As I cross the threshold I reread the
motto spanning the archway, “The Unexamined Life is Not Worth
Living.” and enter that accursed auditorium. How this perfectly
wise saying became such a perversion is an arduous tale which I feel
incapable of relating at this moment. But my steps slow as I walk
down the aisle to my designated seat. There it is, the cheap fabric
with a label, Sophie Diotima, marking the location for my monthly
checkup.
I recline and observe the arrival of
the others. Each sits in the same position they've used a couple
hundred times before, except for those who have been replaced. There
are always new participants in our assembly. It would be wrong to
call this...
“Hello Sophie,” says Phillip
Proust, as he sits into the chair next to mine. “Glad to see you
haven't been replaced yet.”
I forgive him his discourtesy, no one
speaks of another's... , but it is difficult for Phillip to maintain
a proper decorum. He is so full of life, one begins to believe there
are stainless, fully functioning people, as the m-physicians tell us.
I am not one of them, but as...
“They say I am to see a new
m-physician today,” said Phillip, and I reach out gently and
squeeze his arm, because I can sense his anxiety. One's future rests
entirely on their meta's verdict.
“Of course, my Recaller (I note
Phillip's use of the more informal term) was old, not unstable. You
can't remain or even become a m-physician if you suffer from
insecurity,” and I realize how much I misjudged Phil's conduct.
“Then you're sure to be one,” I say
smiling, but he frowns at the compliment and turns aside for a
moment, apparently afflicted by self doubt.
I've sufficiently demonstrated why no
one ever considered me for a m-physician.
My other neighbor, I'm seat 7G, sits
down, and I realize the other ninety-nine seats are occupied.
Without a spoken word, and there are children scattered among the
assembly, we focus on the screen sinking from the ceiling.
No participant can explain exactly what
occurs when the show starts. The mind can't consciously process the
devices used by the m-physicians to prep patients for the formal
check up. But it feels like one's mind is being scooped out of their
body, and placed before an omniscient presence. The past month's
memories are unspooled like a film, which causes a stretching
sensation, and cleaned of impurities, like clarified butter. With
that process concluded, a second begins. The impression of being
observed redoubles. Imagine a bug beneath a magnifying glass, a
giant eye peering down from above, with the poor insect uncertain if
the inspection will end in an abeyance, a box, or a bright burning
light. I can't tell if the lights of the auditorium dim, or one's
focus is overwhelmed so completely that observing any extraneous
articles becomes impossible.
Sinking back into consciousness is like
trudging through mud after walking on air. But there is a certain
clarity, like after cleaning one's glasses when they are covered in
grime. I look left at 7H, Maria, and smile. I repeat the movement
to my right, and Phillip returns the compliment, our past trouble
forgotten.
It's easy to remain seated for the next
hour as 7A, B, C, D, E, and F are called for their personal
rememberance. A certain feeling suffuses one's brain, and it
spreads, semi-paralyzing, into the limbs, resembling a calming pain.
I nod repeatedly, turning sometimes to Phillip and Maria, looking
like a pair bobbing our heads to music. There is no talking. Just
the silent sound of motion in the auditorium.
At last, so long, so short, Phillip is
gone. Where did he go? And someone is taking me by the hand and
leading me down the aisle. On the walk to the m-physician's office
my mind sloughs off its lethargy, and I almost decide to engage in
conversation with the attendant leading me by the hand, but I remain
docile, as every patient knows that's how they prefer us.
At end of the hallway the attendant
opens the door to a room and I step inside as he closes it from the
outside. Sitting in a chair beside another chair is a man I know
only as Berkeley. All the m-physicians choose a suitable name, but
I'm not sure if his isn't meant ironically. He motions me to the
chair, and draws forth his tools. They remind me of those used by
eye doctors to examine the cornea, iris, lens, and retina, while also
checking for cancer. Someone once said, the eyes are the windows to
the soul, and whether it is true or not, the Recallers believe it.
