Registration

Tuesday 4/2/21 13:04

Darren: Hello, my name is Darren Garrett, and I consent to the recording of this conversation for official use. I have read the privacy statement and understand that these statements will be used by any government entities that are deemed pertinent.

Doctor: Thank you Darren. So Darren, please tell me why you are here today.

Darren: I am here to present myself to be registered as a supernaturally abled person as is required by law.

Doctor: Thank you for voluntarily coming in to do this. We appreciate your cooperation. Now tell me Darren, what is your supernatural ability?

Darren: Um, so I can basically sort of access the memories and learned skills of other Mes that went down different life paths.

Doctor: Can you elaborate?

Darren: Yeah, um, basically like what I said. For example, if my toilet breaks, I could basically ask myself “What if I had chosen to pursue a career in plumbing?” and then like I sort of feel this decision tree that branches off through the various courses my life could have taken. Um. I pick the path most relevant to my question or need, and I basically instantaneously experience all of the memories of that other me up until the present day in that Darren’s life. That gives me the skills I need to repair my toilet. That’s a really banal example but… uh…

Doctor: Can you describe this decision tree and how you pick the path?

Darren: Um, it’s very instinctual. Like I don’t see it so much as visualize it based on this other sort of sense. There’s like this vibration in my mind as I hone in on the most relevant thread to choose. It’s hard to say without getting too abstract, but it would really be like trying to describe colors to a blind man. But yeah, in a way, I can feel all of the hundreds of thousands of paths I could have taken.

Doctor: When did this start?

Darren: I think something must have happened during the car accident I was in. I mean, I don’t know if there was some chemical involvement, or if I hit my head in just the right way, or if the six days I was in a coma triggered it, or if I was bitten by a radioactive regret or what. I didn’t notice it for a while though. It wasn’t for a few months after that. I’ve been in constant pain since then, and I really haven’t been at my best mentally, and one night as I was rolling around in my bed, not able to find a comfortable position to sleep in, I was super pissed and sad and really thought about what if I had called off work on the day of the crash. All of a sudden, this rush of experience happened, the decision tree, the memories, and next thing I know, I’m sobbing and terrified.

Doctor: When was this?

Darren: … about four months ago.

Doctor: … why did you wait so long to report this to us?

Darren: For a while, I just thought I’d gone completely fucking insane. After I experimented and sort of confirmed for myself that it was real, well, I don’t have a great answer for that aside from avoidant anxiety disorder. Admitting this to others, it’s not a step I could take lightly. The fear just kind of built up.

Doctor: Have you admitted this to others? Aside from us?

Darren: No.

<pause>

Doctor: So tell me more about how you experience these memories.

Darren: It’s, uh, it’s a lot. … I’ll make an inquiry and then it’s this immediate flood of like a whole other life. It’s pretty overwhelming.

Doctor: I can imagine. How do you hold onto your sense of self?

Darren: That’s sort of the thing. I’m not doing an amazing job at that.

Doctor: Can you walk me through an example?

Darren: … Well, if you think about your life, you’re not going to remember every little moment. The boring shit just all sort of blends together. The more emotionally potent moments will stick out to you, the real defining factors. That’s basically it. But holy shit, it takes a toll. … Like in the lives I remember where I have wives or kids or friends that I’ve never even met. All of a sudden, I remember spending twelve years with a woman I’m very much in love with, right up until the concurrent moment that This Me asks the question, then all of a sudden she’s gone. It’s… rending. Here I am, feeling this intense intimacy with someone who I’ve spent so much of my life with, only she doesn’t know who the hell I am. ... Sometimes, I’ll go on Facebook and look up these people who meant the world to me. I’ll look up a woman who bore my children, only to see her married to a different man, with different children, and I’ll just… weep.

Doctor: How do you cope with this?

Darren: Not well. But the funny thing about memories is they do fade. Even skills I learn through this process, if I don’t use them, and build new memories with them, they fade. The people fade, too. But I’ll think I’m fine and then I’ll be walking through the store and suddenly smell Jessie’s perfume, or I’ll be watching a movie and remember sitting on the couch and watching it with Stacy, but it’s not my couch, and it’s certainly not my Stacy. I’ve sent dozens of different children off to their first days of school, and those small humans that I loved with all my heart just… don’t exist. The memories that stick with me most are the ones that I ended up obsessing over. I remember remembering them, so I’ve sort of cemented them in my mind, for better or worse.

Doctor: So using your power, it comes at a pretty serious cost.

Darren: Sometimes, very serious. Sometimes, not as much. The more middle of the road, mediocre life the other Me lead, the easier to deal with. And by mediocre, I mean personally, not professionally. Professionally, that stuff is pretty fine. Not very emotionally fraught, but potentially very useful. I mean, at no point would any of the skills I learn be considered superhuman. I can’t fucking fly or shoot laser beams out of my hands or anything. I’m just a guy, but a guy with feasibly a tremendous amount of skills that I can access instantaneously. I’m like a Swiss army knife, with a number of options for specific situations, but when you pull out the corkscrew, it’s exhausting and potentially emotionally devastating.

