Letters from the Lost Man, Part 18

"Honey...honey..."

"Hmm?"

"Are you awake?"

I crack open my eyes. It's dark, but in the dim glow of the alarm clock and the cable box, I can see Linda's face smiling at me, cradled by her pillow.

"Well, I am now."

She frowns teasingly. "Aw, I'm sorry."

"It's okay," I smile back at her. "It's good to see you. I missed you today."

She reaches over and caresses my cheek. "I missed you too. Did you have a good nap?"

I think about it for a second. "Bizarre dreams."

"Oh? What about?"

I pause to think again. "Don't remember."

"Well, I hate to interrupt your bizarre-dreamy nap, but you have a meeting to get to," she says.

I push myself up on my elbow. "What?" I ask, perplexed.

She turns her head to look up at me, and I notice a dark stain on the pillow. "Mission Avenue. Don't you remember?"

My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. The entire side of her face is covered in some kind of dark liquid.

"Honey, what's wrong?" she asks, sitting up. Some more fluid drips from her head onto the pillow.

Not looking away, I grope behind me for the lamp switch. The room floods with light and I can see that Linda's entire side of the bed is soaked red. Blood drips freely from a gaping hole in the side of her head. She stares at me curiously.

"Baby, you're really starting to scare me. What's wrong?" she pleads, reaching out to touch me with a blood-covered hand.

I jerk backwards, falling out of bed in the process. I hit my head on the bedside table. The lights go out, and I mean that literally. The room is dark again. I jump to my feet and press my back against the wall, looking at the now apparently empty bed in terror and holding a swelling bump on my scalp. Cautiously, I reach over and try the lamp switch. To my surprise, it works. As if I had never turned it on in the first place.

That's because I didn't. I am alone in the room. The bed is empty and the only thing the sheets are soaked with is my own sweat. It was a nightmare.

"Damn right it was," I say out loud, just to reassure myself.

The human mind is messed up. Why would it ever show someone something like that? Makes me wish I could erase my memor-...

10:55 PM.

Damn. My brain is devious. How am I going to justify avoiding this meeting now? If I don't go at this point, I doubt I'll be able to sleep for the rest of the night. Besides, if it is all just a delusion, how far could I possibly delude myself? I hope I don't regret asking that, even if it is only in my head.

*****

I tell you one thing, driving around in this part of town at this hour definitely makes me wonder how the hell a delusion would think this could possibly help me. The neighborhoods near the outskirts are pretty rough. Buildings in disrepair, people on street corners, cars creeping along the road without their headlights on. It's a pretty scary place, but as I head toward Mission Ave., things get a bit sparser.

I pull up to a rusty mailbox barely hanging onto its post. Turning my head sideways, I see the faded numbers.

1240

This doesn't look like a church. It looks like a house, or what used to be a house. There is broken yellow tape tied around the posts of the front porch. In the faint light of the streetlight, I can see white lettering on a red sign that says "CONDEMNED" and smaller writing under it that's too tiny to make out from here. I must have the number wrong.

I continue driving slowly down the avenue, ticking off the address numbers as I go, looking for something resembling a church. Several minutes later, I see the silhouette of a cross rising against the moonlit clouds in the distance. That must be the place.

1420

Oh yeah. This is the place. Honestly, it doesn't look much better than the house I just looked at. It's faded and stained with age. The windows and doors are boarded up. There's a chain across the entryway to the parking lot, so I pull a little forward and park on the street out front. I haven't seen a car since I got on this road, so I doubt anyone will complain. I get out of the car and make my way toward the front doors of the church.

It seems boarded up pretty solidly. So do the windows. Maybe there's something around back. I make my way around the side of the church. The ground is really uneven and is covered with several layers of dead leaves in various stages of decomposition. They crunch far more than I feel comfortable with. A nice layer of ivy blankets almost this entire side of the building. In the back, there's a wide open space and I can barely make out the outline of several dilapidated picnic tables. Against the wall there leans what looks like some broken pews and a few chipped plaster statues of Jesus and the Virgin Mary. In the center of the back wall, a door stands open.

"How inviting," I mutter to myself.

I make my way to the door. It's pitch black inside...of course. I look around behind me. There are a few clouds here and there in the sky, but for the most part, the practically full moon illuminates most of the area. I don't know what I expect to see out there. Reasonably satisfied that no one's sneaking up behind me, I peer into the church.

"Hello?" I call, though not too loudly.

Something inside shifts and there's a rapid whipping sound like the flapping of wings. Okay...this is a little creepy.

"Loretta?" I venture with a bit more volume.

Several feet away, a narrow slit of light appears and widens into a doorway. A woman stands just inside the open door and waves me over.

The light from the next room doesn't offer too many details of the one I have to cross to get there, but it seems way less sinister now. I walk to the doorway and stand before the woman with an inquisitive stare.

"Oh, Richard," she says, sounding relieved. She steps forward and gives me a hug.

I stand frozen, not sure how to react. I know I don't know this woman, but she seems somehow familiar. She's dressed a bit shabbily, but she has a pretty face and well-kept blond hair. The feeling that I've seen her somewhere before gets stronger.

"In the car," I blurt out.

She steps back and looks at me curiously. "What?" she asks.

"I saw you in my car. After the accident. It was upside down and you were hanging from the passenger seat."

She shakes her head. "No, Richard. The accident was in an ambulance, and I was the one driving."

Images flash through my head of a grassy field at night rotating around and around. The sound of sirens echo over the smashing of glass and the scraping of metal.

"C'mon," the woman says. "Come inside and I'll explain everything, like I promised. I'm sure you're a little confused right now."

"Hmm," I say noncommittally. I have to remember, if this is a delusion, I can't let it convince me that it isn't. Of course, if it isn't a delusion... Man, this sucks.

The woman leads me into the room. It actually doesn't look all that bad in here. It seems clean and well-tended. There is a nice rug over the hardwood floor and a couple of cozy looking chairs. There's a small fire crackling in a brick fireplace against the far wall. I turn around and look back out the door. I can barely see the rectangle of light that is the church's back door leading outside, the one I had originally entered through. It looks dreary out there. The woman walks over and closes the door.

"Have a seat, Richard," she says, indicating one of the chairs.

"Wait a minute," I snap. "Is there any way that you can prove to me that any of this is real? That it's not just some delusion?"

She shrugs helplessly. "I can't. Because it isn't real. Besides, perception is reality, so how could I even prove it in the real world?"

"Wait, did you just say this isn't real?" I ask.

She nods. "It's as real as your brain tells you it is, which makes it real enough. But strictly speaking, no. None of this is real. That's what I've been trying to explain to you. Please, sit down and we'll talk about it."

Hesitantly, I take a seat. Heat radiates from the fireplace. It feels pretty good. It wasn't exactly cold out, but it wasn't warm either. It makes it hard to believe it's not real. But when your delusion confesses right away that it's a delusion, what can you do?

"I'm not a delusion, Richard," the woman says.

"How did you-?"

"I can sense some of your thoughts. It's the nature of what we're dealing with here," she explains.

"What exactly are we dealing with here?" I ask, shaking my head in disbelief.

"Let me start at the beginning," she says. "First, in case you don't remember, my name is Loretta Vine. I am, or was, a nurse working in a classified government medical research facility. I had higher aspirations, maybe go to medical school and become a doctor, but something happened about a year-and-a-half ago that put all that on hold.

"I was approached by one of the doctors at the facility. A brilliant man by the name of Hans Spector. Everyone in the facility respected and/or feared him. He wielded a lot of power for a researcher, but that's because his discoveries were so significant, they promised to change the face of, not just medicine, but almost every scientific discipline in the world. He said he had his eye on me. Said that I showed a lot of promise and would make a great researcher someday. He said he could put me on the fast track.

"I later found out that this was the kind of fancy talk he layed on most of his recruits, especially the women. I didn't care, though, because I believed this would be my fast track. I was sure that I could make enough of an impression to get me where I wanted to go. I got particularly excited when I heard what project we were recruited for."

I take advantage of her pause to venture a guess. "Brainwashing?"

Loretta smiles. "Not quite. It was actual memory reprogramming. This was not just conditioning someone's responses to a stimulus. This was literally rewriting every memory in their brains and giving them a whole new life. The implications were enormous. Just imagine the applications: treatment of post traumatic stress disorder, witness protection, criminal rehabilitation-"

"Brainwashing," I interrupt, finishing her list.

She looks away, embarrassed. "Admittedly, we hadn't really considered the ways this technology might be misused."

"Really?" I ask. "'Cause it's the first thing that springs to my mind."

"I know how foolish it sounds, but when you're so close to such brilliance and significance, it blinds you to the potential consequences. I assure you, we all believed, at the very least, that it wouldn't happen in the experimental phase. We figured the problem would come once the technology was out there, and we figured the government would regulate it so heavily that we wouldn't have it on our conscience."

She looks away, staring into the fire and seemingly holding her breath. "My ambition help blind me too," she continues. "I was a nurse. The reality of it is, we're not likely to make much of an impact. In fact, we weren't likely to learn much about the technology at all and probably wouldn't be let in on any of the finer details. Check vitals, report to doctors, take on the drudge work."

"But you didn't let that be it?" I ask.

She shakes her head. "No. I tried and tried. Took advantage of every opportunity and went through every door that was even slightly ajar. I even tried to get...close to Dr. Spector."

