn't believe they caught it,
    and he reached under the board and grabbed it by one of its back
    legs and pulled it out, and it kicked like mad and scratched the
    hell out of his arm before he could drop it. He barely saw the
    rabbit run off --- he was staring at the long ragged scratches and
    the blood running down his skin.
          His vision paled, receded. Scott became aware of the red
    spring and the index number. "How old were you here?" Dr. Kline
    asked him.
          "About seven."
          Dr. Kline tapped on his keyboard. He paused, peering long
    and hard at his workstation screen. Scott asked, "What do the
    reference numbers mean?"
          "They're just reference numbers. The lower the number, the
    further back into your memories we are."
          "How did you correlate a number to the age of my memories?"
          Dr. Kline paused, then pushed himself back away from his
    workstation, swiveling around in his chair to face him. "That was
    a very astute question." His eyes narrowed. "Who told you to ask
    me that?"
          "I was just wondering."
          "You were just wondering." Dr. Kline sounded doubtful.
          "Well, yeah," Scott said, "I mean  memories don't seem to
    be sequential things. They seem to be haphazardly stored. And,
    well, it seems unlikely that they're stored with any kind of date
    encoded in them."
          "No, they don't have any kind of encoding at all," Dr. Kline
    said. His voice was dry and deadpan. Suspicious. "What did you do,
    before you murdered your wife? You said you worked in a
    warehouse?"
          "I ran an automated warehouse system."
          "System?"
          "Yeah, I lived and breathed FIFO --- you know. First in,
    first out. My job was to store things and keep track of the date
    they were stored, so that the oldest was pulled first and
    shipped."
          "So, in your mind, you're trying to figure out the human
    brain and memories in the same terms you would storing packages in
    your warehouse?"
          "Well, not exactly, but----"
          "I see where you're coming from now. Okay. This research I'm
    doing, it's rather  delicate. Even though you're the person being
    experimented upon I can't tell you much about what I'm doing and
    what I'm looking for. But I can give you an answer to this The
    software in your brain is not accessing your memories directly
    though the hippocampus, like other researchers are doing. It's
    going through your temporal perception."
          "My, uh  what's that?"
          "There's a section of your brain that controls your sense of
    time. I can manipulate this time sense to retrieve memories that
    were stored at a specific time."
          "So even though time data isn't recorded with my memories, I
    have a section of my brain that  indexes the memories in a, um 
    sequential log of some sort?"
          Dr. Kline was shaking his head. "That's what I'm trying to
    find out," he said. "It must be  it's working. But part of my
    research is to understand how it's working."
          "That's interesting," Scott said. He wondered if he should
    tell Dr. Kline about the way he was able to cause the reference
    index to skip numbers. "Um"
          "Let's try going back even further," Dr. Kline said. Before
    Scott could interrupt him, the image of the spring brightened in
    his mind and began spinning counter-clockwise.

                                     #

          Scott's dinner tray always came with a little half-can of
    Coca-Cola. It was never enough, and he figured it was part of his
    punishment. He couldn't have a whole can, only a half-can. And
    they wouldn't give him more.
          In the silent, stale air of his cell, Scott ate his dinner
    mechanically and downed his half-can of soda --- an act that
    always left him wanting more --- and after he finished it, he
    replayed the memory of drinking it. He hoped that in some way it
    would be like drinking more. It didn't work, though, because the
    feelings of wanting were present in the memory. He went back
    again, remembering drinking it for the first time, then
    remembering the memory of drinking it. Still nothing. He went back
    one more time, and out of frustration he poured the soda onto the
    floor instead of drinking it.
          He stared at the foaming puddle of soda on the concrete as
    it spread, wondering how in the hell he'd done it. The empty can
    was in his hand. He looked at it and at the puddle again. I
    changed my memory? he thought. That was weird. Scott tried to will
    the image of the spring clockwise again, but it wouldn't budge.
          He was in the present.

