Letter to a Future Self

[Guest guest]

Since things are slow and we were discussing

memory and consciousness, and love, I'll post

this short science fiction story dealing with those

topics. You can read more stories by me at:

 

enlightenedfiction/

 

Letter to a Future Self

 

By Pete

 

A big ugly man with a big ugly dog stood on

my front lawn. I had just parked in my drive-

way.

 

I hope you're going to pick up that, I said.

 

Nope, he said with a grin, flashing two rows of

teeth fit for a horse.

 

This isn't funny mister. You're violating a city

ordinance. If you don't pick up that right now

I'll report you. I could tell this unkempt brute

didn't reside in our neighborhood.

 

My dog... how you fancy people put it? Oh,

yeah. My dog just made a statement about

your big house. That ain't against the law, is it?

 

His laugh matched his teeth. Watching him

walk away, an irrational wish to start my car

and run him over entered my head. I was

aghast! Do you want to injure this man over

a turd? Of course not, but the impulse have

been like lightning in the night.

 

Two days later, leaving the house to jog, I

noticed a fresh deposit on the lawn. The

beautiful crisp morning lost its luster. The

impulse to hurt him flashed again and with it

came fear. Was it fear of him? Sure, he, or his

dog could tear me apart., but that was no it-- I

felt trapped by his disrespect, and by my

reactions to it. This ridiculous situation seemed

to conjure the worst in me.

 

You're an intelligent man, I said to myself.

Where is the problem? The landscapers will

pick up that mess up Monday. Just forget it.

 

I did forget it for a few days. Then, I saw him

walking toward my house. I parked next to him.

 

I hope you're not taking your dog to my lawn.

 

Yep, he gave me an ugly smirk.

 

Why are you doing this?

 

My dog likes your property. It must smell like

shit. He spoke with a sandy drawl as if sand

coated his throat.

 

This time I'll call the police for sure.

 

Then my dog will take care of you. He let go of

the leash. His dog leaped forward. it thrust its

huge head inside the car. Its barks boomed.

My body fell sideways seeking the protection

of the passenger seat. Still its canines seemed

too near. His saliva sprinkled my face. I cowered

against the opposite door.

 

Isn't this fun? He yelled above the barking.

Think I'll be as scared of the police? He pulled

the dog back and walked to my lawn.

 

With shaky fingers I dialed 911.

 

Please, sir, don't call this number unless it's an

emergency.

 

This is an emergency.

 

Don't yell at me, sir. A dog defecating in your

lawn, a dog barking at you is not an emergency.

Please call your local police station and report

the incident.

 

What's the number? She hung up.

 

My illusions about civilization vanished with that

click. A zebra gracing in an African savanna was

just as safe as I was on my street. I drove to a

gun shop and bought a gun.

 

From then on, him and his dog showed up

every day. The man took a perverse pleasure

in taunting me. Why was he doing it? What

I have done to him? Not a thing came to mind,

except, that he was a sadistic psychopath. But

those were the wrong questions to ask. Why

was I playing along?

 

The police responded to my calls twice. Of

course, he was gone by the time they arrived.

I didn't know his name, nor his address. The

officers promised to keep an eye open for

him, but they seemed mildly amused by the

whole thing.

 

On a sunday morning, as I watched from my

window maple leaves raining on my front

lawn, he came by. As if ugliness were

contagious, the beauty of the moment fled.

I went down to my garage and spied on my

tormentor through the tiny garage door's

window. As soon as he walked away I got

in my car and followed at a safe distance.

Two blocks away he got inside a beat up car.

We have driven two miles, when my quarry

gave me the finger and took off.

 

I was able to keep him in sight, although I

doubted I'd have the nerve to go much faster.

When he turned into a deserted street, the

sadist stopped. Then his car shot backwards

toward me. I jammed on the brakes and

clutched the steering wheel. I had no doubt this

nut intended to plow into my car. I closed my

eyes, heard his brakes screeching. Nothing.

His car was inches away from mine. He was

laughing his head off. Like the bat out of hell

he was, my tormentor, sped away. Too rattled

to follow him, I drove home.