"Hmm," I acknowledge.

"Actually, it turns out the advantage was mine," she continues. "The truth is, they were seriously understaffed for the scale of the project. At any one time we had fifteen to twenty subjects in the experimental group. Then there were the controls, but they were actually a lot easier to manage. Most of the nurses and assistants ended up with a lot more responsibilities than we expected. When I learned how to read the reports from the monitoring system and a little bit about Mnemosyne, I jumped at the chance to show my worth and soaked up every bit of knowledge I could."

"Wait a minute," I interject. "Mnemosyne?"

"Yes," Loretta nods. "Mnemosyne is the system that does all the magic. It is responsible for the erasure and implantation of memory via electrical and chemical stimulation. It's named after the Greek goddess of memory, a Titan and the mother of the Muses."

I sigh and roll my eyes. "How epic."

Loretta smirks. "Yes, our hubris knew no bounds."

"What happened next?"

"Well," Loretta says, pausing to remember her place, "I was working with Mnemosyne, actually starting subjects on the program. Really just automated stuff. They never let me touch the individual memory scripts, but I saw some of them. I'm not really sure I would know where to begin with that stuff anyways. I'm pretty technical, but that was a little over my head. Eventually, my curiosity about the project grew into a curiosity about the subjects.

"See, they had me do some of the 'exit interviews', as they called them. When a patient completed a course, they would be woken up and interviewed to see what was sticking. Getting the interview didn't actually mean you exited the program. It was just an incremental check of the progress. Honestly, some people took to it really quickly. Dr. Spector said it wasn't like you write this life story and save it to their brains like you would a computer's hard drive, but some of the subjects made it seem that way."

I shudder at the creepiness factor.

Loretta looks at me in surprise. "You know, I never had that perception of it."

It's even creepier when she reads my mind.

"I'm sorry, I'll try to stop," she reassures me. "Anyways, about ten months into my involvement in the project, you showed up."

I raise my eyebrows. "I did?"

She nods. "Yeah. You were in pretty bad shape. They said you were in a car accident, but I didn't believe it. I know what gunshot wounds look like."

"I was shot?" I ask incredulously.

"Yep," she confirms. "At least three times, from what I could see. It didn't really surprise me that much. I mean, it surprised me that they tried to lie about it, but not that you were shot. You see, most of our subjects were volunteers from prison. A few were soldiers suffering from severe PTSD. Many had wounds, though they had long since been treated for them elsewhere. You were the first we treated for injuries at the facility before beginning the Mnemosyne program."

This is definitely eerie. "Why would anyone volunteer for this?" I ask.

"For the prisoners, it came with the promise of a commuted sentence, depending upon their response to the treatment. Naturally, we only offered them limited information about what they were volunteering for, but think about it. They would walk out of there not remembering that they committed a crime, not remembering that they spent time in prison, but what's more important, not remembering the events in their lives that caused them to commit the crime in the first place. Is that so bad?

"And the soldiers. Well, some of them had seen some pretty terrible things in their service. The experiences hamper them from leading the normal lives they should deserve after an honorable discharge. Instead, they go home and have constant nightmares and flashbacks. They avoid interpersonal interactions so they aren't faced with the possibility of having to talk about their experiences. They're angry, paranoid, sometimes violent. All the while, they're aware that something is wrong and want to do something to stop it, but they don't know what."

Loretta levels me with an intense stare. "If it were you," she says, "wouldn't you want it to go away?"

I swallow. "Yeah," I nod.

"But you," she continues, "I wasn't sure why you were there. No one knew, or at least, no one discussed it. Dr. Spector told me you were just another criminal, but I didn't believe it. When you resisted the treatment more strongly than the rest... Well, I'm not sure why, but I had a hunch there was something really fishy going on."

"Yeah, you were trying to erase my memory," I suggest.

She shakes her head. "No, we erased your memory, or so we thought. It was the memory programming that you were resistant to. I wasn't able to conduct any of your exit interviews, Dr. Spector handled that personally, but I heard some pretty wild things.

"In the beginning, most of the subjects reported a surrealism to their memories. Some even had odd things go on, like what you might expect in a dream. I don't know everything you told him, he kept many of the specifics to himself, but almost all your new memories were...trippy."

"Tell me about it, sister," I snicker.

"There was something about it, though," she goes on. "Whatever you were telling him made him believe the treatment was failing altogether. He ordered a fresh wipe and some of the technicians to come in and make some custom tweaks to your device and its programming. He was convinced you could be treated; he just had to figure out how. You were actually blanked out for a couple of weeks. You woke up once or twice, which was unexpected due to the amount of medication in your system, but you seemed...I would say, alert. Not like the vegetable that was suggested you would be without new memories.

"During those two weeks, my curiosity was killing me. There was definitely something up with your inclusion in this program, so I decided to do some snooping. I, shall we say, 'acquired' a password from a colleague for the project's records. They contained detailed files on every subject in the experiment. Oddly enough, I was only able to come up with your name, date of birth and a picture. All other information in your file was restricted to users with a higher security clearance than my colleague. Yours was the only file with any such restriction. Now I knew I was on to something."

The fire crackles in a punctuated kind of way. I take a deep breath.

"Then the strangest thing happened," Loretta starts again. "Dr. Spector asked me to go in and start you on your new program. Again, it was all automated, of course. I just had to push a button and make sure your IV dosage was correct. I was in there, checking all the stuff, wondering who the hell you were, when you woke up."

"I did, huh?"

She nods. "You woke up, and what's really strange, you said my name. Now that was just odd. I thought for a second I had to have imagined it. Then you started demanding to know where you were and said you remembered being shot in the side. At the time, even though I thought there was something weird going on, I still ultimately believed Dr. Spector was trying to help you, so I convinced you to calm down and accept the treatment. I don't regret that. The less they know something's up, the less likely they are to erase and try again."

"What changed your mind?" I ask.

"Hmm?"

"About believing Dr. Spector was trying to help me," I clarify.

Loretta shakes her head. "Dr. Spector never wanted to 'help' anyone. He was in it for the glory. He's actually a very small man inside. He's got a Napoleon complex. This is a realization I slowly came to as time progressed, especially watching him react to your response to the treatment.

"One day he came to me. He was very angry. He said I was tainting the experiment. He said you had mentioned my name in an exit interview. He said the only way that could have happened was by waking you up in secret and talking to you. The only reason I didn't confess to him about the day we did speak is because you already knew my name. I wasn't wearing a name badge, and most of the time people referred to me as 'Nurse Vine'. I told him I didn't know how it could have possibly happened, and that was the truth."

"What did he do?" I ask.

"Nothing except threaten me. He said if I interfered again, I would be thrown off the project and find myself just an RN at a local hospital. After that, he didn't let me anywhere near you. The funny thing is, he also said that you had been responding better to the treatment than you ever had before. I guess he figured it was due to the machine tweaks, but I don't think so.

"See, all the other people who responded so well, they wanted to be treated. At least, there was something in it for them. They were either naturally more suggestible or they wanted to be. You, though... I don't think you wanted to be there. I don't think you were ready to let go of your life. I think you were fighting against it, but when I reassured you, I think you stopped fighting so much."

"Yeah, thanks," I say in an exaggerated tone.

Loretta gives me a serious look. "You should be grateful. If it weren't for that, I might not be here talking to you now. You would have been reset and maybe even buying this lie. You would have been treated and released, none the wiser about what had been taken away."

"Ignorance is bliss," I argue.

She shakes her head. "Willful ignorance is bliss," she counters. "I don't think your will has anything to do with this life."

"All this based on a hunch?" I ask.

"At first," she admits. "But then something happened that clinched it for me. A group of men showed up at the facility. They were all dressed in suits. One of Dr. Spector's assistants said they were auditors from the DoD."

"Department of Defense?"

Loretta nods. "That's what we thought at first. It turns out they were part of a classified agency that was assembled by the DoD. All I know is that they called themselves the NIA. I don't know what it stands for or what they're actually in charge of, but it sure did get the conspiracy theories flowing."

"National Intelligence Alliance."

Loretta blinks at me a few times.

"Right around the time congress passed the Intelligence Reform and Terrorism Prevention Act of 2004, which established the Office of the Director of National Intelligence, the DoD collaborated with the Department of Homeland Security to create the NIA," I blurt out.

She looks shocked. "How-... How do you know that?"

I also look shocked. "I'm not sure..."

"Do you remember anything else about it?"

I think. "Uh, well... After the DNI took the reigns of the U.S. Intelligence Community, which had been previously been held by the CIA, the DoD and DHS, uh...formed the NIA to, uh..."

Nope, I'm losing it.

"It's okay, Richard," Loretta reassures me with wide eyes. "I'm amazed you remember that much. What's even more amazing is that you actually know that much."

I nod. "I don't know how I know it..."

"It only seems to confirm my suspicions that there was more to your admittance to the program than appeared on the surface."

"So what did these NIA guys do?" I ask, eager to see if more memories could be triggered. "You said they were auditors?"

"Well," says Loretta, "that's what the story was. I guess it probably wasn't too inaccurate. They went to find Dr. Spector, then immediately went to your room. Nobody else was invited to that meeting. They came out about 45 minutes later and left. Dr. Spector came out ecstatic."

"What pleased him so much?"