                                     #

          "Of course it's possible to edit your memories," Dr. Kline
    told him. "We do it all the time, even without the intrusive
    software. I knew you'd discover this. I'd been expecting it any
    day now. There was a chance you wouldn't, and I was hoping for
    that  that's why I never brought it up. But now that it's on the
    table so to speak, here's the deal."  Dr. Kline leaned forward and
    spoke in a low, evenly measured voice. "With this software in your
    brain, you can edit yourself right into an impenetrable wall of
    delusion."
          Scott folded his arms across his chest, frowning. He hadn't
    really figured Kline out as a person, his motives, likes and
    dislikes, his quirks --- they were all a mystery to him. But the
    words the man was saying, the inflection in his voice, the
    expression in his eyes  it didn't ring true. "What do you mean?"
    Scott asked him.
          "If you start going back and editing your memories, you will
    cut yourself off from reality and go into a catatonic state. It
    won't help you or me."
          "How would editing my memories do that?"
          "It will change your inner reality and cut it off from outer
    reality."
          "You mean, I'll be insane?"
          "Yes." Dr. Kline fumbled with his watch. "Delusional
    catatonic. Completely turned inward. It's a really bad idea and
    I'm asking you not to do it."
          It occurred to Scott that not only was Dr. Kline lying, but
    also he was frightened. Frightened for Scott? Frightened for
    himself? Frightened that if he lost one more test subject that his
    funding would be cut off? Scott decided to play it safe and
    appease the man. "Okay," he said. "Becoming a delusional catatonic
    doesn't sound like a good idea to me, either."
          "Good," Dr. Kline said. "Good. Good." He nodded. "Good."
          Throughout the rest of their session, Scott's mind was
    unable to focus on what they were doing. He just gave control over
    to the Doctor while he kept hearing the man saying "Good" over and
    over again. Kline must have been able to see it on his computer
    screen, because he kept giving Scott dirty looks. Something was
    definitely up with this wall of delusion thing. Maybe, Scott
    thought, that's my way out. Maybe it doesn't cause insanity as
    much as it causes some sort of fatal brain seizure.
          He could only hope.

