In the second half of the night, I sat at my desk. On the table was a bottle of spirytus, which was extremely strong, with an alcohol content of 96%, comparable to ethanol.

There was also a revolver with only one bullet.

If you are drunk, you live, and if you dream, you die.

This is a Russian turntable for one person.

A glass of wine first. The taste was like water, but I immediately felt my lips tingle.

The first shot went down, and nothing happened.

Another glass of wine. I'm still conscious, but my vision is starting to distort a little.

Second shot.

The third cup.

Looking around, my familiar home has changed. The furniture twisted and danced, bouncing and bouncing. I just turned my head slightly, and a strong feeling of vertigo swarmed me, as if I had experienced all the roller coasters of the carnival in a row.

I closed my eyes, clenched my glass, and tried to compose.

When I opened my eyes again, everything around me seemed to melt, turning into an indescribable mixture of colors, stirring together, and still flowing quietly.

Across the table sat a little boy.

I don't know if it's because I'm drunk, but his face really looks like an abstract painting by Picasso.

"Will you get drunk first, or will you die first?"

"I don't know, I'll understand after six shots. ”

"That's going to die. ”

I didn't speak. His facial features seemed to be flowing, constantly changing positions on his face. But his voice was still so clear.

"You're a businessman, let's make a deal. ”

"What do you want to say?"

"Please live. ”

I opened my mouth slightly, feeling my lips still tingle. I didn't speak, my eyes were empty, waiting for him to continue.

"I'll teach you how to live, and after that, ......"

His voice grew distant.

When I woke up, I was lying on the table with some pain in my shoulder.

It was already dawn, and the bottles were shattered on the ground, and there was not much liquid left. Perhaps the high concentration of alcohol is almost volatilized at night.

As for the gun...... Where there are bullets, it has been missed.

It's weird.

I barely managed to make my way to the bathroom.

I glanced at the passing mirror, and suddenly, I felt a sharp pain in my brain - as if it had been pierced with an awl. What followed was a lot of broken and messy memories.

Memories related to me.

I grabbed the sink with one hand and pressed my temple with the other. I tried to keep myself in the mirror in sight, and in the chaos of my memory, I saw that I had purple eyes in the mirror.

Purple eyes full of familiar tiredness.

In this way, I gained the power to peep and manipulate memories.

For three days in a row, I didn't leave the house even half a step. The doctor and the company people almost didn't have a break on my phone, and the door of my house was constantly knocked on by all kinds of people. But there are no police.

I had told me not to call the police even if I was missing.

It took me time to get used to this new sense. It's terrifyingly strong, even if it's just a sweep of the people on the street, a huge amount of memories will flood in irregularly, and I can't help but say it. It is troublesome to distinguish who they belong to and to which time period.

However, I have to feel that people's adaptability is really amazing. After only one day, I was able to selectively read the memory. By the next day, it wasn't too hard to modify them.

It's a hard way to explain – to use the computer metaphor again, I'm an administrator who regulates all the information on the computer, deletes it, modifies it. It's a little hard at first, but once you get started, it's a lot easier.

I went back to the company.

Relying on such means, I solved a lot of old and new problems.

The situation is very good, and the consortium is thriving.

But there's one problem that I can't solve no matter what.

Doctor, the night is white, I can't see his memory.

Actually, you can, as long as I want to. The problem is, I don't want to—because I don't dare. I seemed to instinctively avoid him.

I think I'm in love with him.

The so-called love is as heavy as a shackle.

From August to the next year, his pursuit of me was evident in almost the entire company. He invited me to go shopping, to dinner, to watch movies, and he remembered every holiday, giving all kinds of gifts, and pursuing a sense of ritual. Just like every couple does.

"Those girls have it," he said, "and I'll give it to you too." ”

Sometimes I say yes, sometimes I say no. On the one hand, it is the habit of adjusting the mindset by relaxing in the free time, and on the other hand, it is ......

He said he loved me.

However, I questioned his mentality, and I also questioned the love itself.

How can I tell if my feelings for you are from my heart and not the product of your guidance?

And how do you prove that your feelings are not countertransference?

Isn't what you're doing now another means of healing?

I can't judge, I can't think, I can't understand.