Loretta shrugs. "We weren't sure at the time. Shortly after that, though, the project got a huge grant. Dr. Spector said that the current set of subjects had finished their treatment and proved the project's success and that they were all to be released so we could move on to the next phase of the project with a new set of subjects."

"Released?"

"That's what we were told," Loretta clarifies.

"But not what happened?" I ask.

"All the subjects were taken off the treatment and given final exit interviews. I even performed a few of them. It had really seemed to work. They had vivid memories of specific things that we had programmed, and what's better, they had no recollection of anything being amiss in their lives. No memories of criminal behavior. No memories of war trauma. It was truly amazing."

"But?"

She sighs. "But...once the novelty of the end of this phase of the program faded, my suspicions started to arise once again. I started wondering how they were going to explain the final exit interview process to them. How they were going to explain why they all ended up in a fenced off hospital away from the city and why they were all loaded onto a bus at the same time to go for 'reintegration', as we were told. It didn't seem to make sense. That's when I started snooping around again.

"I logged back into the project records to see if there was any information on what was happening to them or where they were going, but now they were all restricted files. I couldn't get any more info on the rest of them than I could get on you. So, I started kind of following people around. Eavesdropping. Almost everyone was careful about what they said, even when they thought no one else was listening. They did drop one clue, though."

"What's that?" I ask, leaning forward in suspense.

"Well, the other researchers kept mentioning a room number on the 25th floor. Now, we all knew that's where they kept their labs, and it was all restricted, so none of us were allowed up there. But we had always heard them say stuff like, 'lab 2' or 'lab 7'. They never referred to room numbers up there before this new phase of the project. And they only referred to this one room, but they never specifically spoke about what was in there."

"What was in there?" I ask impatiently.

"You were," she tells me. "I couldn't watch them load everyone on the bus from beginning to end, but from what I did see, you weren't among them. After the visit from the 'auditors', I was keeping my eyes open. I think Dr. Spector was trying to keep me busy in particular, so I wouldn't notice they had kept you at the facility. I knew you had to be in that room, and I was right."

"How did you find out?"

Loretta stares toward the fire, but her eyes seem out of focus. "I went up there. It was probably a dumb thing to do, but I couldn't help it. I was really starting to get a bad feeling about the whole project. After all the researchers left one night, I sneaked into the locker room."

She looks at me with a sly expression. "See, none of them were supposed to keep anything important in there, but I had been watching for days and noticed that one of them put his lab coat in the locker with his security badge still clipped to it. So, I broke into his locker and stole the badge and slipped it behind my own."

"Wait a minute," I interrupt her. "Why the hell would you do that? What if you got caught? There's no telling what they did to the other subjects in the experiment, and there's no telling what they would do to you."

She smirks. "I know what they did to me," she says matter-of-factly.

I look around. "Oh. You did get caught."

"We both did," she says with a nod. "Even knowing that, I still would have tried. There is something big going on here, and if we were able to figure it out, I think we could have easily negotiated our freedom."

"Could have..." I muse.

Loretta nods slowly and goes back to staring at nothing behind the fire. "We almost got out too. I used the security badge to get in through the stairwell doors, smooth-talked the guard to let me in the room, called him in and knocked him out with a sedative, and we made it all the way downstairs without alerting security. It was only after we tried to leave through the lobby that the receptionist sounded the alarm. We took one of the facilities ambulances and actually made through the back gate. There was already a roadblock set up right outside, so I rammed through it off the road. I guess we lost traction on the wet grass and flipped."

All of this sounds vaguely familiar, but I can't conjure any specific memories about it. "How do you remember all that?"

She shrugs. "Don't know. The only thing I can think is that I was right about the subject needing to be willing for the treatment to have maximum effect. I'm also not sure why we're able to be here and communicate together right now. Somehow the Mnemosyne systems have to be linked already. I don't think the devices that we had attached to each subject had the processing power on their own to handle what we were doing. I think there was a central server on the 25th floor that handled most of the data. The actual devices were probably just an interface. I think there's got to be a huge repository of information on that server too, so that subjects could be provided with accurate data in real time regardless of what they decided to do."

"What do you mean?"

"Well," she replies, "say a subject wanted to take a trip outside the confines of what we've specifically set up for them. Say they go to Europe or the Caribbean, the details about those places and the trips there would have to be accurate experiences. Once they were released, we wouldn't want them to go back to those places to find that it's nothing like they remember it. We have no idea what effect it would have on the treatment, but it can't be good."

"You mean you couldn't control that? Whether or not they went on a trip?" I ask.

She nods. "We probably could have, but we didn't want to be too restrictive, especially if it stretched the imagination or their perceived reality. Besides, that was just an extreme example. There are much more mundane details, like reading a book or surfing the internet."

I blink. "Wait, are you saying this system is hooked up to the internet?" I scoff in disbelief.

"No, no," she amends. "I mean, I don't know for sure, but I can't imagine that it is. I'm just saying, they must have some kind of representation of the internet on their server, or maybe some kind of filtered connection or something."

"I'm sure they couldn't represent the entire internet," I say. "The space requirements would be staggering."

"Again, I don't know for sure," she reiterates. "But what's clear is that we are both somehow connected to the same system and that's why we are able to be here at the same time right now."

I grow thoughtful. "Is this what you really look like?"

Now she blinks at me. "What do you mean?"

"Well, I mean, are you using someone else's body the way you..." I trail off, not really wanting to talk about Linda right now.

Loretta sighs. "Richard, I'm really sorry about that, but you have to know now that what happened in the bank wasn't real. The bank wasn't real, the people weren't real, what you saw wasn't real," she explained.

"Why did it happen then?" I ask.

"I don't know," she says softly. "But after it did, I knew I had to find a better way to do this. I did what I'm good at; I snooped around. I don't know how or why, but it seems that I'm able to directly interface with parts of Mnemosyne. During the time you didn't hear from me, I was figuring out how to set this up. I think they made a serious mistake in our favor when they hooked me up to this thing."

"Yeah, until they figure out what we're doing," I point out. "Didn't you say this thing has some kind of output? Aren't the researchers monitoring us right now?"

She nods. "They could be. But I doubt they'll see anything that raises their suspicions. I've managed to set it up so that the output from this will look like nothing more than dreams with no real details that would raise any flags. I've done that for you before, after you woke up while I was monitoring you. I'm pretty sure I've figured out how to do the same thing from in here. If I was wrong, I doubt we'd still be here."

"Well, even so," I say. "What good is all this going to do?"

"I figured that, between the two of us, we would be able to figure something out," she replies in a hopeful tone.

I lean back in my chair and rub my temples. "I don't know, Loretta. I mean, what can we possibly do from in here?"

"I don't know, Richard," she answers. "We have to try, though. Maybe we can take advantage of the fact the whole system is linked together. Maybe there's some kind of way to, I don't know, hack the system."

"Do you think you can do that?" I ask.

She shakes her head. "I don't think so. I mean, I can tweak Mnemosyne here and there, but that's because I have some experience with it. I don't know the first thing about hacking servers or whatever it is they have."

"Yeah, I can write some code, but I wouldn't know how to exploit security holes or what to do to bring down the system," I add.

"If only we had Neo," she laughs.

I can't help but grin. "You mean from, like, the Matrix? Funny."

We quickly get serious again. "I don't know what we'll do," Loretta says. "But we're out of time to think about it tonight."

"What time is it?" I ask, looking at my watch.

"It doesn't matter," she replies. "If we go on too much longer, they might start to notice that this is a really long REM cycle. Might raise a few flags."

"Okay, I guess I'll go then," I say.

Loretta nods. "Listen; go straight to bed as soon as you get home. And try not to think too much about what we've discussed tonight when you get up tomorrow. Someone might notice, and if our programs are reset, I doubt they'll let this happen again."

"Okay," I tell her, though I know it's going to be next to impossible not to think about everything I learned tonight. I'll have to do my best.

With little delay, I leave the church. Loretta assures me that I'll hear from her again soon. I hope so, though I'm not sure what good it will do. This can only go on so long before we're found out; I don't care how confident she is. We have to figure out a way to get out of here before that happens. We just can't figure it out right now. As I drive home, I practice not thinking about the most important thing I have to think about at the moment.

I hardly notice the drive as I pull up into the driveway at home. I didn't have much success keeping the thoughts away. Maybe once I've had a chance to sleep on it I'll have better luck. The bed calls to me the moment I walk in the door. I'm actually pretty tired. I collapse onto the soft bedspread and pull a pillow under my arm. It isn't long before the darkness creeps in.

I'm free...

*****

Letters from the Lost Man, Part 17

I have him on the run. For the first time, I have the upper hand. I see a glimpse of fluttering black fabric disappear around a corner. I bolt down the bare white hallway in hot pursuit. He's not going to get away from me this time.

The length of the next hallway opens up before me and seems to stretch for miles. In the far off distance, a cloaked figure slips into an open doorway. How the hell did he get down there so fast? I take off at a full sprint. The bare walls provide no perspective for me to mark my progress. It seems like I'm going nowhere.

Then, slowly, the door starts to get bigger. I'm getting closer. I lean into the run and really pump my legs. I'm going to catch this sonofabitch...

The apparent blackness of the room through the doorway was only an effect of the brightness from outside. There is a single dim spotlight in the center of the room shining down onto a hospital bed. There's a guy lying there under the covers with some kind of device attached to his head. The black-cloaked figure is leaning over him.

