The Amnesiac
“Alright, six minutes on this o ne,” says the MRI tech. And, the incessant tapping starts before Tyler has even a chance to say, “No problem.” He could squeeze the stress ball and stop the scan, but they never really explained what would happen. Would the imaging have to be restarted from the beginning? Getting an MRI is like jumping into a portal where time doesn’t really exist. Six minutes feels simultaneously like hours and seconds. An allegory, Tyler imagines, for life itself: indefinite and seemingly unceasing, yet over before you even realize what happened.
He wonders what the images might show this time. Progress? Hard to say. The therapy seems to be working, but nothing feels permanent. The first year was a roller coaster. Who am I? Injection. I’m Tyler McInnes, a climber who plays the mandolin for girls at parties and reads Bradbury but pretends to like Hemingway. Then, an hour later, a blank slate.
The tapping stops. Shit, that was fast.
“Just another two minutes,” says the tech, and it starts again, this time with a whirring sound between each series of taps. The injections weren’t sustainable. Two hours with memories at a time wasn’t going to work. So, now there’s something like an insulin pump. A steady drip of memories. The room is quiet.
“Pulling you out now, Mr. McInnes.”
“Anything interesting?” says Tyler.
“Your doctor will—”
“Will have a report for you. Yeah, yeah.”
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“Good news and bad news,” says Dr. Ramsay.
“Go for it. If it’s that bad, I’ll just forget it,” says Tyler.
“So, the good news is that you’re still excelling at memory tests. Izzy and I are still working out the details, but it appears as if the serum is actually boosting your brain function. Or, rather, we think the serum is acting somehow to offload some brain function. It’s basically doing some of the work for you, so to speak.”
“Okay, so what is this, extra storage?”
“When we were giving you those injections, not much lasted after it left your system. But, with the pump, you’re functioning normally. Better than normal, even, as you know. It’s essentially augmenting your ability to recall. In other words, the serum is running your limbic system like a well-oiled machine.”
“But, it only stays that way while I’m on the drugs.”
“Yes, exactly. Your imaging shows other areas lighting up recently, too. Your occipital and parietal lobes. Have you noticed your vision improving? Spatial awareness?”
“It’s hard to say. It’s been a long process. I haven’t tripped in a while, at least.”
“I’ll order some tests.”
There’s a pause while Dr. Ramsay wakes his computer and pulls up the MRIs. Everything looks the same as he scrolls through the images.
“As you know,” says Dr. Ramsay, “this is just a case study, so we can’t directly compare you to anyone else, and there isn’t much we can say about why this is happening—whether it’s your body naturally or the serum.”
“What’s the problem?”
He points at brighter parts of the image. “But, here, you’re looking at further deterioration, and at a faster rate than we’ve observed in the past. The areas I mentioned before: here, here, and here. My theory is that it’s accelerating.”
“So, what, do we modify my dose? How do we slow it down?”
“Anything is on the table, really. It’s all a trade-off.”
“What the fuck does that mean? It’s killing me, right?”
“We can wean you off, but it doesn’t look like you’ll keep your ability to retain memories as well. You won’t know any different, but you’ll have to return to full-service care. Eventually. Hard to say. You might lose some vision and spatial awareness as well.”
Tyler remembers a video Dr. Ramsay recorded when he found him in the care center. A series of clips, alternating between basic human functions at best and a catatonic state at worst. With no memory of this time in his life, it was as if it never really happened. Terrifying nonetheless. Worse than death. Every new experience written on a blank slate. A life defined by impermanence.
“We could lower your dose, keep you functional. You’ll keep deteriorating, but we can maybe slow it down. Hard to say what loss of function we’d see.”
“We. That’s funny.”
“Your dose could stay the same, of course. Or… or we can see what happens when we increase it.”
“Increase? Why would I want that?”
“You’ll have less time, yes. But, we don’t know what other benefits you might receive. You’re already excelling with recall. And, it’s spreading to other areas of your brain. We don’t know what’s possible. What there is to learn.”
An opportunity to secure more funding. That’s all this is. Just a lab rat.
“I’m gonna need to think about it.”
“Tyler, you’re a priority. Whenever you’re ready, just call and we’ll set it up. Nothing is going to happen in the short term. You’re going to be fine.”
Fine. It’d be better if Dr. Ramsay would stop using the word. They both know it’s a lie. But, it’s nothing worth being angry about.
