The Love Of My Life Was Murdered In Front Of Me For The Most Fucked Up Reason
“Get that thing away from me,” I said, swatting at the sedative in my dad’s hand. He tried to jab me with the needle, but I had learned how to dodge and swerve him over the years. “It’s not happening.”
“The wedding is tomorrow,” he said, resting his tools on the kitchen counter. “Don’t you want to enjoy it?”
Through the doorway, I could see a chair with ankle and wrist straps sitting in the living room. My father played with emotions for a living, so he didn’t have to drag me to a Swiping Station for the procedure. He could bring the station to me.
“I can’t believe they let you take one of those home,” I said, mentally berating myself for not noticing it earlier. How blind could I be?
“You can imagine what kind of strings I had to pull. Don’t let it go to waste, Cami.”
“Sorry, pop,” I said, even though he should’ve been the one apologizing.
My parents “knew” they were doing the right thing by marrying me off to the perfect on-paper man, but they also knew I hated the idea of arranged marriages, and that should’ve been enough for them. But no, they decided to abuse the parental rights the government granted them instead.
A few decades back, treating children like property made a comeback. There were people who fought the change, but most citizens were brainwashed into believing the reversion was for the better, that it wouldn’t be like it was in the history books. Why not? Because this time around, we had the damn Swiping Stations to help us out.
“I don’t want my memory wiped,” I said, rising from their table. “If you’re going to force me into an unhappy marriage, I want to remember the days before I was miserable.”
My father puffed out his cheeks, then let out all the air like a noisy balloon. “The procedure would make you happy. It would put fictional memories in your head. Pleasant ones. Of Owen.”
Owen. Just the name of my future husband disgusted me, so how could I stand his voice, his face, his lips?
“I wouldn’t care about you tossing fake memories in there, but that’s not all you’d do,” I said. “We all know while you’re messing around with my mind, you’re going to erase everything about Dean.”
Dean. Now that was a name with gusto. The name of the man I would’ve chosen to marry if I had the opportunity. I’d been in his house the day his parents had drugged him and dragged him to his appointment. My father had performed the procedure.
By the time my dad had finished implanting fictitious memories into my boyfriend’s mind, he was in love with the girl he was set to marry. Even worse, he had no idea who I was anymore.
I’d planned on jogging whatever remnants of his memory remained with old photographs and diary entries, like I’d heard rumors about on message boards, but he seemed so happy with his wife. Happier than he’d been with me. That’s why all of my schemes to break them up dissipated.
But just because he had forgotten me didn’t mean I wanted to forget him.
“Cami, you’re twenty-two,” my father said, refusing to abandon his side of the argument. “You have to get married. There’s no way around it.”
“I already agreed to the marriage. But that’s the only part I agreed to.”
“You want to spend your whole life miserable?” my mother asked from across the table. The diamonds on her neck shone bright, but her eyes looked dead. “Go ahead, then. I’m done having the same conversation every week. Just pretend to be happy at your wedding. I want believable photographs.”
“When’s that wedding thing, again?” I asked, just to piss her off.
It worked. She rose from her chair while muttering insults, fleeing from the room.
Dad covered his face with his hands, but I could hear him speak clearly. He said, “Tomorrow at six. Don’t show up late. Don’t bail, either.” A sigh. “Now go home to your fiancé.”
Owen’s house was only a block away from my parent’s house, because they wanted to keep me as close as they could. It made me miss the days when they’d hated me. Ever since I was fifteen, the first time they’d caught me making out with Dean in the basement (shirts off and condom packets out), they’d wanted to disown me. I’d always expected them to let me marry him, send us miles away, and then delete all of their memories of us.
But no. My sister, the golden child who had gotten the procedure without a single hesitation, had to go and die on us. It hadn’t happened during her honeymoon, when she went bungee jumping and skydiving. It hadn’t happened on one of her couple’s cruises. It hadn’t even happened while she was helping her doting husband pull leaves out of the gutter.
Two years into her “perfect” marriage, she’d just slipped in the shower and cracked open her head. Just like that. Nothing dramatic. Nothing meaningful. Just a stupid coincidence that ruined her husband’s life. My parent’s life. My life.