"Hey!" I yell.

The hood jerks as the head underneath looks up quickly. I can't see the face through the shadows of his cowl.

"Who are you?" I demand.

The figure shakes his head. "Don't be afraid of me, Rick...I'm who you want to be," his low voice sounds evenly from the shadows. It sends a chill up my spine.

"No!" I scream, but it's too late. The figure rolls onto the bed and disappears into the man's body. I run a few steps toward the bed, but a noise from behind has me spinning to find its source.

"What are you doing out of bed, Mr. Menda?" the creepy black-haired doctor in the doorway asks with a German accent.

I look back toward the bed. It's still occupied. "Stay away from me!" I shout at the doctor.

In a blur of motion, the doctor suddenly stands before me, staring at me with a perverse hunger that makes me want to retch. I stumble backwards.

"If you keep resisting, we will have to terminate the experiment," he says to me, grinning.

I continue to step backward until I bump into the bed. I look down at the man laying there. I see my own face cradled in the pillow. Startled, I look back toward the doctor.

"There is nothing to worry about, Mr. Menda. Just relax. This is for your own good."

I look down again. The man with my face opens his eyes and suddenly lunges for me. He grabs me and pulls me onto the bed while the doctor rushes forward to help.

"Trust me, Mr. Menda, you would thank me for this if you could," the doctor says calmly over the commotion.

A machine somewhere in the room begins beeping rapidly. I struggle against the two men, but they're both incredibly strong. They're both trying to push me into...into...

The beeping comes faster and louder. It actually sounds more like...

Ringing. I jolt upright, the restraining arms around me suddenly gone. I look around, panting. The room is dark, save for six red, glowing symbols.

4:26 AM.

The phone rings again. I reach blindly over to the bedside table. "Hello?" I ask groggily, pressing the handset to my ear.

"Richard?" a familiar voice crackles on the other end.

I freeze, catching my breath. Am I still dreaming?

"Hello?" I ask again out of confusion.

"Richard, can you hear me?" The connection isn't so good, but I'm sure I know that voice.

"Who is this?" I demand.

There's a pause. "Richard, this is Loretta," the woman's voice says.

I squeeze my eyes shut. "Okay, you're not real. I'm going to hang up the pho-"

"No, Richard, wait!" Loretta's voice pleads. "I am real. Please, you have to trust me."

"What do you want?" I ask impatiently, thinking to condescendingly humor my delusion for just a moment.

"I need to meet with you. We have to talk. I know this is hard for you to understand right now, but please believe me. Both our lives as we once knew them depend upon it."

"Why can't we talk right now?" I ask.

"There isn't enough time," she responds. "Listen, at eleven pm tonight, come to this address: 1420 Mission Avenue. It's an abandoned church near the city limits. I should have everything set up by then and we can talk safely. Just make sure you get ready for bed and actually lie down before you leave. Got it?"

This sounds absurd. "Yeah, sure," I lie.

"Richard, please. You're not crazy. Come tonight and I'll explain everything."

"Uh-huh, ok," I say with a patronizing tone.

"Fourteen-twenty Mission Ave., you're sure you got that?" she asks.

"I got it."

"Say it," she says.

"Forty-twenty Mission Ave.," I repeat with a sigh.

"No, FOURTEEN-twenty," she corrects me.

"Okay, I got it."

"I really hope to see you there, Richard."

There's a click, then a buzz. I hang up the handset and stare into the darkness for a few minutes. What time is it?

4:31 AM.

Damn, it's early. I doubt I'm going to get back to sleep, though. With the threat of dawn right around the corner, I might as well go ahead and start the day.

Work has been really weird ever since...Linda. People either avoid eye contact, or when they do get up the nerve to interact with me, it's always with a tone and expression that comes off as, well, forced sympathy. I took a week off after it happened. They wanted me to take more, but what the hell? Yeah, as if I don't already spend every unoccupied waking moment thinking about what happened and how much I wish...

Well, the point is, the last thing I need is more time to myself. Work is an excellent distraction, and it would work even better if everyone would stop walking on friggin' eggshells around me. Every hushed whisper I walk up on or furrowed brow that greets me is just another deafening drumbeat extending my already seemingly endless mourning. I swear it would be easier for me to get over if everyone else would get over it first. Maybe.

And so, I scrub off the previous day's muck and gloom in my morning shower. I get dressed in a daze, choke down an antidepressant in lieu of breakfast and coffee, then get straight on the road. At work, I'm greeted with surprise and faux empathy.

"Mike! You're here early this morning," some random guy whose name I don't remember yelps. Already looks like he's squirming to get away.

"Yeah, couldn't sleep."

"Oh," the guy says heavily. "Well, I'll see ya around. Try not to work to hard."

I nod. You are hereby released from this uncomfortable situation. This place is seriously depressing, but it's a tad bit less depressing than home, which is why I'm here. Ah, cubicle sweet cubicle.

"Hey, Mike."

I nod to my neighbor. "Hey, Tom. How's it going?" Tom practically lives here.

"Oh, y'know...it's going," he says, rolling his eyes.

Tom actually hasn't been that bad. He makes work tolerable.

"You look tired," he notes.

"Oh, yeah," I agree. "Weird phone call this morning. Woke me up at 4:30."

"Really?" asked Tom with a curious expression. "Who the hell would call that early?"

I stare at my desk for a second. "I don't know," I lie. "Must've been a crank call or something."

"Huh," Tom offers. "Well listen, I've already gotten a call from Greer about the meeting this afternoon."

"So early?" I ask.

"Yeah, he's such a dick, but what else is new?"

"What did he say?"

Tom shrugs. "I don't know, some bullshit about crossing the i's and dotting the t's on the reports. I was only half listening."

I laugh. I do that infrequently lately, as I'm sure you can imagine. It's another reason why I come to work. Tom can usually get a laugh out of me. So while I'm here I'm either working my ass off or laughing at Tom. It keeps the pain at bay until punchout time.

And so the day goes by. I get some work done. Laugh at Tom's quips. We go to the afternoon meeting. Greer is a raging douchebag, like always. Tom does most of the talking while I nod in a manner that I hope is intelligent. Nobody really pays me that much attention, which is kind of how I prefer it. We grab a late lunch, and all too soon, 5:00 rolls around.

"I'll see ya tomorrow, Mike. I'm outie," Tom offers as he skips out of the office.

"Later," I call after him.

Well, I guess this means I have to go home too. I clean up around my desk, close the files on my pc and generally just delay the inevitable. Having no more options, I gather myself up and head out. On the way home, I contemplate stopping all sorts of places and doing all sorts of things, but really, I think I just want to go home and sleep. I've been doing that a lot lately. Sleep is the other way I avoid my problems.

I step in the door and take off my belt and throw it on the couch. Lacking the motivation to remove anything else, I turn down the hall and plop into bed. It wouldn't be the first time I've slept in my clothes over the past few months. I roll over and look at the alarm clock.

5:54 PM.

Not that it matters. I'm not going anywhere tonight. There was no phone call this morning. It was just a continuation of my weird dreams...and yet...

Where did that address come from? Is there even a Mission Street on the edge of the city? Morbid curiosity drags me out of bed, but only far enough to bring the laptop back with me. I pile up the pillows behind me and open the cover. Let's see what MapQuest has to say on the matter.

Now, what was that address again? It was something like...1240 Mission Street. I type that in. MapQuest loads a page with 1240 Mission Avenue. That's right, it was an avenue. Well, the street is real, and it is about at the city limits. I just don't know if I have the number right.

Not that it matters. I'm not going anywhere. Yeah, so, I looked it up and it exists. So what? Maybe I passed by that street once on my way out of town. I don't know. Of course, I don't remember ever being in that area, but that doesn't mean anything. I might have heard about it from someone else. Who knows what my deluded mind has incorporated into its wild fabrications?

Resolute, I close the laptop lid and roll over. I'm not going anywhere, except maybe to sleep. I feel pretty weary, actually. I close my eyes and stretch out. I can feel myself being pulled deeper. Deeper into...what are they pulling me into?

"Trust me, Mr. Menda, stop struggling. You would thank us if you could."

*****

The Visitor of the Beast!

I would like to congratulate the visitor from Willis, Texas who visited my blog on September twenty-ninth, this year of our Lord two-thousand and eight. You are visitor number six-hundred and sixty-six. You viewed the blog, in all its glory, through Microsoft Internet Explorer 7.0 rendered at a resolution of 1280 x 800 on your widescreen monitor. It seems rather poignant that you clicked in through google.com with a serch term of "biblical good vs evil pictures", for I'm sure that this visit is an omen of the imminent apocalypse. It is my hope that you are one of the relatively few who are bodily taken up to the glories of god's kingdom. I, unfortunately, will probably be stuck down here. I'll try to wave to you.


Revelation 13:18 (KJV)

Here is wisdom. Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man; and his number is Six hundred threescore and six.

Letters from the Lost Man, Part 16

"Tell me again about this woman. This...Loretta was it?" Dr. Kenner asks.

I nod slowly. "Yeah. I don't really know much about her. She was this...voice that used Linda's mouth to talk," I tell him.

"And she wasn't aware of it," he confirms, though I've already told him before.

I shake my head. "No. Nobody was. I was the only one who could hear her. I know it sounds crazy."

"And what did she say to you?"