Berkeley pushes the device towards me, and I rest my chin on a bar
while he shines a bright light into my eyes. Normally this elicits
excruciating pain, like a lumbar puncture of the brain, as the
memories of the last month are brought to the fore for a second
cleaning, a secondary review. Throughout the procedure the
m-physician asks questions related to their viewing. They fit into
two categories. “Do you remember this detail? What time did you
leave the house yesterday? Or, what exactly did your friend Winston
say in regards to the Government's decision to censure the new
satirical TV show?” Questions relating to recall. Answering these
questions further focuses the memory of the patient, and presumably
the Recaller. Other questions require the patient to explain the
relevance of emotions and thoughts too ephemeral for the m-physician
to understand without assistance. Questions like, “Why did you do
this? How did you feel when Francine interrupted you at work? Or,
what was your reasoning for choosing to read that book which you
specifically needed a note of approval to access?” The victim to
coerced to divulge their secrets to the authorities.
Eventually the examination turns to the
most distressing question: “How are you coping with that
troublesome memory from five years ago?” M-Physicians focus their
tool on that memory and draw it forth. Time makes the mind weary,
and turns memories to tissue paper, but the sadistic spy twists and
manipulates until it seems like a tooth is coming out, instead of a
recollection. Under examination the memory becomes as clear as the
day it occurred, and one is forced to face their shame afresh.
But today isn't any normal day. I had
suffered enough from that memory. I didn't dare allow them to remind
me of it. The exact curve of the object, the softness of the touch,
or the odd blue hue it exhibited. I had decided to resist, and now I
must admit I lied to you dear reader. I felt neither of the effects
of the screen in the auditorium, but mimicked the behavior expected
of one felled by its power. One can devise a particular goggle like
object to filter its effects.
I pushed hard against the observational
implements and trapped Berkeley against the wall, or as he would have
said, between two ideas existing only in the mind of
the perceiver. My plan wasn't well conceived. Avoiding the
appointment was impossible. Required monthly by the government, any
who fail to attend are deemed to be too untrustworthy, or too
unstable and therefore unproductive. I thought to threaten and
cajole Berkeley into some relief for my condition. But my time was
limited, as a normal review only takes ten minutes.
We spoke in fierce
whispers for five minutes. I demanded that he leave my memory alone.
“Doesn't
everyone have a right to the regulation of their own mind?” I
asked.
“A
mind must be properly maintained like a good watch,” Berkeley
replied.
“Aren't
some memories worth forgetting? Isn't it bad enough that I must
forever retain the shreds of my shame, without your relentless
inspection?” I pleaded.
“The
unexamined life is not worth living,” he reiterated.
His persistent,
unwavering belief shattered my feeble arguments. His answers didn't
engage with my questions but hammered at my illogical defenses until
I could resist no more. At last he looked at me, with the hint of a
frown. I thought I saw real regret upon his features.
“Do
you really wish to forget?” he asked.
“I
only wish to not remember,” I said, knowing if he did not offer
mercy I no hope remained.
“Everyone
is a single granted reprieve if their life requires it. I will erase
the memory.” Berkeley paused. “But there is one condition.”
“Anything.”
I breathed.
“You
must offer an account of your actions today, in a journal.”
And
he offered me the paper that you see before you. Then he handed me a
purple liquid which he drew out of a cabinet. Not knowing if it
would bring the relief I sought, or lead toward my replacement, I
drank it, knowing that further resistance in the face of mercy, true
or feigned, was fruitless. He said, “Go home and rest. In the
morning the effect will be complete, and the memory will be erased.
But leave the journal.”
Meta-Physician
Berkeley's notes
For many years
Patient Sophie Diotima has experienced significant difficult with a
memory from her teenage years. The memory has continually disrupted
her life as a trustworthy, productive member of society. She has
been allocated her single reprieve.
While
she believes the medicine will erase her memory, which she holds to
be shameful, it will not. It will erase the memory of her rebellion
today. Whether she can bear the continual renewal of a memory she
detests is another question. She must bear it, as we all must, until
either she is found unfit for service, or she can move on, either by
accepting it as part of herself or rejecting it completely as
unrelated to her current self. As her Meta-Physician, I will
continue my work to aid her overcome her burden.
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