MEMORY THERAPY-You Have Entered the Twilight Zone Poetry Contest

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Nick Tipton lived a quiet life, west Kentucky, in rolling hills; been farming there for ten years, all according to his own will. This simple life would’ve have kept on, ‘til one night, age thirty-three, a nightmare burst into his mind, so vivid he could not unsee. He saw himself in an alley, stabbing a young man in the neck, screaming, “You called the cops on me!” leaving the youth a bleeding wreck. Shook it off when he awoke, dreams were strange anyway; he had to feed the chickens; he got up, started his day. Nick forgot about it, a week passed like any other, then he dreamed he robbed a woman, a young single mother. This pattern kept up for some months, every few days a dark dream came; his friends said that he seemed depressed, something was off, not quite the same. At six months Nick felt desperate, went to town, to a therapist; he’d never been to one before, but who else could help him with this? He sat down with Dr. Mason, a woman in her middle age; with degrees from the university. Could she help him? He couldn’t gauge. The session went well; he told her his dark dreams; she listened, calming his nerves, despite all those visions obscene. Nick felt more relaxed, but didn’t believe he was cured; she said it would take time, more sadness he might endure. When he visited her again a new figure sat with Mason, a graying man with a soft grin. Mason said, “This is Doctor Johns. Nick watched Mason hurriedly leave; confused he looked at Johns, “That’s strange.” Johns nodded. “It will soon make sense, there’s much I need to explain.” He had a folder in his hands; on it Nick could see his full name. It was quite thick, bulging even, which to Nick seemed inane. How did they know so much about him? He’d lived a quiet life, never arrested nor detained, didn’t even have a wife. Johns said, “Have you heard of implanted memory?” Nick shrugged. “Like suggestion? Like mentalists on TV?” Johns shook his head and declared, “Something more serious than that, Like reprogramming the brain.” Nick looked confused, his face falling flat. Johns nodded. “Of course not, they’d blank such knowledge from your mind; it was done fifteen years ago, to help people from time to time. “Normally it’s a focused thing, blank out a trauma one can’t escape, last ditch effort when therapy won’t work, in rare cases it takes place. “We implant a new memory, something nicer to ease the soul. It’s not done often but ‘tis something helps one’s mind regain control. “But you. You were another thing; look at this, tell me what you see.” He handed Nick the folder, opening it atop his knees. What he looked upon shocked him, bloody crime scenes quite obscene, battered woman, men beat senseless, the things he saw in his dreams! And not just similarity, people and places were the same. Inside the folder were mugshots, his younger face being arraigned. He tossed the file back at Johns, “What do you mean by this malarkey? Is this some frame-up job? Some photoshop rubbish?” he asked his tone snarky. Johns quietly nodded his head, “Everything you see here is true. Nick Ripton committed these crimes; this evil was done by you.” Nick objected to this lie, but Johns pulled up a page, a picture of Nick, in a machine, the date below ten years of age. “You were facing a life sentence, murder in the second degree, with extra time for beatings, and more than a dozen robberies. “But you had one card to play, offered you experimental therapy; we blanked your mind and replaced it, you were second of the first three.” Nick didn’t believe such nonsense “You’re not a shrink; you’re insane. I’ve been a farmer all my life; no one has cut on my brain.” Johns handed him a picture; it was Nick stretched out on a table; hole had been cut in his skull, with probes and wires, it was full. Nick balked, his mind fighting the sight; he felt his anger grow again. “If this is true then you’re pure evil; How could you do this to a man?!” Johns raised a hand. “Calm down Nick, this was not done to you by force. You volunteered you see, in full witness of the courts.” He handed Nick another page confirming that this was the case; Nick stared at his signature, shock crossing his face. “You see, the old you thought this a joke, thought all our techniques wouldn’t take; but you awoke another man, to be specific: Ben Mandrake. “He’s a farmer, lives out west, a good man if ever there was, father, churchgoing, married long, wanting to help a good cause. “We blanked out your memory, Mandrake’s memories put in; for ten years, you’ve lived well, resisted temptation to sin. “But early trials were shaky, and we’ve noticed a minor trend; in one-in-one-hundred reprograms old memories come back again. “This brings us back to you, and the memories in your brain; the process can’t be done twice, the mind could not withstand the strain. “We’re in this awkward spot. I have no doubt more memories will return, you’ll have two sets of thoughts in there; ones that saved you; ones could make your soul churn. “I suppose this makes you like everyone else on this earth; light and shadow both in your soul, your choice, as to which you deserve. “Some might say that the man you were is really your ‘authentic self;’ but then again that man you were put countless people through hell by yourself. “I know choice I’d prefer, but that choice I can’t make. If you choose your old ways, you’ll be guest of the state.” He said nothing after that, left Nick the scattered folder. Nick sat quite incredulous, his mind racing, a blur. His life, not his own? His life, another’s? His past in pictures felt like something other. Was this what he was meant to be? A criminal who’d left lives wrecked? Was this now a nightmare, or quite real? He did not know what to do next. In the Twilight Zone he did dwell.