had seemed like such a nice guy, Jake had almost taken
him up on the offer to stop and get a beer and talk before heading home. Instead,
Jake had opted to walk. He had found a pub not too far from the office. It was
dark and filled with lawyers and doctors, students and locals. He enjoyed the
dark paneling, the brass railings, the green leather seat-backs.
Jake ordered a burger and a beer. He had not eaten all day. His
head felt full, though. He did not know what was bothering him the most: his
past, his present, or his future. They all seemed distant to him.
Even now, he could not bring himself to make the call he
knew he needed to make. Something told him that Hallie would understand. That
did not make it alright to avoid her, though. Jake was disappointed in himself.
He was pretty certain he could trust Hallie. No one, not
even Gary, had ever stuck their neck out for him that he could remember. Unless
you counted Camilla Cross.
But could he trust himself?
He was an assassin. He killed people for a living. Three
days ago, he had been able to justify his career and now he was morally
appalled. This transformation was because of what? His sudden realization that
he was actually a glorified detective-slash-bodyguard? The thought that he was
a father? A husband?
Jake suspected that all these reasons played into the role
of making him feel guilty. He felt remorseful that he had allowed himself to
become degraded enough to succumb to his baser instincts.
He stared at the half-eaten burger on the plate by his elbow.
He had shoved it aside. He was hungry. It tasted great. It had enough grease
coming from the burger to soak the soft bun. His appetite would simply not
allow him to finish it.
Absently, he wondered if even opinions, likes and dislikes,
emotions, and feelings could be transplanted in the same way his memory was
erased. People were manipulated all the time. The average American consulted
the temple of the television every day to know what to think, how to feel, or
what was popular.
How was he any different?
He tried to console himself with that truism. It did not
work.
Finally, he took a bite of the burger again. It was good
cold, too. He called the waiter over and ordered a glass of milk. He had him
take the empty beer mug away. He loved drinking milk with his burgers. It was a
tradition. He had done it since…since when? He was a kid?
This had been happening to him all day. Snippets of his
memory would come back. A Hanson poster on the wall by his bed. Watching the
coverage of the Oklahoma City Bombing on a console television. Remembering his
mother working in the kitchen making bread with her new bread-maker. His dad
talking politics.
Just snippets. It was like looking at a spectacle through a
crack in a floor or through a key hole.
Rather than making him feel better, it actually served to
drive him deeper into self-pity and self-loathing. The more memories that
surfaced, the more he felt like he was a good man gone bad.
Another side effect of these memories was that he had no
control over which ones would bubble up. He tried fishing them out, digging
around, and extracting them, but he met walls of resistance. He only made his
head feel worse and his stomach lurch. He could not remember Berlin. He could
not remember a marriage ceremony. He could not remember holding a daughter.
He knew that his inability to remember those things were
paramount to Hallie. They meant something to her. He desperately wanted to
recall them so that they could revel in his triumph and celebrate together
shared memories. Jake knew his procrastination was centered mostly on this
failure. He did not want to go “home” until he knew that what he was
experiencing there was a true recollection of his former, better life.
He did not deserve to hold his daughter in his arms and
accept her love. He did not deserve the love that Hallie obviously felt toward
him.
He remembered her kiss in the elevator. Something had
him up on the offer to stop and get a beer and talk before heading home. Instead,
Jake had opted to walk. He had found a pub not too far from the office. It was
dark and filled with lawyers and doctors, students and locals. He enjoyed the
dark paneling, the brass railings, the green leather seat-backs.
Jake ordered a burger and a beer. He had not eaten all day. His
head felt full, though. He did not know what was bothering him the most: his
past, his present, or his future. They all seemed distant to him.
Even now, he could not bring himself to make the call he
knew he needed to make. Something told him that Hallie would understand. That
did not make it alright to avoid her, though. Jake was disappointed in himself.
He was pretty certain he could trust Hallie. No one, not
even Gary, had ever stuck their neck out for him that he could remember. Unless
you counted Camilla Cross.
But could he trust himself?
He was an assassin. He killed people for a living. Three
days ago, he had been able to justify his career and now he was morally
appalled. This transformation was because of what? His sudden realization that
he was actually a glorified detective-slash-bodyguard? The thought that he was
a father? A husband?
Jake suspected that all these reasons played into the role
of making him feel guilty. He felt remorseful that he had allowed himself to
become degraded enough to succumb to his baser instincts.
He stared at the half-eaten burger on the plate by his elbow.
He had shoved it aside. He was hungry. It tasted great. It had enough grease
coming from the burger to soak the soft bun. His appetite would simply not
allow him to finish it.
Absently, he wondered if even opinions, likes and dislikes,
emotions, and feelings could be transplanted in the same way his memory was
erased. People were manipulated all the time. The average American consulted
the temple of the television every day to know what to think, how to feel, or
what was popular.
How was he any different?
He tried to console himself with that truism. It did not
work.
Finally, he took a bite of the burger again. It was good
cold, too. He called the waiter over and ordered a glass of milk. He had him
take the empty beer mug away. He loved drinking milk with his burgers. It was a
tradition. He had done it since…since when? He was a kid?
This had been happening to him all day. Snippets of his
memory would come back. A Hanson poster on the wall by his bed. Watching the
coverage of the Oklahoma City Bombing on a console television. Remembering his
mother working in the kitchen making bread with her new bread-maker. His dad
talking politics.
Just snippets. It was like looking at a spectacle through a
crack in a floor or through a key hole.
Rather than making him feel better, it actually served to
drive him deeper into self-pity and self-loathing. The more memories that
surfaced, the more he felt like he was a good man gone bad.
Another side effect of these memories was that he had no
control over which ones would bubble up. He tried fishing them out, digging
around, and extracting them, but he met walls of resistance. He only made his
head feel worse and his stomach lurch. He could not remember Berlin. He could
not remember a marriage ceremony. He could not remember holding a daughter.
He knew that his inability to remember those things were
paramount to Hallie. They meant something to her. He desperately wanted to
recall them so that they could revel in his triumph and celebrate together
shared memories. Jake knew his procrastination was centered mostly on this
failure. He did not want to go “home” until he knew that what he was
experiencing there was a true recollection of his former, better life.
He did not deserve to hold his daughter in his arms and
accept her love. He did not deserve the love that Hallie obviously felt toward
him.
He remembered her kiss in the elevator. Something had
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