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“So, you’re basically Professor Xavier, then,” says Jacob. He twists open a cheap IPA and offers it to Tyler. They became roommates when Tyler was sent to school in St. Louis, all paid for with research dollars from Dr. Ramsay. Tyler was told to “live as normal a life as possible.” But, normal is relative, and there’s little normalcy to compare your life to when your only source of humanity is a vial of black liquid. The apartment’s a mess, and Jacob throws the cap near the trash can across the room.
He takes the beer. “I’ve got a good memory. I’m not telepathic,” says Tyler.
“Look, man, in all seriousness, no one wants to lose you.”
“That’s a shame. I think I’m done for either way.”
They sit quietly, cars on the street outside providing a dim background noise. He looks out the window at the oak tree growing in its designated square of sidewalk. The tree will never have a chance to grow to its full potential and is regularly pruned by the city to prevent overhang. But, it has, over the years, extended a branch toward their window, close enough to grab and perhaps even climb out of the apartment.
“Think anyone good is playing at Gateway tonight?” asks Tyler.
“You want to go to a concert?”
“Why not? It’s gonna be a nice night. Maybe we can get you a girl for once,” he says, laughing.
“Yeah, and then they run away when they see… this,” says Jacob, sweeping his hand in front of the mess of a living room. “I mean… I’m down to go out, but are you sure?”
“We’ve only got so much time left, man. Hey, I’ll even give you some of the serum.”
“You’re joking.”
“I’ve still got some clean syringes I never used. You can see what it’s like.”
“Tyler, you got your life back with the stuff. I get it. But, I haven’t used anything in years. I got my life back by stopping that shit.”
“This isn’t Percocet. It’s not heroin.” Tyler tosses his beer in the trash and grabs another from the fridge, retrieving a vial of the serum as well. He holds it up. “It’s no different from that tree outside you’re always staring at. I never even had cravings.”
“There’s clearly something off about it. You said they don’t know why it even works.”
Why does anything work, Tyler thinks. In his twenty-two years, only the past three feel real. Tyler left full-service care at age eighteen. Unexplained atrophy of the hippocampus. Lost in the limbo of amnesia, Dr. Ramsay and his wife, Isabelle, gave him new life. If it weren’t for the videos of his care, it’d be impossible to know if it ever really happened at all.
“Alright,” says Jacob after a while. “Who knows? It might give Ramsay some new ideas.”
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“Okay, okay, hang on,” says Jacob. He finishes his fourth beer and sets it down hard on the table. The rubber band tying off his arm forces the veins to the surface.
“We’ve got to let it mix with your blood in the syringe first, so I’m gonna pull some out and then push it back. Make sense?” says Tyler.
“Not really.”
“It works better that way and doesn’t feel so weird going in. You’ll see. It’s like a crawling sensation.”
Tyler pierces his roommate’s vein and draws about a tablespoon of the maroon liquid. The syringe is already half-filled with serum, but Tyler doesn’t mix it. Rather, the black seems to invade the blood and overcome it. Soon enough, the entire syringe is the original black. He pushes it back into Jacob’s arm, removes the needle, and places a Band-Aid over the hole in a single swift motion.
“That’s it?” says Jacob.
“That’s it.”
“I don’t feel anything.”
“Give it a chance to work. Let’s just go to the Gateway and see what happens.”
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As soon as they enter the bar, it’s clear there’s a cover band playing. This is typical of a Thursday night. People wanting to go out, but not enough to charge for a real show. Usually halfway decent. At the bar, Jacob notes that everything sounds clearer somehow. He asks the bartender if there’s been any sort of improvement to the acoustics.
The bartender looks around and shrugs. “Not that I’m aware of,” he says.
“It’s the serum, man. Enhances things,” says Tyler.
“Hey, you with the sorry face,” Jacob sings to himself with the music. “Welcome to the human… Wait, what the hell?”
“What? You want another beer?” says Tyler.
“No. I mean, yeah, sure, but did you hear that?”
“What, your shitty singing?”
“They sang ‘pretty face,’ not ‘sorry face.’ Wrong lyrics.”
“It’s ‘Mr. Blue Sky.’ Maybe you’re thinking of a different song? It’s always been ‘pretty face.’”
“That’s one of my favorite songs. I know how it’s supposed to go.”
The bartender puts two Blue Moons on the counter, and Tyler drops him a ten in return. The rest of the night passes without a hitch. No more lyrical errors, but Jacob can’t shake the feeling that something strange has happened.
“I think I’m just gonna go for it,” says Tyler as they’re walking home.
“Go for what?” says Jacob.
“Gonna up my dose.”