                                     #

          There was one glaring memory of Scott's that Dr. Kline never
    visited. Until today, Scott had no wish to relive it either. But
    after his session was over and he'd eaten dinner and downed his
    half-can of Coca-Cola, Scott turned off his light and flopped back
    into the cot and stared up at the ceiling. He took a few deep
    breaths, preparing himself for the trip. The image of the spring
    came to mind, and he turned it counter-clockwise.
          He was taking a morning walk through his old neighborhood,
    up to his house. There was the old 1950's car in the driveway.
    John Wahler's car. Scott already felt the deep, black undercurrent
    of fury. It carried him into the house, down the hall, peering
    into the bedroom. His wife and John Wahler deeply involved in
    mutual oral pleasure. It was too disgusting for her to do with
    Scott, her own husband --- why was it okay to do it with this guy?
    That was it, Scott realized. That's what pushed me over the edge.
    His wife's betrayal was deeper than he'd thought possible, harder
    for him to accept. Impossible to accept. Shut it off, his mind
    just wanted to shut it off.
          The dark veil went down over his eyes. He went for the gun,
    the big old heavy shotgun. Pulled it out of the case, loaded it
    up. I was going to stop this, he thought. I can't stop this. It
    has to be done. The moment demanded it be done. Scott burst into
    the bedroom, more outraged than the first time, screaming and
    pointing the gun. "Was it worth it?" he shouted at them. "Was it
    worth it?"
          "Oh god, no" John was muttering, holding his hands out as
    if they would block the blast of death, like he was going to catch
    it. "God, no, please  don't, no, please"
          "Scott," Terri said, breathless, her voice quavering.
    "Scott, no"
          He swung the gun on her, the barrel right at her face.
    "Well?" he shouted at her. "Was it? Was it worth it?"
          She shook her head. "No  no, it wasn't."
          Scott swung the gun back toward John. John was shaking his
    head, still holding his hands out as if to block the shot. "No,"
    was all he could manage.
          The gun swung back at Terri, then back at John. No, Scott
    thought, it wasn't worth it. It wasn't. It never was. He lowered
    the gun, then swung it around, trying to figure out how to point
    it at himself. He couldn't do it, though --- the barrel was too
    long. In frustration he pumped the two pathetic, unspent shells
    out and dropped the gun on the bed. Looking up at his wife and her
    lover, both of them trembling and completely white, he said, "I'll
    be on the front porch."
          He left the room, walking down the hall and out the front
    door. Sitting on the steps he took deep breaths, trying to calm
    himself. He could hear the two of them arguing with each other but
    their voices were indistinct. It didn't matter. Scott didn't care
    what they were saying. This was all just a delusion anyway.
          Scott summonsed the image of the spring and willed it to
    spin clockwise. Just as he'd hoped --- and feared --- it wouldn't
    spin. As far as the software was concerned, he was in the present.
          After ten minutes or so, Terri and John stepped fully
    dressed out onto the porch behind Scott. Scott turned to see John
    holding the shotgun. It was obvious he'd thrown his clothes on in
    a hurry, as his shirt was only half tucked in and his buttons were
    done up crooked. "You going to shoot me?" Scott asked.
          John shook his head. "I'm just going to hang onto this for a
    while."
          "It was my idea," Terri said.
          Scott nodded. It didn't matter. "You going with him?"
          "Um  I don't know." She looked up at John.
          Scott had to look away. The anger was welling up in him
    again. This really wasn't helping  it didn't relieve his guilt.
    It was just some sort of computer-enhanced fantasy while he lay in
    a coma in his cell.
          "You wouldn't have shot us, would you?" his wife was saying.
    "If we stay to talk this out, you're not going to hurt me are
    you?"
          "Hurt you?" Scott said. He could barely keep the hysteria
    out of his voice.
          She nodded. "We can talk, can't we? Or should I come back?"
          "It doesn't matter. I did shoot you. You're dead."  He
    laughed at her expression. "You're dead!"
          "Maybe I'd better go," she said.
          "You're already gone. You're not even here."  He laughed,
    and it turned to a sob. "I'm not even here."
          Terri and John shared a glance. John's expression was
    unreadable, but Terri's was full of guilt. "You go," she said to
    John. "I'd better stay."
          "It doesn't matter," Scott said to her. "This is too
    pathetic for me to stand. It was a big mistake. I shouldn't have
    done it."  Then he looked at her. "Then again, I deserve it.
    Nothing was worth your life. What I did to you was way out of
    proportion to the little betrayal of yours. I would have killed
    myself, too. I swear it. But what I really should have done was
    just walk away.  I mean, I could have started over again.  It
    would have seemed hard, but compared to what I've been through"
    He turned away, shaking his head.  "I had no idea what 'hard'
    was."
          John didn't leave, but he did walk over to his car and get
    in, the shotgun on the floor in the back. Scott was aware of him,
    but he was nothing but an annoying little presence far in a
    corner, like knowing there was a fly somewhere in the room. Terri
    had taken his hands in hers and was bent forward, staring hard
    into his eyes. Hers was an expression of worry.  "You haven't done
    anything."  He looked at her and she shook her head.  "You didn't
    do anything.  It's okay."
          "It's okay?"  He snorted. "Okay?"  He looked around him, as
    if he could actually see the wall of delusion --- as Dr. Kline had
    called it --- like it was a pane of thick, marbled glass he was
    trapped behind, unable to see through to reality. "You know, I
    think you really should go with him," Scott said to her. "Just go,
    be with your lover. You were meant to be with each other."  He
    pulled away from her.  "Just go."
          "I don't think I should," she said. "I don't think you
    should be alone right now."
          Scott thought this was funny. "I am alone right now!"  He
    stood up suddenly, and she backed away, startled.  "I'm in a cell
    with wires sticking out of my head! You're dead.  I'm stuck in my
    memories because the government is experimenting with my brain!"
    He laughed at her uncomprehending wide eyes. "Go away!" he yelled
    at her.
          John opened his car door and got out. "Come on," he said to
    her. "You better come with me."
          Scott turned his back on the both of them and walked into
    the house, shutting the door behind him. Once inside he stopped
    and waited.  Why am I doing this? he wondered.  What does it
    matter if she follows me in or not?  He realized he wanted her to
    follow him inside, he wanted her away from that jerk asshole
    bastard.  But as he stood listening, he heard two car doors close
    and then the big rumbling engine erupted to life.  As it drove
    away, Scott wandered into the living room and sat on their
    tattered couch, staring at the wall with a blank mind.

