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On the brink of a major discovery
I return his smile and groggily ask, "I'm guessing it worked, then?"
"Did it work?!" He shouts down at me, joy pushing more volume than he probably intended into his voice. I couldn't blame him though, adrenaline began pumping into me as the obvious success of our experiment began pushing away any sleepiness my body still felt.
"Not only did it work," Roger continues on, moving his hands above and past my eyesight, the subliminal pressure around my head lessening as he pulls the band encircling it away "it worked with more clarity and displayed more detail than we dared hope for!"
The slight tug at my temple from the pad's adhesive tells me the device had been fully removed from my head, and I bring myself to a sitting position to hang my legs off to the side of the lounger I had just been sleeping on, stretching them out in front of me.
I watch Roger dart across the lab and securely rest the recorder around a dense-styrofoam bust.
"So, how embarrassed should I be?" I ask as I stand up and stretch my arms upward.
"Oh, extremely, but that fact has nothing to do with what we were able to capture!"
His reply sends a chuckle rolling through my body as I make my way past the floor-to-ceiling computer-cabinet Roger had disappeared behind. He was jumping through windows on the screen more quickly than I could ever manage. Each screen lit up his eager face as he whispered, “This is it, this is it…” under his breath.
“But really, Roger, are we going to be able to submit the whole recording or will we have to make some edits? He peels his eyes up from the screen and to mine, his smile never wavering.
“You should be fine. Of course you’ll be able to look over the files before we make any moves, but nothing too embarrassing popped up.”
Oh god. “ Too embarrassing?” I ask.
Roger’s smile somehow widens further as he looks back down and begins clicking through the screens again.
“Well,” he starts off slowly, “the first instance was basically last week here at the lab. Your mind went through a few conversations, visualized some the problems we were working on, and then showcased that date you went on last Tuesday.”
“Oh… uh, did it-”
“No, no it changed to the next instance half way through dinner, but that is when it started to obviously corrupt.”
“In what way?” I ask, as Roger click a few more times before turning the screen around for me to see. A window filled half the screen, taking precedence over the ones behind it. A large, white “7%” against a blue background was contained within it.
“Apparently,” Roger began, “you ordered the surfboard medium-rare and your lovely date had a mustache that moved about her face.” He finished with a sly grin.
“Well, obviously the surfboard shouldn’t be there and her mustache didn’t move around that much.” We share a laugh and continue on.
“But that right there confirms what we thought earlier, right?” I say, as Roger turns the screen back around and slowly begins nodding his head at the screen.
“It’s becoming more and more likely. How many years ago were you in your surfing phase?”
I walk around to the other side of the screen, Roger still flying through the data like only he could, and sit down next to him.
“Four. Well, closer to five now, I guess.”
“Uh-huh, and when was the last time you dated a woman with a mustache?”
A stream of air escapes my lips as I jokingly hit Roger’s shoulder. He laughs without ever taking his eyes off of the screen.
I ask, “Can you show me that actually?”
His eyes flick over to mine, now smiling with teeth, “I can.” He answers with cold-triumph.
A few clicks later and a video fills half the screen, the other half he fills with the window containing the white percentage with a blue background. “0%” is displayed.
Roger increases the playback speed as I watch my unconsciousness played back for me. Scenes from around the lab fade in and out of each other. The clarity stunning me, and besides a few dream-inconsistencies (like no one ever having any pockets or objects and people appearing and disappearing at will) it was like watching a recording on my phone.
As the playback continued on, the white percentage slowly increased and the reality in the video became more obviously dream-like until showing 7% where I was having dinner with my apparently handsome date.
“See?” Roger asks. “There’s the surfboard you ordered, cooked to your liking. And your date with a caterpillar scootin all around her face.”
“I kinda want to show her this, but she probably wouldn’t appreciate it.”
“Ha, no, probably not.” Roger replies before asking, “Does this mustache look familiar, can you place it?”
I stare at it for a little longer, trying to remember, but as the percentage reaches “11%” it flies away.