My mother and father needed to nurture. They defined themselves as parents, but they couldn’t keep the title without any kids. Since I happened to be the only one left, the one they were stuck with, they’d decided to take Dean away to try to morph me into something they could be proud of.
It wasn’t working.
When I reached my house, with a white picket fence and blue shutters and a damn welcome mat on the stoop, Owen was busy watering flowers. I didn’t want a man who watered flowers. I wanted Dean, the guy who bought me vibrators instead of roses, because they were more useful.
“Hey honey,” my fiancé said, dropping the gardening hose to lean in for a kiss. I went through the motions, pressing my lips against his to avoid any complaints.
Owen had gotten the procedure done, which meant my father had implanted fake memories of me into his mind. He realized they were fake, because I told him so whenever I wanted him to leave me the hell alone, but it didn’t make me feel any better about the fact that he thought he knew what I looked like naked.
“We should watch some movies tonight,” he said, following me into the house like a duckling. He even had the same waddle. “I downloaded a few about weddings. Thought it would get us excited for the big day.”
I sucked in a breath of air. “Not a good idea. The groom’s not supposed to see the bride the night before the wedding.”
“I thought I’m just not supposed to see you in the dress.”
“That, too.”
“Oh. Well… I guess I’ll sleep on the couch then? Stay out of your way.”
“Great.”
After grabbing a beer and a bag of miniature cookies, I headed into our bedroom. The dress my mother had picked out for me was hanging from the top of the closet door. It had lace sleeves (to cover up my tattooed arms), a puffy skirt (to make me look modest), and a thick veil (to disguise the look of horror that would be on my face).
I hated the outfit. Dreaded the thought of wearing it in front of a crowd of family, friends, and neighbors. But Dean was already out of my life, so what the hell? As annoying as my parents were, I didn’t want to destroy them. So I’d suck it up and marry the douche.
Whenever I drove home from work, I paid more attention to my thoughts than the road in front of me. I knew the path so clearly that I didn’t need to focus to know when to stop at a light and where to make a turn. By the time I got home every night, I didn’t remember the drive at all. It was like it hadn’t actually happened.
That’s what the wedding felt like.
I was standing in a church, listening to Owen recite his vows, but I didn’t remember getting dressed or getting in the limo or taking photos or walking down the aisle. My mind had been in a different place than my body—until now.
Now, I looked out at the crowd and saw Dean’s head peeking out from the back row. All of his memories of me had been erased, and I’d never bothered to reintroduce myself to him after the fact, so why would he have shown up? Why did he look as miserable as me?
Over the last two years, I’d made a point not to follow him to work or spy through his windows or even glance at his social media pages. I knew one look at him could flip my emotions back on, and I was right. I’d run over and grab him if I could. I’d drag him up over to the arch and marry him right then and there.
However, Dean wasn’t the only one staring at me. Everybody was. Apparently, it was my turn to say the vows I hadn’t bothered to write.
I licked my lips, looked Owen up and down, and said, “Damn, you look good. You know, most guys aren’t nearly as sweet or silly or sexy as you are. That’s why you’re the only one I ever wanted to be with. No one else could ever make me as happy as you do. Damn, I love you.”
Everyone, including the priest, chuckled—except for my parents. They were the only ones who knew what the words meant. Back when Dean and I had been deep in our puppy love stage, phrases like, “Damn, you’re sexy,” and, “Damn, you’re a good kisser,” used to come out of my mouth all the time. That’s why “damn” became my nickname for him.
And that’s why my mother’s eye twitched, her hands curling into petite fists. My father put an arm around her, squeezing to calm her down.
When I glanced over at Dean, it looked like he understood the reference, too.
Of course, Owen was blissfully unaware, assuming that I’d finally come around. That I actually wanted to be with him.
“Do you want to sneak away to consummate the marriage?” he whispered when we walked out of the room to the sounds of clapping. He pulled me in by the waist with his soft, delicate hands, but all I could feel were Dean’s rough and calloused ones.
“I think I’m actually going to freshen up,” I lied. “I was tearing up a bit back there. I want to fix my makeup.”
