Remember
Authors: Girish Karthikeyan
Remember
Girish Karthikeyan
This novel is purely a work of fiction in every way possible. Any characters, settings, objects, or ideas resembling anything fictional or real are
solely coincidence.
Copyrighted 2016 Girish Karthikeyan.
For my family.
All Things Must Come to an End
Foreign Relations and Diplomacy
Unnecessary Distractions from Real Life
The possible reasons for dreaming:
- Possible future outcomes and possible responses to those outcomes.
- A message from the unconscious mind that the conscious mind frequently ignores.
- An attempt at making sense of a past occurrence.
- A
cohesive creation
from a conglomeration of random electrical impulses.
Always keep in mind that the unconscious mind makes different associations than the conscious mind. Their whimsical and fantastical nature stands in place of concepts very real to life.
Human perception is colored by feelings at the time, the relationship between the individual and elements of the environment, above all past experience. It is impossible to experience reality without this filter.
All Things Must Come to an End
Thurs 8/31/17 8:57 p.m.
I
climb the stairs to the office. Knowing from experience, confidence is the key to going unnoticed, just the perfect amount. Reaching the top and heading in offers one last look back. I shutter all the windows and get to work.
I extract my crack drive onto the desk and put myself in front of the computer. Yesterday, I obtained the log on info from Dr. Mekova, in fact. Logging on to her subject database and any frequently accessed docs lands me in an endless scroll. I can’t sort through the docs looking for the right group of subjects. It proved nearly impossible yesterday. Just copy the whole thing.
Come on.
Come on.
And get done.
The longer I persist, the closer I’m to discovery.
There is just too much to explain.
What am I doing here?
I nervously check the transfer.
How did I access her computer?
Who are you?
Who am I?
A year ago, I could tell.
Now, it's just what other people tell me.
Everything else remains unclear.
God, it’s almost done.
I disconnect and pocket my drive. No one should be interested enough to look for a security breach. I work here. Everything starts falling into place. In a few weeks, I will know what happened.
The events of the last few months changed me.
I can’t even recognize myself, sometimes.
With this info, I will finally get past it.
Enough thinking back, make it to home base.
A wave of relief washes over me, I’m out of her office. Each step carries me one step closer to safety. Just a few minutes' walk needed to reach my desk, which grants me time to think about my future.
What will I uncover?
What happens after the fact?
The root of the matter rests with me. I just feel not like myself. This info could mean nothing at all, just a confirmation of what I already know.
I’m just a normal person afflicted by unfortunate circumstances. At the other end of the possibilities realm, I’m a forgotten lab experiment.
What are the odds of that?
I pause near my desk, feeling uneasy here in an abandoned office well after 9. Maybe caused by the dim lighting. In general, I reek of guilt. The doctor helped me.
It just feels like a complete betrayal, just as she has done to me.
I have to make it back and deal with the consequences as they arise. I get my stuff together, dig through the drawer, looking for a pad with some notes. A sickly liquid creeps by on the floor. It appeared during my little jaunt. What does this? Right behind my desk lays the epicenter. The light from the door allows me a view of Dr. Mekova on the floor. The dark red liquid stands stark on her snow-white jacket. I hurry over to her to make sure she’s okay. Everything else means nothing. The tech already says
she isn't breathing or has a pulse.
I check her pulse and breathing anyway, putting my face near
her mouth. No breathing sounds or warm air coming out. Not breathing! I search for her pulse at the carotid. Nothing! Do something!
I inhale a deep breath, prepping myself. What is this? I don’t know what that puck-shaped object is at the moment. I stare at it for a sec and throw it somewhere. What to do about the doctor? A stream of info floods my mind. Take a deep breath. What is important, right now? Get her breathing. Start CPR. It has been a long time, but the info returns. 2 inches above the base of the sternum for the compressions. Chest compressions first, right? Blood flow to keep up circulation, then breaths, check. I start compressions, four times then breaths. Use more pressure than I think. The tech says something in my ear.
Calling emergency services and furnishing relevant info. Dr. Irena Mekova found unresponsive, doing CPR, sixth floor, Stephens Institute for Neuroscience Research and Treatment.
One… two… three… four.
Breaths. I yank out a plastic sheet from my pocket and frantically reach for scissors that I know are there. I can’t find them and toss the bag aside, no time to think of myself. Here goes! I start the breaths.
One… two… three… four.
I forget to check if her airway is clear. Good, all clear. I wipe my mouth on my sleeve. Do compressions, again.
One… two… three… four.
Go back to breaths.
One… two… three… four.
Wipe mouth. Compressions:
one… two… three… four.
Breaths:
one… two… three… four.
About to start another round of compressions, I feel a heartbeat. I check the carotid and confirm the tech assessment. It weakly throbs against my fingertips. She isn’t breathing yet. More breaths! I almost have her back. Breaths: one… two… three… four.
Recheck her breathing to hear one raspy, raggedy breath, then nothing. Breaths, again: one… two… three… four.
She begins breathing now regularly, just a little ragged.
She’s stable, for now. Where is all this blood coming from? I locate the relative source, the stomach or abdomen from the stains on the jacket. I unbutton her shirt to find a small cut, oozing blood — just below the sternum. Get her scarf to staunch the flow, the most I can do for her.
A shadow blocks the limited light from the hall. I find a person standing there. They immediately turn on the lights. Happiness floods me to see the paramedics. She moves across the room to help Dr. Mekova. A hand rests on my shoulder.
Thurs 8/31/17 8:07 p.m.
W
e got it from here. Thanks for your help,” a deep voice says at my shoulder.
“I’ve done CPR. Dr. Mekova is stable.”
“Thanks for all your help. You can take a seat. She’s in warm hands.”
“I’ll just be over here, if you need anything.”
“I’ll be sure to let you know. And you are?” he says.
“Conor Abby.”
I reluctantly step back, my job concluded and owing her nothing more. The array of desks moved out of the way, a pinched oval in the back wall transforming it into an archway. I keep a vigilant watch on Dr. Mekova. They attach a square frame to her top half, across the waist, up both sides, and across the collarbones. Her clothes under the frame melt away, showing an orange patch over the cut. A white fabric forms under the life support frame. She connects a bag of fluid with the attached IV tube. A three dimensional image coalesces above Irena of her internal organs, highlighting her heart in the orange of the frame, meaning her heart needs help pumping blood.