“Hmm, kinda looks like my Dad’s, but not exactly… Oh! No, my roommate back in college had that style for a bit! We convinced him to get rid of it after a week because it made him look like he should be offering candy out of a van.”
With Roger being as giddy as he was already, that sent him into a laughing fit for a little bit, during which I take over the mouse and angle the screen a bit more towards me. I skim through the video to see what else was captured from my sleeping mind.
Roger stands up and starts to busy himself with other points of data on another computer.
The recording continues on, becoming more and more dream-like as the corruption from past memories begin to warp any concrete instances to such an extent that in a few minutes of viewing, I'm flying through my old childhood home, talking to Roger with floor-length hair that would change color every few seconds. The white-percentage read “59%”.
I turn to Roger and begin saying, “I think you should go for this style of hair than whatever you've got going on n-” but stop before finishing when I see he is no longer behind the other computer. I hear snapping behind me and turn to see Roger has moved to the bust containing the recorder. He finishes securing the clamps of the steel transport carrier around the device and drums his fingers on its surface.
“Taking it home with you?”
“Oh definitely. The missus is out of town to her sister's and it's just going to be me and Junior tonight.” Roger carefully hefts the the carrier off the table and places it on the ground. “As entertaining as Roger Jr.'s gurglings are, I can work on this while he plays in his pen. I'm already not going to be able to sleep because of him, might as well tighten up some of the programming.”
“Can't argue with you on that.” I reply. “And I know this goes without saying, but just be careful with it, try not to let Junior drool all over it. Or you, for that matter.” I finish with a smile.
“Of course!” Roger replies, gathering the case up against his chest. His eyes seem to go to distant for a second as if lost in a sudden thought and repeats under his breath, “Of course...”
I'm about to ask what's on his mind, but before I can, he brings himself out of what track he was on and smiles his electric smile at me. “ Are you fine with closing up? I can stay to help if you want, but I'm worried about chancing the traffic and making Julie late for her sister's.”
“No, go, it's fine! I'll probably stay here a bit longer myself, document the recording a little more thoroughly and see if there are any tweaks I can make. I'll run them by you in the morning before implementing, of course.”
“Fantastic, Alex, really.” Roger says to me, as he maneuvers the steel case to rest against the edge of the desk, freeing one of his hands to place on my shoulder. His happiness melts in gratitude and says “I'm not lying when I see we've done a great thing here. I've been working on this for years before you arrived and you have proved just as, if not more valuable than me in having this come to fruition.” I begin to wave him of and protest, but he shakes my shoulder once and continues ”I mean it. And I cannot thank you enough. Because of what we have here,” he rocks the case forward with his other hand, ”I know my family will never have to worry about another bill, you will have the freedom to pursue any one of your personal projects with full-funding, and were opening a whole, new avenue of study for the world” Roger's green eyes begin to get a little watery. I was about to give him small grief for that, but the lump in my throat made that difficult.
We stare at each other for another second until he uses his free arm to pull me in to a quick hug and a slap on my back and I return the gesture. In one fluid motion, he pulls his arm away and cups it underneath the steel-carrier and begins heading to the door.
“Oh,” Roger says, looking over his shoulder, “Julie says you'll have to stop by again soon, said Junior gets all giddy when you do that airplane game with him.”
I push my words around the lump in my throat, “Of course! I have another date later this week, but we'll figure out something around that.”
“Hopefully she shaves this time.” Roger shoots back with a crooked smile.
“Screw you! Get outta here!” I reply and Roger exits through the door with a laugh and a small wave behind his shoulder.
After the door closes behind him, I walk around the computer cabinet and stand in front of the coffee pot. Might as well brew another pot, it's going to be a long night.
There was no doubt he would appreciate knowing what I had I found as soon as I could tell him, rather than wait for morning. I had tried to call his cell, but he likes to keep that on silent when he's with his kid. And yeah, it's late, but he's going to be up with junior and the recorder anyway.
I eye my laptop bag in the passenger seat as I take the exit leading off to his house, making sure it doesn't topple to the car floor.