The doctor just pestered me as before, gentleman and scoundrel.

Incredibly, he even remembered the first anniversary of our acquaintance. He gave me a black leather notebook, 16k, moderately thin, ordinary.

The subtlety is that the book is locked – in a physical sense.

The book is supposed to be custom-made, with an X-shaped chain that fits into the shallow ravine of the leather envelope. The chains are silver, thin, but strong. There is a lock on the front, which is slightly larger than a bottle cap.

"When the treatment is over, I'll give you the keys. Just congratulate you on your recovery. ”

What a mess.

But I'm not curious about the content of the book, just like before. And if I like, I can tell what is actually written in it by reading the doctor's memory of the book.

But I'm not happy.

I don't want to.

It's instinctive resistance.

In front of him, I locked the book in a safe. When he was about to leave, I suddenly offered to see him off myself. He was a little surprised, his expression was a little complicated, and he quickly accepted it.

It was probably the hardest decision I've ever made, but it was the right decision.

"If only I had never been in your life. ”

The moment he closed the door, I whispered. Lowering the window, the doctor gave me a familiar smile.

I erased everything about me from his memory.

Forget about me, please.

That's what I hope.

But the next day, he was still in my parlor.

Wearing my familiar smile, wearing my familiar white clothes, carrying everything I am familiar with.

I was deeply surprised.

It shouldn't be like this...... I've never missed.

"You ......"

I stared into his eyes. He didn't know why, but he still had that flirtatious smile.

"What are you looking at? I don't remember what was on my face before I went out. ”

I don't look away.

Why is it not effective, and what is going on with this person?

I don't understand.

I'm sure I've cleaned up all his memories of me with my own hands. He shouldn't remember me, he doesn't know the address of the company, he doesn't know the office I am in—that's how it should be.

What went wrong? Never before had this been the case, and I was at a loss.

"What do you seem to be worried about?" he asked me with concern.

"Nothing. ”

Again and again, I "killed" the me he remembered.

But no matter how many times I did it, he always remembered me. It's as if the power in my hands is ineffective in front of him.

I began to try to understand his heart, to try to read the memories of him that I had avoided before.

As it turned out, I could do it – I finally had the courage to face his heart.

But the one who faces himself still doesn't.

This is something I didn't realize at the time.

What's more, his memory is such an ordinary and ordinary thing. Whenever I'm not looking at him, I try to read what he thinks and thinks.

It's so ordinary, so mundane, as mundane as any memory I've ever read.

It's just meaningless trifles.

Although almost all of the things that appear in those trivial things are my shadow.

I want to really kill the shadows.

Even, I tried to modify his faint memory. This kind of behavior is something that I couldn't do before.

For example, swapping out the position of something, making a mistake on some days, or adding something that doesn't exist.

Everything has come true.

Only that one will not work.

I vaguely felt that in his memory, the "nebula" was something that could not be erased.

It doesn't make sense.

I can even make a person have suicidal thoughts if I want to. But why...... It's so hard to erase my own existence.

When I picked up a gun at myself before, did I ever waver about it?

At night, standing on the top of the 82nd floor, the wind is so fierce.

One step forward pushed me backwards, which made me barely open my eyes.

In the slightest coolness, I gradually realized a fact.

Trying to make the doctor forget my original purpose doesn't seem to be like this. Now I'm like I'm forgetting for the sake of making him forget.

What I want him to forget is not "me", but "me" in his heart.

It's another person.

There's no way I can kill her.

To this day, the only person I admit to killing with my own hands is only one.

Yes, there is.

Just one, so heavy.

In this way, in order to get rid of the entanglement of this superfluous feelings, I have only one way left.

I held out a finger and gently tapped it on my temple.

I don't need keys or anything like that, and I don't need love or anything.

That's just something that adds to weakness and wounds.

And that book may sleep forever in the safe, or maybe I will pick it up and look at it carefully.

But as I said, I've never had unnecessary curiosity.

I've never guessed what will be written in it, it doesn't matter.

One day in the future, I'll either ignore it or force it open.

If I actually take it apart and see what it says, how would I feel?

What if I don't take it apart?

If......

He never appeared in my life, and it was fine.

- Queen · Fin -