Davis, Jerry - Wall of Delusion

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file:///H|/eMule/Incoming/Davis,%20Jerry%20-%20Wall%20Of%20Delusion%20-%20txt.txt

Wall of Delusion

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

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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

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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.

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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

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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."

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"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

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Davis, Jerry - Wall of Delusion

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