The recording was not static. With each playback, it would change. Slowly, at first, and in the beginning it was barely noticeable. It started as I was going through what was captured, trying to connect any of the corruptions with other memories bleeding into what was being shown. Roger and I had this theory where dreams went “off-the-tracks” because past experiences would be be recalled at the same time you were experiencing whatever you were mainly dreaming about. Later down the line, once we could the basic recording down, we were going to try to filter out those corruptions so you could have a true 1:1 playback of your memories.
It was going to be wonderful! We had theories on how to do just that and we were on the brink of starting stage 2. But one thing that never entered our minds was that the corruptions would belong to someone else.
The red light I was idling at turns green and I lurch forward with a little more oomph than I had intended, causing a small squeal from my tires on the wet road . I make eye contact with a cop car stationed outside a bodega, and give a small, awkward wave. Luckily he lets me go on without harassment. Roger's house wasn't far now.
I noticed something was off when the corruption percentage began increasing at higher rates with each play-through. By the fourth play-through, the corruption percentage during dinner with my date read 15% instead of 7%. My date's traveling mustache was still there, but tendrils like a squid's began growing out of her face and what looked like shadows covered surfaces that were perfectly lit before. I had gotten to the part where I was flying through my old home with Roger's techni-color dream hair and my house had become warped and dilapidated. I stopped the playback when dream-Roger had attacked me, completely changing what we had seen before. The percentage had jumped from the original 59% to 89% at that point.
My worn brake-pads squeak out into the night as I park in Roger's driveway. He lived in a nice neighborhood. I was always a little jealous, but happy for him all the same. And once we figured out this beast we created together, I could have the same thing as well. I grab my computer bag and step out of my car and onto the stone pathway leading to his front door, my car chirping locked behind me.
I check my watch, 02:11 AM. Damn, is it too late? I look at his house and see there's a light on upstairs and shadows moving across the curtain. Good, he's up and I have no doubt he will be thankful I stopped by like this.
I continue along the path and look back up at the window which sported a large crack running across it. I try to remember if that was there before and am about to knock on the door when sounds emanating from within give me pause.
Loud crashing and yelling come into focus. I try the knob and it's locked. I bang on the door and the angry sounds ricocheting down the stairs offer no hints of stopping. I drop my bag and go down to my knee as I fish the fake rock from the side and pull out the key. New sounds from Roger Jr. join the others, but they don't.... sound right. Instead of the expecting shrieks from a crying baby exposed to harsh noises, insane gigglings collect at the other side of the door.
I jam the key in and knock the door open hard enough it bounces against its hinges back at towards me. I push it to the side as I make my way in and up the stairs.
“Roger!” I shout, but nothing changes. The crashing continues to the apparent glee of Roger Jr. I round the top of the stairs and make my way across the hallway to the silhouetted door of Roger's study. Roger's voice begins to rise above the cacophony of sound.
-nnnooooo! NO! No you can't- you, I won't! I WON'T. Please, please no. Please...”
“ROGER!” I yell as I reach out and bang against the door. Something was blocking it from the other side, “ROGER!” I shout again as I bring my fist against the door.
The crashing and yells stop. Only Junior's inane giggling continues, sending the hairs across my body on end.
“Yes! Open the door Roger! I'm here to help, what's going on?!” I push my body against the door and it begins to budge, when suddenly what sounds like a saw cutting wood fills the air and the blade of a 12” kitchen knife pierces the door an inch in front of my face.
“WHAT THE FUCK, ROGER?!” I shout as I jump back from the door like a bolt of electricity went through my body. The blade wiggles in place and slides back through the door. I see what I assume to be Roger's eye peering back out at me, but instead of the usual green, a clouded white covers his eye.
My brain now only reacting and not thinking, I square my body up with the door and kick the wood located just right to the doorknob, sending the cheap, den door bursting inward. The wooden door frame splinters and chunks of wood fill the air. Roger is thrown backwards and the long blade is knocked from his grip and spins across the wooden floor.