Taking a deep breath, I sigh. "Well, she told me nothing was real. I mean, that everything that was happening was fake."

The doctor scribbles a little on his notepad. "Linda's death?" he asks.

"Well, yeah, but it was more than that," I say.

"Like what?"

I shrug. "I don't know. Everything, I guess. My whole life was some...experiment or something."

"And you say this happened before you went into the bank?" Kenner probes.

"Uh, yeah," I nod. "A few days before."

"When you were in the hospital for your accident," he says, flipping through my chart.

"Wonderful week..." I say dryly.

"Hmm," Kenner sounds thoughtfully. "The ER doctor says you reported hallucinations in relation to your concussion."

"That's right," I answer. "I thought there was someone else in the wreck."

"A woman," he says.

"Do you think it's related?" I ask him.

He smiles briefly. "Well, I'm not sure, though I do think that the concussion may have resulted in you being in a highly suggestive state. Tell me, Mike, have you heard the woman at all in the past three months?"

Three months...has it been that long? Come to think of it... "No, I haven't," I say.

Kenner nods and scribbles some more. "How have you been sleeping?" he asks, still writing.

I sigh again. "Oh, I don't know. Y'know, ok I guess. I get these weird dreams every once in a while."

"Tell me about those," he says, looking up from the notes.

"Well, they start off pretty normal for dreams, I guess. Sometimes I only remember from the middle or only the very end. There's always this...I don't know, guy. He's wearing this long black robe with a hood. Kinda' like death, y'know? Anyways, he attacks me..." I trail off, trying to remember.

"And what happens when he attacks you?"

I shrug. "I don't know. I black out. Or wake up."

"How often do you have this dream?" Kenner asks.

"Uh," I think aloud. "Maybe once or twice a week."

"Mm-hmm," he mumbles, scribbling once again.

I wait expectantly for his response to all of this, but the doctor simply takes more notes and rummages through a desk drawer for a few moments. He pulls out what looks like a small pad of paper and begins writing again.

"Am I going crazy?" I ask him impatiently.

He looks up with surprise. "I don't think you're crazy, Mike. You've been through a pretty tough time. Sometimes our brains do things that don't seem to make sense to protect us from things that would seriously harm our mental well-being," he explains.

I nod slowly. "So, Loretta?" I ask.

The doctor looks down at his desk for a moment and sighs. "Mike," he begins delicately, "I think Loretta was something that your mind created after the fact, again to protect you. I mean, think about her message that none of it was real. It may even be that she was created after your accident to reassure you about that, but when you lost Linda the a few days later, she arose once more."

All I can do is stare off into space. It seemed so real.

"Anyways, what I'd like to do is give you a prescription," he continues.

I swallow. "Anti-psychotics?"

He chuckles a bit at that. "No, no, Mike. This is a drug called EuphorZen. It's a mild anti-depressant. I'm going to start you off on a low dose. I think you'll find it will help you do what you need to do to get through this tough time."

To get through this 'tough time', eh? Do doctors have a knack for understating things? Is it something they teach in med school? Or psych school, in Kenner's case, if there even is such a thing.

The doctor tears off the script and hands it over the desk. "Take one a day and we'll continue our weekly sessions. You got a thirty day supply there, so we'll see how you feel in a month. If we need to adjust your dosage, we will then. Keep in mind that it usually takes a week or so for your body to adjust to either starting or stopping this medication, so you might feel some minor muscular fatigue and stomach upset. Just be patient and stick with it. You'll be glad you did."

"Ok." Great. Isn't that always the way? These drugs are miracles of modern medical science, but oh-by-the-way, they'll make you feel worse before they'll make you feel better. I guess I gotta try something, though. I've been pretty low key the last several weeks, but I'm not so sure that I've been taking things well. I've been seeing Kenner since about a month after...well, you know.

Honestly, I think I would feel a lot better if I didn't have the district attorney’s office calling me every other day. They want me to testify against the bastard that...that shot Linda. It sounds great in theory. They'll try him and seek the death penalty. His partner will go to jail for years for driving that car too. Justice will be served and everyone will be happy. Except Linda's still gone. She's gone...

I wonder how many of these pills I'd have to take to...

Stop. Stop thinking that crap. I'm gonna testify and get that sonofabitch what he has coming to him. And then...then I'll figure out what's going to happen next. I'll move on, never forgetting her, of course, but living the full life she would have wanted me to.

Yet, I can't help but wonder. If I died right now, would I see her? Was there something keeping me around besides her?

Let's go fill this script and just make it to tomorrow. That's how I got to today, except without the drugs. The past three months have been day after day of just delaying my decision about what to do with myself. Maybe the meds will make the decision to go on easier. God, I hope so...

"Race" Relations

I use quotes around the word "race" because it's a problematic word that has some very specific definitions that often get blurred together. On the one hand, race comes from an Old Italian word, razza, which means "lineage". In many ways, we use this word the same way today. At some point, though, biology commandeered "race" and applied it to animals that were part of a taxonomic category within a species, or a subspecies. And here's where part of the problem arises. There is a danger with these two definitions of people believing that the different "races" of humans are "subspecies" of humans.

Let's be clear about this. There is a human race. We are all members of the human race. There are not enough genetic differences between any two people of any two heritages to squeeze them into separate taxonomic categories. The differences in our appearances, from a biological standpoint, are purely superficial.

The other problem in the whole "race" thought process is the perceived differences between us. For the most part, these differences are based upon cultural perceptions, but the most problematic perceived differences are due to stereotypes. Stereotypes happen when someone interacts with a particular group of people and notices that multiple members of that group share certain personality traits. The fallacy in stereotypes is the assumption that these traits are inherent to all members of that group.

In a recent and fascinating Associated-Press Yahoo! News poll, conducted with Stanford University, one fourth of white Democrats ascribed at least two negative traits to blacks. Now, they didn't go on to specify whether blacks ascribed similar traits to whites or whether either blacks or whites ascribed similar traits to themselves. I would be curious to know how those questions stack up against one another. Some of the negative traits listed in the poll included "boastful", "irresponsible" and "lazy".

One wonders, though, whether or not the people who attributed these stereotypes to blacks understood the dynamics behind what might have caused these behaviors that they have either observed or have heard others observe. Surely, it is easy to understand why someone might be boastful when they think or know that most people don't expect much out of them. A similar argument might be proposed for irresponsibility or laziness. The question then becomes, are these traits really inherent to black people? Or are these traits you might possibly witness in any group of people who are part of a minority who, until fairly recently, were actually legally repressed? When prejudice and racism are a reality in your life and you don't get EVERY SINGLE opportunity that others in your supposedly egalitarian nation get, doesn't it seem reasonable that members of such a group might feel disheartened to the point of apathy or desperation?

I know that there are some who might read the above paragraph and roll their eyes and say something about picking oneself up by one's bootstraps and rising above. There are those who say that blacks are just complainers who scream "racism" at the slightest provocation, maybe even none at all. If you would say that, then I would place you in the group of people who do the exact opposite. That is to say, there are those who minimalize, even deny, the existence and effect of racism in our society. This Associated-Press Yahoo! poll seems to back this up. Whereas 57% of blacks said that the amount of "discrimination against blacks" that exists is "a lot" and all but a fraction of the rest said "some", only 10% of whites said "a lot" and 45% said "some".

That's quite a discrepancy. So, who's right? I don't think it's as clear as that. As I've said before in other posts, I think there's more racism in this country than the majority of whites are willing to admit or recognize, but there's also less than the majority of blacks claim. Regardless, any amount is unacceptable. We are not subspecies of one another, so we are all physically capable of the same things, and we are all susceptible to the same emotions and weaknesses. Before you ascribe negative qualities to someone of another "race", think about how you would react if you had to deal with the same kinds of things in your life. Also, ask yourself if you really can't think of someone, anyone, who has overcome such difficult odds to laugh in the face of such ridiculous stereotypes. Need some hints? How about Harriet Tubman? Frederick Douglass? Booker T. Washington? George Washington Carver? W.E.B. Du Bois? Rosa Parks? Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.? Colin Powell? Barack Obama?

These are only a handful of the most well-known names in the proud tapestry of African American history. These are people who rose up to fight the misguided perceptions of a resistant society. Despite the great impact of these men and women, the perceptions they struggled to overcome still exist. We need to open our eyes as a society and stand up to fear and oppression. We are one race, the human race. Let's stand united and achieve everything we can achieve together.

Letters from the Lost Man, Part 15

"This is nice," Linda says cheerily, turning down the radio.

I nod with a smile. I should probably be home in bed, but I felt pretty good today and was already starting to get cabin fever. I haven't heard from Loretta since she started doing whatever she said she was going to do yesterday morning. For now, I'm just going to enjoy some time with Linda, for whatever it might be worth.

"We're going to make a little stop, hon," she informs me. "Have to deposit Bree's check."

"Oh..." I'm totally drawing a blank. Of course, there's no reason to let her know that.

"Remember?" she asks, catching on to my confused tone. "I took those photos for Jim's birthday."

Oh yeah. Linda's a photographer. How could I forget that? "No, I remembered," I cover. "I just thought you had already deposited it, that's all."

Linda's smile dissipates. "I was going to, but something more important came up." She glances at me with the remnants of concern.

I can only nod.

"It's okay, though," she says, the cheeriness returning. "Everything's back to normal."

And here we are. She turns into the bank entrance and takes a second row parking spot in front of the entrance.