 

Michael, these my last thoughts, I write for

you with the detachment of those who hope

for nothing. Tomorrow I'll be gone. I have

already said goodbye to my family. They

tried to be cheerful for my sake.

 

See you in a few days, said my wife.

 

Everything will be the same soon, Dad,

said my daughter.

 

I smiled and nodded, but knew better.

There will be no next time, and they knew it

too.

 

Tomorrow, will be the day of my execution. As

you will find out, they don't call it that anymore.

Surgical memory rehabilitation is the official

name. Nice euphemism for mental annihilation.

Tomorrow, after surgery, I won't remember

anyone I knew, or anything I did, or even

thought in my life. I won't know any detail of my

former life, but all my skills will be left intact

so that you, Michael, can earn a living. My

endocrine system will be tuned to perfection

to make you a model citizen.

 

This might not seen punishment enough for

a murderer, but to me it's as good as death.

 

I have as much reason to believe you'll be

me, as a man dying today has to believe

that the first baby born after his death will be

his reincarnation.

 

Michael, in two weeks, you'll fly to a different

city where you'll meet my wife and daughter

for the first time. They will run to you, hug and

kiss you with all their love. You'll feel nothing.

 

 

I have no illusions about your future role as

husband and father. The divorce rate for

these sort of couples is eighty nine percent.

This is the main reason I write this letter. I

want to tell you how much you, well, I, loved

these women. They are precious, Michael.

No doubt, you'll find my wife attractive. She's

still a beautiful woman, but she's also loving

and intelligent. She made me very happy,

and if you give her a chance, you will love

her too.

 

She'll tell you all she knows about

me, but that isn't much. What do we really

know about one another? Only behavioral

patterns and appearances, and that's not

what you need. Is it, Michael? No one

can put into words for you that living feeling

of being your former self. I wrote an auto-

biography for you, which the escort to your

new city will give you with this letter. For

you it'll be no different than reading the

biography of a distant ancestor.

 

The Government knows my auto-

biography won't resuscitate my former

self. That's why they permit this kind of

communication; they know that words don't

have the hypnotic magic of living memory.

In this " new world " we still believe people

can be possessed, not by demons, but

by evil thoughts and memories.

 

Maybe, they're right! There are demonic

thoughts that sneak inside our mind and

take up residence. They seem harmless,

even amusing, but demons are gregarious

creatures and they will invite friends. Soon

the mind becomes hell, and demons love

torture. When our mind becomes hell, we

can't help hurting others. Which brings me

to that question that you will ask yourself:

" Why did I kill that man? "

 

Not an easy question, " why " . We

can't ever be sure it has been fully answered.

So why did I kill him? Maybe fear, not of him,

but of loosing my self-respect. Thoughts asked,

What kind of man are you? You can't even

protect your lawn. He thinks you are a coward.

Do you believe he'll stop at the lawn. Why

not your wife? Would you protect

her any better?

 

Tortured by those thoughts, I indulged

fantasies of violence, amuse myself by

planning his murder.

 

I'd walk to him and shoot him first, then his dog

would jump on me and bite me. I could tell

the police he sick the dog on me and I had

to shoot it. Then he went for my gun and the

gun went off.

 

It was just a way to release my anger,

you understand. I wasn't serious about it.

 

One day, all those thoughts reached critical

mass and exploded into action. A neighbor

watched the whole thing from her window.

 

Ladies and gentlemen this murder was

the act of a sadistic psychopath, said

the prosecutor to the jury pointing at me.

 

I chuckled. You just sealed your fate

with that stupid chuckle, Michael. Kiss

your memories goodbye, my lawyer

said as we left the courtroom.

 

Oh God,I know. I couldn't help it. A

sadistic psychopath, that's what I called him.

 

The sky outside my window is getting light.

I must stop now. Soon they'll come for me.

Beware of demon thoughts. I know,

you'll have a chip in your brain to prevent

violence, but those thoughts will torture

you anyway. That's what they do best.

 

Good luck, Michael!

 

Your former self,

 

Michael.