The specimen jar, which the woman sets on the white laminate table between us, is three quarters full of a clear liquid. Below the waterline, a few tiny bubbles float. At the bottom, a gray, worm-like creature curls.
“Good afternoon.” The woman’s simple uniform and shoes blend in with the clinic’s white walls and sturdy industrial furniture. “I’m Vesper. I’ll be performing your memory cleansing procedure today.”
The procedure is all I’ve wanted for months, yet now that I’m here, the fear of losing some part of myself to the ether, even a part I desperately want gone, sets my stomach churning.
As if sensing my discomfort, the little creature seems to curl even tighter into itself.
I take a calming breath and point at the container. “What the hell is that?”
“Symbionts significantly shorten recovery time by boosting neuroplasticity.” She acts all natural, like I should have known this obscure fact. “After the memory cleansing procedure is complete, the symbiont enters your nasal cavity and finds a place to implant itself.” Her voice takes on a monotonous tone as though she’s reading from a script. “There, it releases healing enzymes. In about a month, you’ll return for the removal.”
I squint at the oatmeal-colored curlicue, which is approximately the size of the silver stylus that sits next to Vesper’s tablet computer. Imagining the worm wiggling its way inside and treating my body like an extended stay motel makes my skin crawl. “I wasn’t expecting an extraterrestrial zombie brain sucker to be a part of the procedure.”
She lets out an awkward laugh. “The informed consent document addresses the all-organic healing component.”
Instead of admitting that I’d signed the form without reading the fine print, I say, “If it’s not an alien species, where did it come from?”
“This little guy was born in a lab, but they originate from deep in the sea.” She taps her chest with her palm. “They’re one hundred percent terrestrial, I promise.”
“Can I skip the worm part?”
She shakes her head. “Use of a symbiont is standard procedure at this facility. Providers who don’t incorporate SAH, that’s symbiont-assisted-healing, often require a brief hospital stay, which I’m afraid isn’t typically covered by insurance.”
My breath catches in my throat at the thought of dollar signs and delays. I pray the worm won’t feel invasive or uncomfortable.
“I guess it’s okay,” I say, trying to convince myself I wasn’t making a horrible mistake.
“All right, then.” Vesper turns her attention to her tablet. “Please confirm your name and date of birth.”
“Anya Watts,” I say. “March fifteenth, twenty-twenty-nine.”
“Under reasons for the procedure, you’ve indicated ‘peace.’” She raises an eyebrow. “Care to elaborate?”
“So many things remind me of him,” I say. “I moved, thinking that avoiding the places we’d made memories would help me forget. But triggers are everywhere—songs, food we’ve eaten together, his art.”
A colleague at my old job came into work wearing a citrus-scented cologne, blood orange and bright lemon, just like the one you wore when you proposed. You wore the same scent when you asked me to return the ring. These days, even a whiff of a lemon-scented cleaning product or a sip of a mojito sends me down an emotional spiral. You’ve become a cancer, colonizing my gray matter and poisoning my thoughts. But damnit, I miss the salty taste of your skin, the warmth of your touch, the deep baritone of your voice.
I take a shaky breath. “Whenever something reminds me of him, I get this craving to connect. My therapist says addiction occurs when cravings repeatedly lead to relapse. She’s the one who recommended the memory cleanse procedure.”
I don’t dare admit to anyone that I talk to you. My therapist would probably say it’s not really you—it’s those synaptic connections that remain inside me demanding dopamine. According to her, dopamine is practically demonic.
Vesper pats my hand. “Is your emergency contact current?”
She rattles off your name, our old address, and your cell phone number. It’s as though you’re with us, sitting on my shoulder and whispering that I’ll never, ever be free.
Shifting in my uncomfortable white chair, I fiddle with my ring.
“Miss Watts?” Vesper’s goggle-like glasses magnify her gray eyes.
Since there’s no one else, I nod. To prepare for the procedure, I broke off ties with everyone who knew us as a couple. My parents are dead, and I’m not close with my neighbors or anyone at work.
I’m going to forget you soon, so it won’t matter one damned bit.