“Okay, but you look perfect.”
“So do you,” I said, faking a smile before rounding a corner to escape.
The reception was a whole car ride away, and since Dean had a small bladder, he always stopped in the bathroom before traveling. A woman in a bridal gown could get away with anything, so I didn’t hesitate to “accidentally” stumble into the men’s bathroom. Fuck Dean’s wife and his house and his pretend happiness. I was his happiness.
When I pushed through the door, he was already there, adjusting his tie in the mirror. He’d always hated those things. I didn’t think he owned one.
“Thank God,” he said when he saw my reflection. “I didn’t know if I’d have a chance to talk to you.”
“Do you remember?” were the first words out of my mouth. They overlapped the end of his sentence.
When he shook his head, my heart plummeted to the soles of my feet. But then he said, “I found something.”
He slid his hand into his blazer to yank a keychain out of the pocket. A silver heart with a photograph of us printed on it. The back had an inscription that said, “Damn, I love you.” My five-year anniversary present to him.
“We were together,” he said, but I couldn’t tell if it was meant to be a question or an observation.
I just grabbed him by the shoulders, my thumbs digging into the spot above his collarbone, and pushed my lips against his. He pushed back, with his lips at first, and then his tongue. I hadn’t had a kiss that passionate since… Since the last time I’d kissed him. Owen felt like rhinestones. Dean felt like diamonds.
“Is there a way to get my memories back?” he asked when the need for air forced us apart.
“Yeah, I’ll tell you them.”
“I meant–”
“I know what you meant, but do you have any clue what the reversal process is like? First, we’d have to find the person with those memories, and honestly, my dad hates you so much that he probably had the dude killed, so–”
“Wait, what?”
Most people were ignorant when it came to their beloved Swiping Stations. They assumed that their thoughts were wiped and that was that. They didn’t realize it was impossible to delete them completely. That another person had to gain each memory they lost. Classified information like that was the only perk of being my father’s daughter.
“When you were plugged into that chair, some poor guy, probably in prison, was plugged into another chair,” I said. “That’s where your memories went.”
“Well, let’s go get them, then.”
That would require finding the guy, breaking him out, and getting permission to use a Swiping Station. Not to mention sneaking away from the family and friends littered around the church. That’s why I cleared my throat and said the last thing I wanted to say: “It wouldn’t work.”
He brushed a hand over his buzz cut hair. The style made him look ancient. When we were together, it had been long enough to fit into a tiny ponytail I’d yank during sex. “It won’t work, because it’s impossible, or because you have a honeymoon to get to?” he asked.
“Oh, don’t be like that. You’re married too.”
“Yeah, well, we both made a mistake then.”
I could see the liquid outlining his eyes. It was clear that a part of him had rejected the surgery and remembered me (whether it was his soul or his heart or some other crap), and that part of him wanted me. But I supposed he needed to get the memories back entirely to justify leaving his wife.
If we could actually alter his brain, if we could somehow manage to pull off the impossible, he could get a divorce and I could get an annulment. We could run away to one of the old fashioned towns in the east without Swiping Stations and live an undisturbed life.
“Well, let’s go find our jailbird then,” I said, hoping the reception wouldn’t be too dull without the bride.
The prison my father frequented took twenty minutes to find. The woman behind the front desk, with thick arms and a triangular face, whistled when she saw me. Then she said, “We aren’t the fashion police. You can’t turn yourself in for looking tacky.”
I probably should’ve changed out of my wedding dress, but that would’ve given my guests more time to track me down. “We actually wanted to look around,” I said while Dean hovered behind me.
“And why would I let a Barbie doll bride walk around a highly secure area?”
“Because my father works here.”
A smirk crawled across her face. “Ah. Leonard’s kid. He mentioned the wedding was today. He was pretty excited about it, so I can’t imagine him being thrilled about you being here.”
“Just let me call him?”
She picked up the phone glued to the desk and dialed, chuckling all the while. “No offense, but I can’t stand your pop, so let’s keep it on speakerphone so I can hear him blow up.”