                                     #

          Scott had never seen the front of the medical authority
    building from the outside.  He'd originally arrived from the back
    in a secure bus, which drove into a secure garage area where an
    iron door slammed.  Here in the front was the large fountain with
    at least fifty jets of water making a beautiful interwoven
    pattern. The pool part of the fountain and the ground surrounding
    it was covered with thousands of cigarette butts. White smocked
    people stood smoking and staring at him as he walked past and up
    to the front of the place.
          Inside the front reception area, his appearance made a small
    fuss as it seemed no one ever remembered someone wandering in off
    the street --- there were piles of papers and files everywhere,
    Styrofoam cups, and Coke bottles. A gruff woman who was obviously
    not a receptionist said, "Can I help you?"
          "I need to see Dr. Kline.  I'm one of his test subjects."
          "Oh!" She looked around as if she'd lost something. "Go sit
    down over there," she said, indicating a dingy set of gray plastic
    chairs, "I'll give his office a call."
          Scott sat down and waited, wondering if he'd really thought
    his actions through. His mind was coming up with all this detail?
    He looked at the dirty cups half-full of coffee, and the dead
    flies on the windowsill.  If I was deluded, or dreaming, he
    thought, would everything seem so real to me?  He pulled a piece
    of paper off of the table in front of him and read it over.  Then
    he put it down for a moment, then picked it up and read it again.
    It said the same thing, exactly.  Scott remembered seeing a TV
    program that said if you were dreaming and tried to read, the
    words would be changing constantly because the words were actually
    just thoughts in your head.  Maybe this delusion is different than
    dreaming? he thought.  I am probably reading this paper for real,
    but I'm actually somewhere other than where I think I am.  I might
    be in Dr. Kline's office right now.
          Dr. Kline showed up, looking different than Scott remembered
    him. His beard wasn't as long. "You've trimmed your beard," Scott
    told him.
          The doctor took a good long look at him. "Who are you?"
          "I'm one of your test subjects."
          "I don't think so."
          "I edited my memory --- just like you told me not to do ---
    and I'm trapped behind a wall of delusion, just like you said I
    would be."
          Dr. Kline's eyes narrowed. "You edited your memory?  How
    exactly did you do that?"
          "You know, the memory browser.  The little spring in my
    head."
          Dr. Kline looked around the room, his expression flustered.
    "You'd better come with me," he said in a low voice.
          Scott got up and followed Dr. Kline through a secure set of
    doors and into the restricted areas beyond.  This was familiar ---
    it was just like he remembered it --- but this time there were no
    armed guards trailing them.
          "What is today's date?" Dr. Kline asked casually.
          "I'm not really sure," Scott said. "I know it's
    March-something."
          "What year?"
          "Twenty-seventeen."
          They reached his office, and Dr. Kline opened the door and
    motioned him to enter. Once inside and the office door was closed,
    Dr. Kline said, "What memory did you edit to get yourself where
    you are now?"
          "I went back and un-killed my wife."
          "How did you do that?"
          "I threw the gun down instead of using it."
          "Your murder of your wife is how you ended up here in the
    first place?"
          "Yes."
          "Have a seat," Dr. Kline told him. He took his own place
    behind his cluttered desk. "If you go back and review your
    memories right now using the browser, can you get back here to the
    MA building?"
          "No, I can't. When I go back to the point where I edited my
    memory, it simply keeps going back earlier. And the index numbers
    jump by about four-thousand."
          "Jesus Christ," Dr. Kline said.  He was staring at Scott in
    what looked like awe.  After several seconds of not saying
    anything, he suddenly smiled.  "I want to thank you for coming
    here to tell me this. You've helped me tremendously."
          "Is there a way to get me back to reality?"
          Dr. Kline leaned forward. "I'm going to tell you this just
    once.  I'm not going to admit to anyone I've said it, if you
    repeat it I'll call you a liar and a whacko.  They'll believe me,
    too, as I ought to know what insane is when I see it. You are not
    behind a wall of delusion. You are in the present right now. The
    year is twenty-fifteen and you have not committed the crime that
    originally got you here."
          "How can that be?"
          "I'll put it simply.  The time/space continuum we exist in
    is not a flowing thing. It's just a thing. Our perception of time
    is a feature of biology, not physics.  By altering your time
    sense, we altered where you were in the space/time continuum."
          "I  I don't understand."
          "You are where you perceive you are." Dr. Kline tapped on
    his desk with his finger. "If you perceive you are here, this is
    where you are."
          "But if the space/time continuum is a thing and not a flow,
    how can I change it?"
          "I don't know. That's one of the things I'm trying to find
    out." Dr. Kline stood up. "Since you didn't commit your murder, I
    advise you to go out and make your life a better place.  If you
    show up again here, or start telling people your story, I'll have
    you committed in a mental institution and perform a lobotomy on
    you.  Do we have an understanding?"
          Scott slowly stood up, his eyes on Dr. Kline. The man was
    serious --- he could see it. "Yeah, we have an understanding."
          "Good.  I'll escort you to the door."

