Memories

At the end of the week they probe, searching for the sins and wrongdoings inscribed in my memories. They scrape the recesses of my mind, but they search in vain for I have mastered the art of being good.

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The girl seems young, sixteen at most but even that seems like a stretch. She’s an Inmemoria, although if I saw her in the street I would never guess. It’s when you look at her coal-black eyes, bottomless and clouded, that you realize she is different. She places her frigid fingers on my forehead, gingerly applying pressure. Generally consent must be granted before the Inmemoria have access to memories but the rules are inconsequential if one has a criminal record. The Inmemoria monitoring me have free rein when it comes to my memories. As far as the authorities are concerned, my memories are now public domain.

“Have you been behaving, Miss Gallegos?” she asks, my name sounding like bitter honey coming from her lips. This is the most dehumanizing part of the whole ordeal, the Inmemoria asking me this question as she rummages through my memories.

“Oh yes, I deserve a gold star.”

The Inmemoria is not amused. I see no telltale signs of a smile, instead her face scrunches up as if she has gotten a whiff of a foul smell.

“Would you like to share what happened Friday evening, right before dinner?” she asks. Although her facial expression has returned to its former blank state, I sense that she has seen the memory I so desperately tried to hide.

I try to keep a neutral expression, “Don’t recall.”

“Miss Gallegos, I need your cooperation. If you fail to cooperate this infraction will be raised to a level three.”

I pull away from her hands, moving back on the examination table.

“I can’t think properly when you have your hands on me,” I reply as justification, only later realizing what that might sound like.

I clear my throat. “Violence exerted in self-defense is only a level one infraction,” I say, quoting the manual.

The Inmemoria shakes her head, “What I saw was not self-defense. Miss Gallegos, you were the initiator of violence.”

I groan out loud. I want to ask why she bothers asking then, but keep my mouth shut. If the infraction is moved up to a level three, I can forget about ever leaving this rehabilitation program. Even a level two, does not help my case much. How does one lie when it is one’s own mind that betrays them?