The Walk

It was a chilly fall night, and a full moon shone down from a cloudless sky upon a forest of pine. A lone, rocky path extended throughout said forest, silent save only for the shuffling of a well-worn pair of feet, and the tapping of a shaky cane.

The man had taken a liking to these walks recently. He enjoyed the reminiscing he was able to do while hiking through these pristine woods. They also helped him to forget his inability to remember that which he wanted most to remember.

He had been a scientist, and a good one at that, he used to tell others, but now there weren’t many people to tell. He didn’t like to think about that past though, which is why he had chosen to live a life of seclusion only a few years ago.

He let out a gentle sigh mingled both with contentment with this decision and regret. The memories just weren’t enough sometimes. He often imagined continuing his project, his quest, as it had been labeled by others, but he was always stopped by a simple reminder: he could simply not remember.

The croak of a frog broke the stillness. The old man stopped in his tracks. He felt as though he was going to remember, but as soon as he tried too hard, the memory was gone.

The reminders often came in the mornings, which were the time of day, he could recall, in which he had thought most clearly in the past. He would begin to think about the Project. He could remember the white laboratories, the white coats, and even, dimly, the faces of some of his assistants. Then, the reminder would come, sometimes with only an involuntary shudder, other times with an excruciating headache that lasted for hours. Either way, the reminder’s message was simple. He could not, no matter how hard he tried, remember the purpose, or anything else for that matter, of the Project.

The chirping of crickets told him that it was getting too late to be safe outside. He turned around and began the trek back to his cabin.

He did not know why, but the desire to know about the Project had suddenly begun eating away at him for the past few weeks. It was strange, because he had hardly even thought about it for most of the three years he had been in seclusion. It was also strange because he knew that if he were to remember, he would regret trying to.

The uncomfortable darkness of the forest brought upon the sorrow that was also routine to his life. The burden of solitude, coupled with the frustration that had slowly been building with his inability to remember, served to drive him into a depression almost every evening. Tonight, however, the depression was getting to a level at which it was nearly unbearable.

“Why?” he asked at the top of his voice. He listened as it echoed through the mountains. Besides that, though, the only answer to his query was silence.

It was at that point that determination kicked in. He was determined to learn, that night, what the Project had been. This was no pipedream, however. He knew exactly how he was going to go about remembering. The box. He had seen it every day for the past three years, and even before his seclusion. He had never dared look inside, though. He had always known that if he were to do so, he would regret it eternally. But now, for some unknown reason, he didn’t care. He had to know.

“It was my project. I have a right to know. I have a right!” he thought.

In his furor, he didn’t even realize that he had become totally enveloped in darkness. It was no matter, though, for he had walked this path many times, and he knew the way to his cabin well. As he walked down the rocky path, he had no second thoughts.

When he reached his cabin, he noticed that there was no light from inside. This was odd, because he had installed electric lighting only a few days before. Cursing technology, he grabbed a candle and lit it. Its sepulchral glow exaggerated every shadow, serving to make the cabin appear as though haunted.

He walked to his desk and opened the top drawer. There it was, staring out at him, taunting him, as it always had. He would show it, though. He was no coward. He gently reached into the drawer and removed the box. He laid his hand on the lid, ready to open it. Was he really doing this, after all these years?

“Yes,” he thought. “There is no way around it now.”

Slowly, carefully, he removed the lid, and was not surprised, as he peered inside the box, to find that there was another lid inside, with a small, handwritten note. He reached for the note and held it near the candle. It read: “You couldn’t resist, could you? You know, no matter what you think, it’s not too late to stop now. You made this yourself. You injected the memory blocking chemicals yourself. Don’t you think you knew what you were doing then?”

He stared at the note, pondering. Then he threw it to the floor.

“I was young then. I was filled with emotions. I’ve matured,” he mumbled, tearing off the second lid.

Inside was only one object. He looked at it incredulously. Then he realized what it was. It was a syringe.

He took it out of the box, the green chemicals sloshing around inside it. He cradled it gently in his palm. It was the key to his memory. He quickly reached into his drawer, pulling out an alcohol swab and a clean needle. He prepared his arm, took in a deep breath, and injected.

He put down the syringe and sat at his desk, waiting. Suddenly, he felt as thought something had been taken off of him. He smiled. The memories were back. Strangely, the first thing that he remembered was a scene, so out of place that it angered him. It was his mother, standing over him, sobbing.

“I don’t want this rubbish!” he exclaimed. “The Project! I want to remember the Project!”

Just as he said that, he remembered another scene. He was standing in front of a huge audience. There were so many people… there were representatives from around the world. They were asking him questions about his project. Then, it seemed, as he was telling them the goals of his project, they were laughing at him.

“How dare they?” he asked, enraged. “Didn’t they know how significant the Project would be?”

He then remembered the work. He had worked fourteen hours a day, six days a week for three years. He was alone during that time. Even his assistants had been forbidden from seeing him.

“Who needs other people, anyway?” he said. “I live alone now, and I’m fine!”

The next thing he remembered was the breakthrough. At first, he was surprised, and excited. Then, he realized the decisions that had fallen into his hands. It… it leaked out, what he had discovered, and then everyone was asking, no, begging him to tell them. But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. The knowledge, it was killing him.

“No, no…” he said, distraught.

They had locked him up, labeled him insane, and he was. He had killed.

“Why…?” he asked.

Then, there it was again, the scene of his mother. She sobbed and sobbed, then, hesitantly, signed some papers. They were going to kill him.

He had tried to reason with them, but logic had long since departed him. Finally, the chance came, and he took it, making his escape. It was then that he chose to regain his sanity by blocking his memory. He had succeeded then, but now…

Now he knew. The results of the project were again evident to him.

“Ahh!” he exclaimed, holding his head. The memories swam through his mind. It was too much. The pain…

He opened his drawer again, fumbling around with one hand while holding his head with the other. Then, his hand met something cold. A tiny smile was brought to his agony-stricken face as he pulled what he had found out of the drawer.

A single shot rang out from the cabin, piercing the still night. And then, all was silent.