One day I’ll have a new emergency contact—someone who will treat me with the kindness and care I deserve.
“I’ll need a retinal scan for our records to confirm your identity and cross reference government databases.” She holds the tablet up to my right eye while I try not to blink. “Can’t have criminals erasing memories to pass lie detector tests.”
The tablet flashes red, and I cringe.
Her mouth curves into a frown and she tap tap taps the screen. “Misdemeanors require a supervisor’s approval.”
Why did you call the cops on me the time I let myself into your studio and waited, naked and sprinkled with edible glitter, or when I had cupcakes with tiny fondant babies delivered to your mom every day of your birthday month, or those nights I’d sit outside your apartment flipping through photos of your beautiful creations? Of course, you don’t answer.
My pulse pounds even though I have a backup plan—the card in my pocket loaded with all the cryptocurrency I could wrangle—to convince Vesper to continue with the procedure despite my record.
While we wait, I focus my attention on the symbiont, which has floated to the side of the container closest to me as though I am iron, and it a magnet. What appear to be hundreds of appendages on its body shine under the overhead lights like tiny metal hooks.
I shiver and angle myself away from it.
After a few minutes, the tablet flashes green.
“Approval granted,” Vesper says.
For the first time since I entered the clinic, my shoulders relax.
She removes items from the corner cabinet and places them on the table: a glass bottle, an autoinjector, and a head covering made of some flexible plastic material. She scans the barcode on the jar with her stylus before unscrewing the lid and adding three drops of liquid from the bottle.
The creature uncurls, its color slowly changing from gray to turquoise to electric blue.
Vesper slides the plastic cap over my curly hair. “Ready?”
I nod.
She places the jar in my hand and taps on the tablet with her stylus. “Hold the symbiont close, shut your eyes, and think of a happy memory of your person—the more detailed the better.”
The container is ice cold against my chest, as I recall the day we met. I’d answered your ad for a model. After awkward introductions, I’d lain naked on a tarp bathed in light while you painted me. Your blond hair hung in your eyes, making me wonder how you could see, but see you did, capturing an ethereal image that was the best possible version of me. Not just a girl with a dead-end job who only felt alive when blasting video game robots into oblivion. Afterward, you stroked my bottom lip with your finger and invited me for coffee. You marked me then, both with a tiny streak of violet paint on my lip and a matching one on my hypothalamus, the part of the brain that releases dopamine.
The cap warms and emits what feels like tiny jolts of electricity. My scalp tingles.
“You’re doing great. Take a deep breath.” Vesper’s voice seems far away. “Good. Let that memory go and recall a painful time with your person.”
From every wall, the pink pout of your latest muse mocked me. You stood in the center of the gallery with your arm around her boney shoulder. Like me, she was petite, with auburn hair and a smattering of freckles.
Trying not to read into the fact that you were wearing the paisley tie I bought you, I took refuge in a corner next to the last painting you’d done of me. In the piece, my eyes were haunted, black pools, and my cheekbones looked sharp enough to slice. The violet background highlighted the work’s melancholy mood.
Keeping my back to the crowd, I twisted a ring around my finger. It wasn’t your ring. No, that one now adorned the finger of your muse.
“For fuck’s sake, Anya,” your voice boomed from across the room. “What the hell are you doing here?”
The pleasant warmth of the cap increases to an unbearable burn, and I swear my scalp is sizzling. My throat constricts, making me fight for every breath.
“Hang in there.” Vesper’s voice rises in pitch. “Almost done, just another minute.”
“Look,” you said, bounding up to me. “This obsessed fan routine of yours might have been cute at first, but you need to stop.”
The gallery, which had been buzzing with chatter, went silent.
“You invited me!” I rummaged around in my purse for the invitation. In your distinctive scrawl, you’d written a personal note begging me to come celebrate your opening.
You snapped my purse closed, grabbed my arm, your nails digging into skin, and dragged me into a small room filled with floating 3-D holographic images of bodily organs.
I poked a hologram of a human heart, enjoying the way it flickered out of existence and reformed. If only mine were as resilient.