"No drive thru?" I ask.

She frowns apologetically. "No deposit slips," she explains. "Want to come in? It should be real quick."

I shake my head. "I'll be fine here."

She grins and leans over to give me a kiss. "I'll leave the car running," she says, making sure the AC is on. It's pretty warm out. "Love you!" she calls as she opens the door.

"Love you too!" I call back.

I watch her step quickly up the walkway and into the bank. She's really attractive. If she isn't real, someone made a pretty nice attempt at making her likeable. Loveable even. I hope she is real. I hope I have a shot at finding her when I get out of this and...what the hell is this?

A gray station wagon pulls up to the entrance and some dude jumps out of the passenger side, runs to the rear of the vehicle and opens up the back. He rifles around back there for a few seconds, then steps back and glances around furtively. He pulls on a ski mask and walks into the bank.

"What the..." I start to say. Linda. I need to get in there. I reach over and turn off the car and exit the vehicle. Trying to look nonchalant, I stride toward the bank. I can't help but glance at the driver of the wagon. He's eyeing me like I just spit in his face, but he doesn't move. Trying to act dumb, I grin at him and nod. He squints at me, but nods back.

Okay... I have to make an effort not to pause at the door. It's bright out, and the tint on the glass doors of the bank entrance makes it next to impossible to see inside. I step into the vestibule. It's much easier to see through the second set of glass doors, and I see there are people on the ground, but no sign of the guy in the ski mask. I walk in as though nothing were amiss.

A little electronic doorbell beeps as I enter. Immediately, I hear a gruff voice say, "Don't move!" At first, I think it's directed at me, then I realize it came from around the corner and was directed at someone over there. I vaguely recall being in this bank before and remember that the vault is down the hall around that corner. I hear some shuffling and a figure steps out from behind the corner. It's the guy in the ski mask. He's got Linda's head squeezed under his arm and a gun pointed to her head.

My heart practically leaps out of my chest. I put my hands up immediately. "Don't...don't hurt her..."

"Get down!" the man shouts, pushing the gun harder against her scalp.

"Ok," I say meekly, getting to my knees. "Just, don't hurt her, Ok?"

"Michael?" Linda weeps.

"Shut up, bitch!" the robber snaps, tapping her head with the muzzle.

She shrieks briefly, then says, "You shouldn't have come in here, Richard."

Loretta! "What should I do?" I plead with her, my pulse racing and sweat forming on my brow.

The crook answers for her, "You should get down on the floor before I decorate the wall with her pretty little brains."

"Ok! Ok!" I say a little more insistently, lying face down on the floor.

"Richard," I hear Loretta call to me from under the man's arm. "No matter what happens, stay there and don't move!"

No one has ever asked me to do anything more difficult. I breathe heavily, my cheek pressed against the lobby's cool tile.

"Remember," she calls out as the thief drags Linda back toward the vault, "none of this is real!"

If it isn't real, why does it have to feel that way? I wish this would all just end. I wish I would just wake up. Wake up, dammit! WAKE UP!!!

A deafening shot rings out. My heart freezes as I hear a thud and footsteps pounding around the corner. I can't help but look up. The thug is running toward me, the gun in his right hand and some glistening red on his left arm.

"Head down!" he roars as he stumbles over me toward the door. He hits me with it as he throws it open and bursts through the second door to the outside. "Go! Go!" he shouts at the driver. Tires squeal and the sound of the car's engine fades into the distance.

I quickly push myself up, ignoring the pain in my still sore muscles. I run across the lobby and around the corner and stop. The bank manager, huddled against the vault door, looks up at me with a terrified expression. I look at the wall next to me. There's a circle of red splatters dripping down toward the floor. My eyes follow their path reluctantly to Linda. She's lying there, still. A red puddle grows larger under her head.

"Oh no, Linda, no, no, no, no..." I sputter as I drop to my knees to turn her. Tears fill my eyes and I breath fast to try to fend off the crippling truth of what I see before me. Linda blinks and her eyes roll back and forth slowly.

"Linda?" I ask, wiping my tears away to make sure they're not fooling me.

"Mike?" she asks weakly. Her face looks ghostly white.

"I'm here, baby, I'm here," I reassure her, tears blurring my vision again.

"Mike, I...I think I'm bleeding," she tells me.

"Shhh," I tell her, my body shaking uncontrollably with sobs as I try to hold her this last time.

"In case I can't say it later..." she whispers.

I shake my head, unable to say anything to stop her.

"...I love you. Remember that."

I nod, tears rolling freely down my face. I try to tell her I love her too, but I can only mouth it. My shaky breath only allows weeping, not speech.

Still, she smiles, though it fades quickly. I can see her eyes trying to keep focus.

"Richard," Loretta's voice says with a hint of sympathy.

"No!" I force out. I can hear sirens.

"Richard," she repeats.

"NO!" I scream.

"I can't imagine how this feels, but try to remember..."

Who the hell is this woman? Making my dead wife's lips move. Talking to me morbidly in the midst of this tragedy as though nothing were happening. You're perverting my wife's memory! Stop it! Stop it!

"STOP IT!" I yell out with all the will I can muster. I stand up, Linda's now lifeless form rolling away. I need to get out of here.

"Stop right there!" a stern voice commands as I stumble out into the sunlight.

Squinting in the brightness, I can see the bank is surrounded by squad cars. Several police stand behind their vehicles with guns pointed squarely at me.

I raise my hands, only now realizing that they are covered in blood. Linda's blood. I don't care anymore. I don't care about anything. The police shout missives at me and I lay down, though not because of anything they're saying. I just lay down. I give up. I surrender. I don't want to do this anymore. Just take me. Take me away. Take me from this world of pain. I close my eyes and remember...nothing.

Letters from the Lost Man, Part 14

Sometimes I wake up and, stumbling through the semi-conscious haze that obscures wakefulness, I think about all the other mornings stretching behind me to the earliest memories I can muster. The most memorable ones are the Christmas and birthday mornings of my childhood, but a few others stick out here and there. For the most part, though, they all blend together into a blurry amalgam of alarms, showers, breakfasts and haphazard commutes. But this morning, I find myself wondering about all those memories. I even find myself wondering if I've ever really wondered about them before.

"Are you awake, hon?" a sleepy voice next to me asks.

"Mm-hmm."

"Are you feeling okay? Do you need some meds?" my wife yawns.

I know I'm not feeling pain right now only because I'm lying here, perfectly still. "No, I'm fine," I tell her. Besides, I wonder if pain medication is the best thing for me right now. If things really are as that woman's voice said, I need to be as clear headed as I can be.

"You should try going back to sleep," Linda says. "And don't even think about work today."

I wasn't. Hadn't planned on it. Besides, is my job even real? How can anyone sleep when all of reality is in question? If I'm hooked up in some kind of lab with my thoughts being controlled by some computer, am I not actually asleep already?

"Richard."

I jump at the sound of the woman's voice. Pain spiders through my bruised muscles. I groan loudly.

"Oh, honey, are you okay?" my wife chokes with a hint of panic.

I take a few breaths as the pain notches down a bit. "Fine," I say through clenched teeth. "Just a little spasm."

"I'm so sorry, Richard," the woman's voice says. "You should take some of your medication."

I register my confusion in the clearest, most silent way I can.

"Trust me," she says.

"You know what, babe?" I whisper to my wife. "I think I will go ahead and take some of those meds."

"Okay," she replies, hurriedly jumping out of bed.

She's gone for a few moments, then returns carrying the biggest pill I've ever seen and a glass of water. I struggle to sit up as Linda tries to help. It's a moderately painful affair, but I finally make it and eagerly swallow the massive tablet followed by some enthusiastic gulps of the water. I can feel the medication creeping down my throat. If this all isn't real, why does it have to feel so...real?

"Stop thinking about it, Richard," the other woman's voice says. "I'm sorry to have startled you earlier, but when you spend a lot of time thinking about none of this being real, you run the risk of calling attention to yourself."

"Better?" Linda asks.

I stare at her for a moment. "Oh, uh, yeah. I mean, I still hurt, but this should kick in soon and I'll feel much better," I reassure her.

"Good," she smiles. "More water?"

I shake my head. "Nope, I'm good."

She smiles again and gets back into bed.

I wonder if she's still here...

"I'm here, Richard."

I wonder why I can't think about...you know...it, but she can sit here and talk to me about...it.

"Like I told you before," the woman's voice says from my wife's side of the bed, "I hacked the system. I might not be quite the computer whiz you are, but I do know the monitoring system back and forth. I worked with it quite a bit on you."

I squirm a little internally. That sounds really creepy.

"I'm going to try to do the same things for you that I did for myself. After that we should be able to talk pretty freely," she explains. "Well, not really talk. And you'll still have to act fairly naturally, but you'll be able to think openly."

Oh, how nice. I'll be able to think openly. Such a luxury.

"Don't worry, Richard. We're going to get out of this."

"Hmm," I can't help but say out loud.

"What's up, baby?" Linda asks.

"Hmm? Oh, nothing," I lie. "Must've started to doze."

"Mmm, that's good. Doze away," she encourages me with a yawn.

"She's right, Richard, you should sleep. I'm going to get to work here."