Dean must’ve seen my hands shaking, because he reached out and grabbed one, rubbing his thumb over my knuckles. Even though I knew my parents would be on the verge of tracking me down to kill me themselves, I managed to keep my voice level when I said, “Hi daddy.”
“Where the hell are you?” he asked, but I could hear mom in the background, saying, “Tell the little bitch she’s embarrassing us.”
I spoke loud enough so that they could both hear me say, “You told me not to run away before the ceremony. You said nothing about afterward.”
“I swear to God, Cami.” That was mom again.
“Listen.” I took a breath, trying my best to sound genuine. “I did what you asked me to do. I’m married now. You should be happy. Especially since I’m thinking about getting work done at one of your little Swiping Stations.”
I could hear mumbling, but not much else until dad asked, “What’s the catch?”
“I’m at Cohen Correctional Facility. I just want to look at the inmates. I need to see the people who are going to get my memories.”
“You’re not going to like it, Camille.”
“Well it’s a good thing you’ll be able to erase my memory of it then.”
A long sigh fought its way through the phone. “What are you really doing there?”
Before I could answer, I heard my mother say, “The faster she’s finished with whatever the hell she’s doing, the faster she’ll get back here. Give her what she wants.”
“Fine,” he said, directing his words toward her, then toward me. “Fine. Let me talk to whoever’s behind the desk, so I can authorize the visit. But Cami?”
“Yes, dad?”
“I miss your sister.”
I thought I was doing a good job of ignoring the jab until I realized how hard I was squeezing Dean’s hand. Instead of squeezing back, he pulled me closer and said, “He loves you, you know. I know he does.”
“Do you?”
He couldn’t answer, because my father had already finished giving his approval and the woman behind the desk was buzzing us into the other room. When the door clicked open, a man with bulging muscles in his neck appeared to usher us through rows of cells.
Before I even saw the inmates, I heard them. Banging and screaming and crying. When I caught sight of one, a skeleton of a woman, she was digging her nails into her forehead so deep it drew blood.
We weren’t inside of a psych ward. The inmates weren’t supposed to be that panicked. Too many memories must’ve been stuffed into their heads. How could they tell which ones were real and which were fake? How could they know whom they genuinely loved and whom they didn’t even know? No wonder they were harming themselves. They had dozens of lives crammed into one mind.
“Cami.”
I turned when I heard my name. So did Dean. It took us a few seconds to find the person speaking, but when we did, he was saying, “Cami. Cami, I missed you so much. So much.”
He had on the same orange suit everyone else was wearing, except there was a trail of blood down the center of it. I couldn’t see any scars or scratches on his skin. Only blood dripping from his nose.
“You know him?” Dean asked, never releasing his hold on my hand.
I shook my head. “It must be him.”
“Who?”
“You.”
I walked toward the inmate, flinching when he wrapped his fingers around the bars. But then I realized he was looking at me the same way Dean used to look at me. Giving me the same I-love-you eyes.
“What happened, Cami?” he asked. Upon closer inspection, he looked more like a child than a criminal. He couldn’t have been much older than me. “How’d I get in here?”
I tested out several different responses in my mind before I settled on the safest one. “You know about the Swiping Stations?” I asked.
He let out a groan that sounded like a lion cub roar, and released his grip. “So I don’t really know you, then?” He slammed his open palm on the bars, again and again and again. “Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it.”
With every curse, I took another step back. I ended up bumping into the guard, who suggested we move along, but Dean attempted to calm the prisoner down by saying, “How about we get a few of those memories out of there? Make you feel a little better.”
The guard quirked an eyebrow, a who-the-hell-do-you-think-you-are look, but I said, “You heard him. Get the guy out of there and into a chair.”
“You have authorization to walk around,” the guard said. “Not to take anybody out.”
The inmate graduated from hitting the bars to kicking them. “Not again. I can’t take anymore. No, no, no. Please.”
“We’re not putting memories in,” I said as soothingly as I could. “We’re taking some out.”
“You’re not doing anything,” the guard said just as a phone on the wall started ringing. He walked over to it, answered it, listened for a few beats, and then started describing Dean’s appearance. After that, he listened some more, rolled his eyes, and stormed back over. With an overly polite grin, he took out his keys and unlocked the door. “It’s your lucky day. Turns out we’re going to take him out after all.”