                                     #

          Terri showed up later that night. The house was dark, and
    Scott had all the windows open so there was a breeze blowing
    through the rooms, fluttering the curtains. He could hear the wind
    chimes on the back porch. When she showed up and said, "Hi Scott,"
    he didn't know what to say.  It was suddenly all different.  He
    had a question to ask her but he didn't want to just blurt it out.
          "John's not here," she said.  "I came to see how you're
    doing."
          There was just enough light for him to see her; a diffuse
    glow that flowed and ebbed as the wind moved a tree branch in
    front of a street light.  She was wearing a familiar white summer
    dress.  Her hair was up, exposing her long graceful neck. I killed
    her, Scott thought.  I blew her face right off.  I wish I could
    edit my memories, I could cut that whole scene out and forget it.
    Of course, it's still possible that I am --- even now --- behind a
    wall of delusion.  But if I can't tell the difference, why worry
    about it?
          "Are you okay?" she asked him.
          "I'm better," he said.  "I guess I went over the edge there
    for a while, but I'm back."
          "I really didn't want this to happen," she said. "Things
    just got out of control."
          Here it is, Scott thought.  An opportunity.  He composed his
    question for the moment, hoping it wasn't too out of left field.
    "I need to know something," he said to her.  "Is there a mistake I
    made, or something I did wrong, that caused this? Something that
    happened?"
          "I don't know."
          "Think," he said, unable to keep the tension out of his
    voice. "Remember when you told me the moment you fell in love with
    me?  Was there a moment when you fell out of love with me?"
          "I never fell out of love with you," she said.  "I just
    succumbed to temptation."
          "Is there something I could have done to prevent that?"
          "It never was something you did or didn't do."
          "Nothing at all?"
          "It's more that you have a day shift and I have a night
    shift."  She gave a low laugh.  It sounded sad.  "I'm late for
    work as it is right now."
          "I remember," Scott said.  "I remember the discussion we
    had, when we decided it would be okay for you to take a night
    shift."
          "Yes," Terri said.  "I guess that was our mistake."
          He suddenly grabbed her, startling her, but he gave her a
    big kiss. "That's it!" he said.  "We'll give that a try!"
          "I don't understand," Terri said.
          "It's okay," Scott told her. "You don't need to
    understand."  He had his eyes closed, picturing the phantom spring
    in his head, and as he did he willed it to turn counter-clockwise.

    -------------------------------------------------------------------

               [Oh man, that was awful!  Get me out of here!]
