A Life Forgotten

The technician lowered the cover on my cranial access point and it sealed shut with a light snapping sound. He then walked back in front of me and flashed me a practiced smile. “Well, Mr. Graves, everything appears to be functioning within normal parameters. Just as Malcolm had informed you last week.”
         I shook my head. “No, something’s wrong. The flashbacks are getting stronger.”
         “The recall suppression with this brand is top of the line. You should not be getting flashbacks at all."
         “I know, but I am!” I said, and felt my face getting hot. “It’s defective. I demand to see Dr. White!”
         The technician raised both hands in front of his chest. “I’m sorry to have upset you, Mr. Graves. Dr. White is unavailable today. Perhaps Malcolm can take one more look—”
         “No,” I interrupted. “Not another synth! I need a real doctor. A human doctor.”
         “I’m afraid everyone is committed for today. Allow me check the calendar,” the technician said, and shut his eyes for a few seconds before opening them again. He afforded me yet another manufactured smile. “There is an appointment available at two-thirty on Thursday afternoon. Might that work for you?”
         I sighed. “That’s in two days. Can’t you squeeze me in today?”
         “I’m truly sorry, Mr. Graves,” said the technician. “I’d be happy to refer you to another clinic. One that may have an earlier opening.”
         “Ha, and pay the deductible? No, thanks. Thursday would be fine.”
         “Very well,” the technician said, offering me a hand. I refused it, and, despite the pain in both knees, managed to stand myself up.
         I exited the examination room; the technician was a step or two behind me. We arrived at the lobby and I headed for the exit, barely noticing the receptionist shooting me a friendly albeit plastic smile. Damn synths, I thought. Why do they always have to be smiling?
         “I’ll have Minerva set up that appointment for you,” said the technician from behind me. I didn’t turn back to look at him. “Do have yourself a nice day, Mr. Graves.”

The sun had begun its descent behind the West Hills. It was a truly magnificent sight on these warm, summer evenings. A hand was caressing the top of my hair, and I turned to look up at the beautiful face of my wife, her love for me shining clearly from her light green eyes. We were on the grass and my head was on her lap. I truly should have gotten the picnic blanket out of the car, but neither of us anticipated we’d be here for hours. The ground felt warm beneath me, and the scenery was truly relaxing.
         “Don’t fall asleep now,” my wife said softly. “You’ll miss it.”
         I gave her a tiny pinch on her waist, which elicited a cute chuckle, and I turned to look at the setting sun again. I closed my eyes to let the serenity of the moment soak further in. And, against my wife’s request, I fell asleep.

I awoke with a start and it took a few beats for me to realize I was not at all at Oaks Bottom Park. I was at the coffee shop, and I was lying on its cold, hard cement floor. I sat up and a few customers gave me a quick look before ignoring me again. I noticed my eyes were wet, and I brought up a sweater sleeve to wipe them.
         The barista approached me. “Are you alright, sir?”
         I looked up at her. “Yes, I’m fine.”
         She gave me a smile that looked so genuine I was temporarily convinced she was human. “Allow me to help you up, sir.”
         I took her hand, and she guided me up with ease. “Thank you.”
         “It’s my pleasure. May I get you a cup of coffee?”
         I wondered how I’d gotten to that coffee shop, then I remembered that I'd decided to stop by on the way to the clinic. “No, I’m fine. Sorry for the trouble.”
         “No trouble at all,” said the friendly synth. “Have a nice afternoon.”
         She walked back behind the counter to greet the customer who had been patiently waiting to order. I brushed invisible dust off my pants, and walked out of the shop.

“What seems to be the problem, Mr. Graves?” Dr. White asked while he shone a small light at my eyes.
         “Well, it’s not with my eyes,” I said.
         Dr. White shook his head and put his pen light away. “Sorry, force of habit.”
         “It’s the implant that I got last month,” I continued. “It’s not working properly.”
         “That’s quite a surprise,” Dr. White said, walking to the other side of the exam chair. “That memory suppressor is top of the line.” I felt his gloved hand poking at my nape before finding the release button. He pressed it, and the C.A.P. opened with a slight whoosh.
         “Well, this top of the line implant is not working,” I said. “She’s… back.”
         “Ah, I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Graves,” Dr. White said, closing the C.A.P. He pressed a button and my chair swung slowly around to face him. “We’ll get this fixed. Michael will escort you to the operating room.”
         With that, the technician who had been standing quietly at a corner of the room approached me and offered a hand. Again, I refused it and stood up. He lead us out of the examination room and down a short corridor at the end of which was the elevator that will take us up to the operations floor. The procedure will be very quick and I will soon forget about Sarah again. Memories of my recently deceased wife of fifty years will again be buried deep. I don’t want to remember her right now, not for a while. Not while the memories are still painful, unbearable.
         In time, I may want to remember.
         I will want to.

Written for #333655
Prompt: Write a poem or story about the futuristic Spare Memory Device.
Word Count: 991