Doctor: What has been the most troubling instance that you’ve encountered while using your power?

<pause>

Darren: <sighs> Okay, so I was at a party and having a few drinks. There was a piano there, and also a really lovely woman that I wanted to impress. So I inquired about the life I would have led if I’d dedicated myself to learning to play the piano. Innocuous enough, right? But apparently, Piano Me raped a girl in his early twenties. … I can remember that memory vividly. I guess because the shock of experiencing it was so traumatic. But yeah. Piano Me, got her drunk and fucked her unconscious body. I remember the feeling of pounding away at this defenseless woman. When I came out of the inquiry, I stood up, vomited all over the place, and ran out of the party. Now I have to deal with having this memory of a disgusting act I didn’t actually commit to a woman I’ve never actually met, but it was fucking real to me. IS fucking real. I don’t know if these other lives I’ve lead exist on other planes of existence or if this is just some hypothetical construct in my head that I can somehow draw knowledge from. I don’t know if this event DID happen on some other plane or not. But is the only thing standing between Me and Rapist Piano Me a few life choices? Does that capability for awful acts lie dormant in me?

Doctor: Did this experience make you want to commit rape?

Darren: It made me want to commit suicide.

Doctor: Do you want to commit suicide now?

Darren: No.

<pause>

Doctor: Let’s switch gears a bit. Can you tell me some of the limitations of your power?

Darren: Well, I can’t access any decisions that would have occurred since the accident. That’s sort of cut off for me, which is why I’m fairly certain that that’s when my power came about. Um, if the most relevant life thread to what I’m inquiring about ends in my death that happens before this point in time, I experience the death, and, uh, fuck… whatever you’re imagining, it’s a lot worse than that. And I guess it probably goes without saying that, while I can know martial arts, I’m still in this body. I don’t have the physical ability to kick a lot of ass. Like I’m sort of a smart fighter, but not particularly tough or strong. And considering the handicap since the crash, I’m not really able to hit the gym. I think I’m stuck being middle aged and kinda doughy. But yeah. I’m fairly smart, I guess, so the proficiency at which I gain a knowledge is going to be relatively decent. But nothing above regular human capability. I’m not cut out for any of your superhero teams or anything. I doubt I’d even be all that useful beyond everyday sort of stuff.

Doctor: How has your power affected how you make a living?

Darren: Well… uh… to test if this was real, I inquired what it would have been like if I’d dedicated myself to becoming a professional gambler. Gambler Me made a pretty good living off of it. So I went to Atlantic City and tried it out. Made a fair amount of money, and then I knew it was time to get out before I was thrown out. The next day, I inquired what it would be like if I’d dedicated myself to becoming a stock trader. Made some investments with that startup money, and I’ve been working with that ever since. I can work from home, which is great for being in pain all the time. I’ve not gone crazy greedy or anything, and once again, it’s not like I can see the future or whatever. I make the same mistakes anyone else would, so I don’t think it’s particularly unfair or anything.

Doctor: Are the other worlds you see in your other lives different at all?

Darren: Not in any way that is particularly noticeable. I can really only ask hypotheticals about my own actions, not about the world. I can’t see what would have happened if Mitt Romney of Hillary Clinton became president or shit like that. I did see what it would have been like if I’d dedicated myself to politics. I rose to the lofty position of city councilperson of Upper Sandusky, Ohio. So no, I don’t see different worlds. I’m not sure I could handle that.

Doctor: Is there anything else you’d like to mention about your powers or your life?

Darren: Not really. I’d just like to know where we go from here.

Doctor: Well, we’ll be meeting every week for a few months until we have a firm grasp and who you are and how you are adjusting. We can be relatively flexible with this, you’re not on parole or anything. This is as much for your benefit as it is for ours. Then, depending on how that progresses, we’ll go from there. It sounds as if you’re not interested in participating in any of our crisis response teams, and while we don’t force citizens into labor, you may be approached about the issue later, if an agency sees that you could be an asset. I’ve noted your personal reluctance due to the obvious strain your power takes on you, not to mention your physical disability. But we will be as much of a resource for you as we can be. I hope you’re feeling more comfortable with having come forward to register now.

Darren: mhmm

Doctor: Good. Well, that’s really all for today. There’s a little more paperwork to fill out, but I can tell you’re ready to get out of here. Let’s - <recording ends>

Home

The water lapping against my body wakes me slowly. Gravel and dirt on my face in the dark. So cold. So disoriented.

The river. Something Bad happened. I’m not ready to think about it.

My limbs are leaden. Moving hurts through the shuddering, but I have to get up. I have to go home. I have to get to my baby girl. I prop myself up slowly. The cold is in my bones, but I have to get home. I can barely feel the sharp rocks or the flowing water through my frozen nerves, but it’s there. I hurt all over, but I don’t care. I have to go home.

I finally manage to stand. The river is dark, only flickering lights reflecting from the streetlights from the bridge above. I look down at my dress, torn and bloody. Something Bad. Grasping hands and angry mouths – no. The Something Bad can wait. My daughter needs me.