"Okay," I say to both of them. I look down at Linda. Her eyes are closed and she's breathing slowly. For the first time that I'm aware of, I wonder what will happen to her through all this. Is she another patient going through this memory therapy? Is she really my wife on the outside? When my treatment is over, will they send me to her? I feel like I have so many memories with her, like I feel so much emotion for her. Of everything, Linda's the one thing I think I would miss about this if it really was all fake.

I pause and look around the dark bedroom. Are you still here...Loretta? That is your name, right?

Silence. Dark silence. I should be used to that by now, I think. Shouldn't I? I look back down at Linda. "Love you, babe," I whisper.

"Mmm," she moans sleepily, a hint of a smile showing in the dim red light of our alarm clock.

I lay back gently, the pain in my muscles just a hint of an ache, more a tightness. My head begins to feel a little light. I close my eyes and breathe. The darkness closes in. My only reality.

Petty, Partisan Palin

Well, I watched Sarah Palin's historic acceptance speech last night and was moderately impressed. She proved that, despite her relative inexperience and apparently nonexistent vetting process, she is just as capable of toeing the party line, stretching the facts and playing the same petty, partisan politics that a certain presidential candidate has beseeched us to change. Don't get me wrong, it's not that I didn't expect the RNC to descend to the lowest common denominator of political publicity. I just hadn't expected Palin would come off like such a pro at it.

I didn't hear anything that I haven't heard the broken-record Republicans spout every time an election comes around. "The opponent is a tax and spend liberal!" "The opponent is inexperienced (either politically or militarily or both)!" "The opponent is the anti-Christ, just look at how much people love him!" Blah, blah, blah. You know, when Obama started shooting barbs at his opponents during his acceptance speech, I thought, "Yeah, you get'em!" Now I realize, with the benefit of hindsight, he may as well have been singing their praise. His campaign's reasonable, accurate criticisms of the "McPalin" ticket pale in comparison to the outright warping of the facts and tainting of American perceptions that the Republicans have shown they will employ throughout this election cycle.

A little research will show that Obama's tax plans will actually leave the majority of American families with more income, rather than less. That coupled with the strong economy that has historically coincided with a democrat in office will mean that most come out on top. The only people who won't come out on top are the minority who already sit at the top. I know that those of you Republicans who make $250,000+ a year have to stretch yourselves to survive, but you'll somehow have to muddle through for the greater good of the American people that you so desperately wish to serve.

One of the things in Palin's speech that really tickled every incredulous bone in my body was when she said, "Though both Sen. Obama and Sen. Biden have been going on lately about how they are always, quote, 'fighting for you,' let us face the matter squarely. There is only one man in this election who has ever really fought for you." I think my reaction hovered somewhere between hilariously bemused and disbelievingly outraged.

Look, don't misunderstand me. I completely realize that those who choose to serve our country in the military and who protect our rights and way of life from external threats are deserving of our highest respect for their sacrifices. However, to suggest that the people who fight to protect us from internal threats to the same are somehow comparatively less qualified is preposterous to the extreme. There are plenty of politicians who have not served (Palin, for one), and there have been several presidents who did not serve either (12, to be exact). Of those who did serve, six did not see action (including George W. Bush and Ronald Reagan). There is no doubt that there is a lot of potential to learn about leadership from the military, but that isn't the only source. If it were, we'd probably be a society of shiftless vagrants waiting for officers to retire or be discharged and whip us into shape. In case you weren't sure, that's not the case.

The point is, such rhetoric only appeals to the knee-jerk fears that our commander-in-chief won't be ready to make the necessary decisions should a military conflict arise. But let us remember, for a moment, that a president is not an island. Though some may buck the desires of a congress elected by the American people and make decisions that hurt our reputation, economy and the American families who have to subsequently make sacrifices, others serve as president always with the will and well-being of the people driving them and with the help and counsel of the many experienced and similarly elected public servants around them. Let's make sure that's the kind of leader our next president is.

Obama 2008: Change We Can Believe In

Determinism in a Chaotic Universe

Lately, I find myself frequently thinking of determinism. I'd like to put down some of my thoughts, though I doubt I have anything new to say on the matter. It's one of those things, like so many, that we probably can't really know the answer to, but that's one of the reasons these kinds questions are so intriguing. It's only when our questions are finally fully answered that we will stop asking them. So, let's hope for the sake of human intellectual development that some of these questions never get answered, or that, if they do, others take their place.

Anyhow, on to determinism. The question in most people's minds, I think, when they think about determinism is whether a deterministic universe can allow free will. Also, many proponents of free will often wonder how a belief in determinism does not result in fatalism or defeatism. Ostensibly, it does seem rather contradictory to believe in both determinism and free will. It's a complicated question, and not one that I'm all that sure I can even begin to answer. I don't think my purpose is really to answer any questions, rather to hypothesize, or at least to ramble thoughtfully. What I'm trying to say is, don't take me too seriously.

Okay, so as a basic definition, determinism is the belief that every event, from the most trivial to the most significant, has a cause or set of causes. Physics suggests that the universe is at least partially deterministic. Psychology tells us that human behavior is deterministic to some degree. Causality is a deterministic concept and popular fodder for time-travel-loving sci-fi writers.

For society in general, feelings about determinism are complicated. Some say there's a reason for everything. Concepts of fate and destiny are romanticized in popular culture. When we see someone we pity doing something horrible, we say he can't help it. It's just the way he was raised, or he doesn't know any better. If some tragedy befalls us, it's not our fault. There were events beyond your control. Suggest to the average person, however, that every decision she makes or feeling she has is the end result of a sequence of events that chains back to the beginning of existence, and she will likely feel insulted, or at least be a little indignant at the suggestion that her thoughts are not completely her choice.

That is not to say that all determinists believe that our actions are predetermined. There are those who also believe in free will and even those who say that, despite the deterministic nature of the universe and its influence on our thoughts and feelings, we are still ultimately in control. As I've already said, I don't think I can answer the obvious questions that spring from this stance. All I can do is discuss my thoughts.

So, do I think our thoughts and feelings are predetermined? Well, as uncomfortable as the idea makes me, I'm kind of leaning towards yes. To me, thoughts and feelings are simply a sequence of complex chemical and electrical interactions. It might seem cold to reduce them to that, and I confess it is rather an oversimplification, but it's difficult for me to think otherwise, given my interpretation of what science has to say on the matter. If it can really be reduced to simply a sequence of chemical and electrical interactions, which by their nature are governed by the laws of physics, then how they could possibly be non-deterministic is beyond me.

Then what's the point of doing anything? Or deciding anything? If everything is predetermined, then what is the point of anything? Well, that attitude is fatalist, and I think you'll find that there are few determinists who are fatalists. Why? Well, to put it obviously, events that depend upon you doing them to get done won't get done if you decide not to do them. Of course, if that decision is not really in your control, that is to say, if whether or not you make that decision is based on every event in history since the beginning of time, then, again I ask, what is the point of "deciding" anything? Enough commas in that sentence for you?

Here's the problem with thinking of the universe in deterministic terms. It always leads to cyclic or self referential arguments. Whether it's about whether our decisions are our own or about the origin of a deterministic universe, we find ourselves getting caught up in the pointless infinite loop of logic that our limited brains must do when we try to reason about the unknowable.

The thing is, nothing is gained from the knowledge of whether or not the universe is deterministic. Even if we knew for certain that it was, it still wouldn't make the universe predictable. If the universe is truly deterministic, that would mean that if we knew every governing rule of existence and every single state of every infinitesimal piece therein, we could extrapolate future events with 100% accuracy. The problem is, that is not possible for us. No human brain, no matter how evolved, could hold that much information and process it fast enough to glean any useful information from it. Similarly, we could never build a computer that could do it either. In order to hold the state of every infinitesimal piece of existence, first of all, we would have to have discovered them all first, and second of all, we would have to be able to hold an infinite amount of stuff in memory. Even if there is only a finite amount of information in a single slice of time in existence, the computer would also have to have a simulation of itself in its simulation of the universe. And we're back to the self-referencing problem we had earlier. Even the finite information would become infinite because the simulation of the computer simulating the universe would have the same simulation of the universe running inside it, which would contain the same simulated computer running a simulation...ad infinitum.

Let me explain why it doesn't matter in simpler terms. Pick a random number between 1 and 100. Ok, now I'm going to guess what it is. Are you thinking of it? Good.

It's 68.

Was I right? According to probability, I'm not likely to be. According to probability, on the average I would guess correctly for 1 out of every 100 people who read this post. I would guess that, given a large enough sample, it probably works out that way too. Does that mean people are actually capable of choosing random numbers? Would I be able to guess any better if I knew every experience you had ever had since birth? Probably not, but that doesn't mean that your choice wasn't influenced by those experiences.

Now take this little JavaScript I wrote to generate a random Sudoku puzzle. It generates a bunch of random numbers to fill in a grid, then randomly deletes pairs of cells such that it doesn't end up in multiple solutions. Now, is it truly random? No. I know for sure that it isn't. I know that when the script requests a random number, it looks at the system time, does some kind of math with it and returns the result. If I knew the exact system times when each random request was made and the math that was used to generate the number, I could calculate by hand the solution to the Sudoku puzzle the same way the computer did.

Ah, now we're getting to the heart of my point. Here's the thing, even if I could know all of the starting information and solve it by doing exactly what the computer did by hand, why the hell would I want to do that? What's the point? Is it faster that way? Not with my math skills. Is it more fun? I daresay it isn't. Similarly, even if I could somehow calculate "by hand" which random number you would have chosen, is it worth our time? Is nearly as amazing as my simply guessing it "at random" (assuming either one of those is amazing to any degree)?