“I try to get over you. I do, but your art is everywhere.” I hated the pleading sound of my voice. “The self-portrait that was featured in that music video is plastered on the side of the bus I take to work. A week doesn’t go by without one of our neighbors asking about you. Every time I think I’m doing better, you come back.”
“Anya.” Your voice was tender as you ran a finger over my cheek, making my tears your paint and my skin your canvas. “Your freckles are almost healed.”
Just two weeks earlier, you’d turned up outside the apartment we used to share and insisted I get freckles tattooed on my face to your specifications. How you hovered, insisting the tattoo artist move their stencil a millimeter this way or that way, or make one freckle a touch bigger and another a touch smaller. Afterward, you’d kissed every “star” in what you dubbed your own special constellation.
In one moment, I was your everything and in the next, I was some shameful nothing.
“Time to go, Anya.” Your breath was hot in my ear. “Be sure to smile for the photographers on your way out. Having a stalker is such great publicity.”
I did a walk of shame through the gallery, swearing I was done with you, but knowing that the musky scent of sweat you’d left on my bed sheets would undoubtably trigger another craving.
At the door, I turned to get one last look at that holographic heart, but my traitorous eyes refused to focus on anything but you.
Your lips curled into a smile, and you winked.
And then my mind goes blissfully blank.
“Anya? Miss Watts?” A kind-eyed woman holds a drug injector to my arm. Vesper. Her name is Vesper. “I’ve erased some memories and blurred others related to the person you wanted to forget. I’m going to administer Oxytocin to help prevent rejection of the symbiont.”
The injector makes a buzzing sound as the micro needle pierces my skin.
She fishes an electric blue worm out of a jar with tweezers.
The worm wiggles, and I suppress a giggle. Gummy worms were my favorite candy when I was a kid.
Vesper holds the worm to my face, and the creature enters one of my nostrils. Her strong hands brace my shoulders as it slithers upward, digging in here and there with its pointy parts.
I’m panting and my head is pounding.
“You’re doing great,” she says.
“Hurts,” I say as fat droplets of blood drip from my nose onto my shirt. I suppose I would scream if it weren’t for the sense of serenity that makes this union with the creature feel right, necessary even.
“A little blood is to be expected.”
I rub at my face. The red blood on my palm contrasts with my aquamarine fingertips.
I adore how we coordinate. My fingers are the same beautiful color as you, my love. I feel you moving inside me, making my body your home, and I am overwhelmed with joy.
And then I’m shaking, tremors rippling through me.
“Oh my God,” Vesper whispers.
There’s a slick swishing sound as you slide from my nose onto my lap, and the feeling of emptiness and loss is immediate. Instinctively, I know you haven’t abandoned me by choice. My body, my defective body, has rejected you.
You’re sticky with blood, but I hold you tight in my fist. Craving the intimacy of our connection, I stuff you up my nose, but you refuse to latch.
Hot tears burn my cheeks. No longer a vibrant, electric blue, you’ve faded to a bluish gray color.
No.
I can’t lose you. I won’t lose you.
I shove you inside my mouth and, fighting an urge to gag, swallow your bloated body down my throat inch by inch. Like my favorite candy, I consume you. I rejoice knowing you’ll be in my stomach, my bloodstream, my cells. You’ll be a part of me forever.
•••
Vesper has a man with her. He wears a vintage Leica camera like an oversized necklace. His sickly sweet citrus cologne makes me gag. He runs his finger along my cheek, and I shrink away from his touch.
“Way to bring the drama, Anya.” He peers at me intently, and a smile replaces his frown. “With all that blood, you look like you’re channeling Lady Macbeth.”
Vesper crouches beside me. “Do you want me to call someone else, hon?” She reaches to touch my arm, but a look of disgust crosses her face, and she tucks her hands into her pockets instead.
My stomach gurgles as though you want to remind me you’re here. You have nothing to be jealous of, my sweet.
The shutter on the man’s camera clicks over and over as he makes his way around me taking photos from all angles. “I’m going to call my next show Obsession, and you, Anya, will once again be my muse.”
I close my eyes, shutting out both the man and Vesper, and lick my fingers. The blood tastes of you and colors my world electric blue.