I bit down on my lip with raised eyebrows, trying to internalize my excitement. Dean gave me a smile, then stepped in front of me, creating distance between the inmate and me in case he tried to take a swing at me—not that he could if he wanted to. The guard had handcuffed him, and was pushing him in the spot between the shoulder blades, making sure he took the lead.
Even with his messed up memory, he knew exactly where to go. An isolated, stark white room with a row of chairs inside.
The guard pushed him into the closest one and undid his cuffs, only so he could strap him into the arm and ankle restraints. “You can get in the one next to him,” he said, talking to Dean.
Without asking how the guard knew that we wanted to swap the inmate’s memories with his own, he gave me a kiss on the cheek and took his seat. The gesture, the same one he’d always do before work and before bed, made me forget about whatever questions I’d had.
“So how does this work exactly?” Dean asked after I did the honors of strapping him into the restraints. It reminded me of all the nights we’d used bondage in the bedroom. “Are these two chairs connected by a wire or something?”
“Nope,” the guard said as he typed long strings of code into a computer. “You could take memories from someone in China and implant them in someone in Texas. You just need to program the chairs to the correct routing numbers, which is what I’m doing right now.”
Twenty minutes later, after he had set up the chairs and pinpointed which memories should be transferred, he said, “Are you ready?”
“Just a second,” I said, kissing Dean one last time. I let my lips linger against his, reveling in the sugary taste.
When I pulled away, he nudged my nose with his and said, “The next time we kiss, it’ll be just like it used to be.”
I couldn’t wait to help him fill out his divorce papers. To find a new house in a new state. To bang in every room of it to make up for the time we spent apart. To finally be happy again.
When the guard started up the inmate’s machine, a top that looked like a hair dryer from a beauty salon fell onto his head. It surrounded him, shielding his face, so all we could see were the occasional jolts in his body.
Of course, we could still hear the whimpers escaping from his lips, the buzz of the drill attached to the inside of the machine, and the clanking of the gears on the outside of it.
When the top lifted sixty seconds later, the inmate’s eyes were overly wide and bloodshot, but other than that he seemed fine. I turned my attention toward Dean just as his machine started to hum, a noise unlike the last machine.
No top came down. No jolts shook his body. Instead, his eyes went white and foam leaked out of his mouth.
“Why is that happening?” I asked, sprinting over to the guard in an effort to turn off the machine. “Why is he reacting like that?”
I tried to reach the computer, but the guard’s boxy body stood in the way. Whenever I tried to swerve around him, he put up a hand or a knee to keep me in place. He was four times my size, so there was no way to take him down.
“Turn it off. Something’s wrong. Come on.” Tears were falling now, crashing down my face in waves. “Is that normal? Why is that happening?”
He just stared at Dean, watching his eyes twitch and listening to the heavy coughs that spurted from his throat. When his body froze and the noises stopped, he said, “Because his machine was set to lethal.”
I gave myself a moment to let the shock seep in before I bolted over to Dean, but his heartbeat had already faded. I couldn’t feel a pulse or hear a breath. All I could do was rest my head on his lap and soak his jeans with tears.
When my brain allowed my body to speak again, I said, “You son of a bitch. What the hell? Why would you… Why?”
I couldn’t see the guard, because my face was still buried in Dean’s clothes, but he had a twinge of disappointment in his voice when he said, “Your father was the one on the phone with me earlier. After I described Dean’s appearance and explained that you wanted to let a prisoner out, he must’ve put two and two together. Figured out what you had planned. And that’s when he gave me new orders.”
He paused before saying, “The inmate’s memories—the ones that used to be Dean’s memories—have been transplanted into another man a few towns over. Your father hooked him up to a station in your house. Says the name is Owen.” There was another pause. “Your pop said it was a wedding gift for you. That it would make you feel like you married the right man.”
That was the first time I understood the appeal of the Swiping Stations. The first time I wanted the contents of my mind to be scooped out and dumped, so I could pretend the world was a place actually worth living in.