See, the thing is, JavaScript’s random number generator is "good enough", as it serves our purposes for such a trivial task. Just like the number I asked you to choose randomly. Even if it wasn't random, it might as well be. It works the same for the universe. It might be deterministic, but it may as well be at least a little random because we can't ever know every state in one timeslice of existence and thus the starting conditions for it all.

I don't know that this argues that we should be mindful of our decisions and keep trying to improve our lives, but the possibility that it doesn't matter isn't going to stop me. If the universe IS deterministic, then things aren't going to just get better randomly. It's going to require the initial condition of effort on my part. My decision to make that effort might be predetermined, but I'm grateful that it is if that's the case. I also take comfort, like many people, in the fact that, whether the universe is random or deterministic, some events (most of them, in fact) really are beyond our control. It might not be the highest note to end on, but it serves its purpose.

Vote or...Regret Not Having Voted

Okay America, I'm not going to threaten you with death if you don't go to the polls for any of your states' primaries or for the general election in the fall. I will say, though, that it has never been clearer in the history of our "democracy" (really a republic) that your vote does count, and with so many elections in the past several years being won, or even stolen, by such small margins, it is crucial that everyone who is concerned with the state of our government or our future as a country gets out and votes.

I definitely understand that the system can be frustrating sometimes, and I know how hard working up the motivation to participate can be. Trust me; I was there. It's the age old reasoning of, "I'm just one person in a country of 300 million. How does my vote even count?" Well, I'm here to tell you, it friggin' counts. If everyone in the country had this philosophy, we'd have to revamp the entire system so that people in power get to decide who the torch gets passed to, if it gets passed at all. There are many examples throughout history of governments set up that way. How many of them have been successful? How many of the people living under those types of rule have been happy?

Okay, so it's unlikely that it would ever happen that no one in the country went to the polls during an election, but let's look at something more realistic. Do you know what kind of people consistently head to the polls without fail? It is people who are passionate about the issues. And while the breakdown of voters registered as either Republican, Democrat or Other is pretty even, people who lean far left or far right on the issues are more likely to be passionate about the issues than someone who is more toward the center.

Before I continue, let me just say that the above statement is merely an observation from my own experience. I do not have any hard research to back this up, but aside from anecdotal evidence, there is a dynamic in this country's politics that seems to support it. Look at how polarized politics have become. Of course, there have been some pretty important issues to get people on both sides of "the aisle" worked up, but it has only helped to solidify and exacerbate a system of opposition that has been building for decades. The rhetoric out of Washington almost forces us to choose a side all the way. There's almost no middle ground any more.

But if you want my opinion, our country by its very nature is not "far left" or "far right". When I talk to people casually on the issues, there is usually a gray area. People who say, for example, that they agree with the war but not how we went about it, or that they don't agree with it but that now that we're in, we just can't leave. Sure, there are those Bush-is-right-always-has-been-and-always-will-be people out there, just as there are those on the opposite side, but there aren't as many as the current state of politics and the media would have us believe. The problem is that the people on the outer extremes of the scale have the loudest, and often most obnoxious voices.

I say let the voices in the middle rise up and drown out the fanatics who want to turn our country into either a left wing Utopia or a right wing Paradise. Because either case would be neither Utopia nor Paradise. Be passionate about the issues without being extreme. Vote always to help make our government more effective instead of more factional. And you do have the right to bitch, even if you don't vote, but realize that if you didn't contribute, it's your own damn fault.

Obama'08: Change We Can Believe In.

Letters from the Lost Man, Part 13

"You have a concussion," the doctor answers. "It's not uncommon to have feelings of displacement or hallucinations. Your brain took quite a rap."

I nod. "Makes sense, I guess." I really wish I knew more about medicine. I have no way to verify what he's saying. All I know is, something weird is going on.

"The most important thing," the doctor adds, "is that you get some rest. Your body needs to heal after that accident."

Again, I nod.

A nurse walks in. "Mr. Menda? You have a visitor."

I look around. The doctor and I are the only two people in the room. I point to myself with a puzzled expression.

"You are Michael Menda, correct?" the nurse asks.

Something about that sounds familiar. With both the doctor and nurse staring at me concernedly, I nod.

"You have a visitor," the nurse informs me. She steps away from the door. A woman enters from the hallway. It's my wife, Linda.

She runs to my bedside. "Oh, Mike, are you okay?" she asks, relieved tears in her eyes.

"I think so," I tell her, "but I'm pretty beat up. Doctor says I need to rest."

She nods, tears flowing freely down her cheeks. "I was so worried. Thank God you're okay," she sighs as she pulls me into a tight embrace.

The hug is a little uncomfortable physically, but it's very comforting and familiar. I can feel the confusion starting to lift as bits of my life come back to me.

"Listen to me, Richard," Linda says gravely in another woman's voice.

Great... Just when things are starting to make sense again.

"Don't react," she says calmly. "Don't let on to the doctor that you can hear me. Just act like nothing is out of the ordinary."

Sure, and after that maybe I'll levitate off my bed and recite Pi to 1200 places. Nothing could be easier.

"I know it's tough, Richard," the strange voice coming from my wife says, while she straightens the bed sheets over me. Her eyes do not betray any hint of this conversation.

"Okay," I say, trying to look comfortable.

"Don't say anything," she whispers quickly. "I know it seems like I'm talking to you through someone, but that's only in your mind."

Only in my mind. Fantastic. I'm going crazy.

"Your not crazy, Richard," the woman's voice reassures me.

Okay, that's kind of freaky. Did she just read my thoughts?

"I can hear some of what you're thinking," she confirms. "But it's only the more simple thoughts right now. As we figure this out more, it should become easier for you."

What the hell is going on?

Just then, the doctor looks up from his notes. "If you're feeling fine right now, Mr. Menda, I will go ahead and take my leave. The nurse will be in to check on you periodically."

I blink at him for a few seconds, having completely forgotten he was even in the room. "Oh, yeah," I mumble.

"We'll probably keep you overnight for observation, but you should be able to go home tomorrow," he explains.

"Oh, okay," I say dumbly.

"Thank you so much, doctor," my wife says in her own voice.

I glance at her suspiciously. She returns my look with a loving smile.

"My pleasure," the doctor says, standing and hurrying out of the room.

Linda gazes down at me and runs her fingers through my hair gently. "Okay, now listen closely," she says in the other woman's voice.

"Do you really have to do that? It totally freaks me out," I snap.

Linda freezes and drops her hand back to her side. "I'm sorry, honey, I'm just trying to comfort you," she says in her own, hurt voice.

"Apologize to her," the other woman's voice says.

Jesus, this is confusing. "I'm sorry, babe. I don't know why I said that. Must've bumped my head pretty bad."

"It's okay," Linda nods, patting my hand.

"I'm sorry about how uncomfortable this is, Richard," the other woman says through my wife's freakishly moving lips. "It's the only way I can talk to you without raising suspicion. Well, that and I can't really figure out another way. If you just act naturally, I will try to explain."

I lay back and try to look comfortable...and comforted.

"My name is Loretta Vine," the woman's voice says. "I was once the assistant of a Doctor Hans Spector, a medical researcher employed by a U.S. government agency. You and I are currently undergoing experimental rehabilitation treatment. Nothing that you currently see around you is really happening. It is all a fabrication generated by a computer that is directly stimulating nerve cells in your brain.

"Richard," she sighs apologetically, "they've erased our memories and are trying to program us with new ones. They're trying to give us new lives against our wills."

I lay there in stunned silence. Slowly, I begin to realize that something doesn't quite make sense with her story. If her memory was erased as well, then how is she here explaining all this to me?

"I know you're confused," Loretta's voice says. "It's quiet in here, want to watch TV?"

"Huh?" I can't help but ask.

My wife repeats, "Want to watch TV? It's just so quiet."

"Oh," I nod. "Sure."

"You feeling alright, baby?" she asks.

"Yeah, just tired," I reply. Tired and utterly perplexed.

She picks up the remote. "TV will help. Maybe you'll fall asleep to it," she suggests.

"Maybe," I agree, managing a smile.

"I know your confused, Richard," Loretta's voice repeats as my wife turns on the television and begins to channel surf.

Damn straight...

"I'm trying to hack my way into other parts of the system so that we can make this a little easier or maybe even get out of here," Loretta tells me.

"The truth is," she continues, "I'm not really even sure how I've managed to get to where I am, but somebody must have really overlooked my readouts. It's too late now. I've set it up so that everything will look normal for a while. I'll need to go soon so I can shore it up a little better though."

How do I even know any of this is real?

"It's real, Richard," Loretta answers my unspoken question. "You know it's real, deep down inside. Just keep acting natural, no matter what happens. If something seems out of the ordinary, it is your brain trying to reject the programming and remember its true life. If you react too much to it, it will set off alarms in the monitoring program, which will increase the amount of medication flowing into you and cause the program to refocus its attention on the part of your brain that's rebelling. If it gets too bad, Dr. Spector and his team will go in manually to reset the project. I'm not sure how I'll get to you again if that happens."

Chills shoot up and down my spine. The hair on my arms and the back of my neck bristles. I really don't like the sound of that last part.

***