Roger's study lay in ruin. Bookcases and painting torn from the wall and cover the floor. Large holes pepper the walls and one of the lamps lay broken under the cracked window. Roger lay convulsing and mumbling to himself in front of the play-pen containing Roger Jr. Except Roger Jr., less than two-years old, was standing in the center of it, hands clenched and giggling so loud it hurt the ears. The recorder was wrapped snug around his head, the wires connecting to the computer set up just outside the play pen. The screen had been smashed so a flickering, shattered mosaic covered the screen. The blue background and white numbering appeared in all facets of the screen, “392%”.
Junior suddenly stop his giggling and stares directly at me. Nausea spreads through my body and my head starts pounding worse than any hangover. I go down to a knee holding my head as what sounds like voices incessantly whispering fills it. I hear something scraping against the wooden floor and it grabs my attention. I turn around in time to see Roger has retrieved the knife and is now standing over me, eyes still clouded white.
“No!” I shout as I leap up from my kneeling position and throw my shoulder into Roger's ribcage. A grunt of air escapes him as he stumbles backwards. A pang of pain from nowhere shoots through head, dropping me back down as Roger recovers. He knocks me backwards and straddles me with the knife raised high. I grab onto his wrists as he drops the blade, stopping it inches from face. A second passes as both our arms shake from the effort.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! WHAT HAPPENED?!” I shout, looking into his cloudy eyes.
Through heavy breaths, Roger grunts, “We ..meddled... with ...things ..we … shouldn't ...have.” The knife getting closer and closer with each word. Sweat dripped down Roger's face as he increased his pressure behind the knife when fear replaced the unknown anger etched into it, and the pressure stopped for a brief second and green glinted in his eyes.
“They found us.” He whispers, I stare up at him, my hands still gripped around his wrists. “They found us, Alex. They found us and it's our own damn fault.” The green fully taking over his eyes once more. “It's my fault.” Still sitting above me, Roger throws his head back and lets out a wail that resonates through the room to the excited giggling of Junior behind me. Roger snaps his head back down, the cloudy white returning along with the strength behind the knife as it creeps ever closer to my face.
“We can fix this!” I urge him.
“You can't” he says with sick smile.
“What about Junior!? We need to help him!”
“Junior's gone.” He says almost elatedly, as the baby behind us giggles more.
My strength is beginning to give out as the blade has all but reached me.
“You would do this to Julie?? How is she going to react when she comes home to all this?!”
Green begins to fill his eyes again as his quick and haggard breathing turns to sobs and his sick smile turns into another open-mouthed wail. He rolls off of me and throws the knife to the other side of the room. Junior shrieks in anger for the first time since I've arrived and I bring myself up to a sitting position and see Roger standing up, his eyes as clear as they should be with tears streaming down his face.
He looks at me and shouts through Junior's angry wailing, “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Destroy everything. And tell Julie...”
He looks from me to Junior who stops his wailing.
“...tell Julie I'm not a monster.”
And before my mind could even comprehend what was happening, Roger takes off in a sprint towards Junior and rips off the recorder while scooping him up in his arms. I start to push myself up, but before I can even bring myself to a standing position, the sound of shattering glass fills the room as Roger leaps through the cracked window and onto the concrete below.
Of course I'm their prime suspect, but I caught a small bit of luck that a neighbor was returning home after a party and saw Roger leaping from the window of his own accord. Plus the cuts on Roger's body and angles of the broken glass had shown he had leaped with some force through it and wasn't simply pushed.
Junior didn't make it and Julie is an absolute wreck, understandably. I keep meaning to call her, but....
I went back to the lab the next day and destroyed our findings. I had the forethought to stash the equipment in his study so it didn't get confiscated by the police. I don't know how I would have been able to answer their questions about it had they found it.
Funding has been completely cut, and I've been blackballed by the professional community. Not sure what I'm going to do.
Two weeks pass and I'm sitting in my shitty apartment when I receive a letter in the mail from Julie. My heart sinks and I try to justify just throwing it away, but I can't and there seems to be some sort of object in the envelope as well.
The handwritten letter was short:
“Found this in the study. Didn't want it here.”
I fish the object the object out and it turns out to be a USB stick. Labeled:
“Junior's first dream”