I take a few awkward steps. The shivering almost topples me, but I am of one mind. I take a few more, but fall despite my resolve. It’s doesn’t matter. I have to crawl up the embankment anyways.

I get to street level and pull myself up an overturned garbage can to stand again. It must be late. There isn’t a single car around, nor anyone to beg for help.

I don’t live far. I’ll make it.

I start walking, each step a torturous effort. I’m so fucking cold. I walk through the silent streets, willing myself on.

Something dislodges from between my legs and falls to the sidewalk, making a wet sound in the quiet. I close my eyes and refuse to look at it. It doesn’t matter. Home matters. I keep walking.

My house is dark. My keys are gone, in the purse torn from me by – no. I kneel like an old woman, bracing myself against the door. I push the large flowerpot over by accident, but I find my key. My shivering fingers can barely put it in the lock.

My house is quiet. No crying. I panic. I don’t know how long it’s been since I was here.

My baby.

I crawl up the stairs and down the hall to her room. I again have to drag myself up something to stand, her white, wooden crib. Waste is coming out of the sides of her diaper and there are fine salt tracks from her eyes. My poor little monkey, how long have you been alone? I reach out to hold her to me. She burns to the touch. As I pick her up, she rouses and wails. She must be starving. God knows I am. I clutch her to me, uncaring of the mess. I don’t even smell her – all I smell is the river, even still.

My baby.

So warm.

I try to coo to her, to comfort her, but my throat can only manage a croaking groan. I kiss her head, barely feeling her fine black hair on my lips. I fear dropping her with my unsteady limbs, but I hold her fast. I’m her mother and she is the only precious thing in the world.

I put my lips to her chubby little arms and bite, her warmth pouring down my throat. Hush, little monkey, I want to say as I gulp. Momma’s home.

Silence

I’m about three blocks away when I realize I’m still wearing my bathrobe. Must look like The Dude. I just had to get out of the house. I couldn’t face her. Even if she wasn’t disappointed in me, the very fact of her human presence around me made me hate myself and my failings.

I walk and walk. I walk in no particular pattern, just following whatever crossing lights were white. Path of least resistance, as usual.

Ugh. Why am I so not who I want to be?

The bad thoughts were starting to encroach again. I’ve been getting isolated and weird. Trying to meet people halfway, people whom I knew liked me and wanted to engage with me. People I love. I feel like I’m slowly warping into a person I don’t want to be. I feel myself slipping further and further away from them, even as I sit and smile mid-conversation. All I want is silence.

I’ve even stopped listening to music, one of my biggest passions of my youth. I don’t care about new bands or shows or anything. When I do feel the urge to listen to something, just to break the monotony, it’s always barely audible.

It’s like I can’t stop listening to the silence. It calls out to me. When I have to be subject to noise, I find myself longing for deafness. I want to finally hear nothing. Maybe if I didn’t hear how awful the sound of my voice is, I wouldn’t hate everything I have to say.

I walk, scowling at every car that passes for interrupting my peace. I try to step outside of myself, remember that they have as much right to walk the Earth as I do. But it immediately follows that none of us has any right. It makes it easier to hate them again for the crime of life.

There is a high parking garage gone dark. Only diffused moonlight filters through the cement structure. I duck into it and follow the smooth concrete upwards. The noise from the outside is turned down, having to traverse many angles to reach me. But it still seeks me. I walk slowly, carefully, as quiet as I can manage. Every scratch of sand beneath my shoes scrapes down my brain. When will this just end?

I make it to the top of the parking garage and the wind mocks me with its hiss. I sit down near the center of the parking level. There aren’t tears for this kind of desperation. I’m past tears. Tears are for amateurs’ little jaunts into sadness and despair.

Tears are for the living.

I sit and I stare.

I walk to the ledge and stare down. The city is quieter, but not quiet enough. As my foot shifts, a sharp metal clinking forces into my head. A long, thin nail lies at my feet. Maybe one last effort before I give in completely.

The second eardrum ruptures easier than the first one.

It’s quiet. I look down at the city and feel the wind brush me, neither one making a sound. I can almost enjoy my other senses now that I have the silence. Now, I kind of do want to cry.

As I start walking down into the parking garage, I notice the sound of my blood, round and organic. It was almost enough, but the necessary functions of my body still intrude into my head. The proverbial wind leaves my sails. I slow my pace to keep my heart rate low.

“James?”

I turn in fear and fury to the voice behind me. There is only darkness. I freeze.

I should not hear anything. And my name is not James.

“James?”

It’s still behind me. Closer.

“James?”

I turn again, met only by shadows. I can hear my blood rush. The shadows look finer, more defined in my terror.

“James?”

I run.

I can hear what sounds like wet meat slapping on the concrete and sound of bone crunching under heel.

“James?” The voice sounds afraid, pleading.

I corkscrew down the halls of the parking garage, hounded by the increasingly desperate cries.

I see the exit, a dark frame around the street’s safety of light and society. I burst out of the exit.

I don’t hear the car coming.