How do you pull up a memory?

The man had turned off his television and sat on his couch. He had spent a while recovering from his morning. He was finishing tying his shoes, a task usually so mundane and simple that now took effort to make sure he wouldn't trip on his laces. He had also cleaned whatever glass he could from off the floor, receiving a few cuts on his hands and feet. 

I am not entirely sure. The voice started. I focus hard on my own experience of watching your life. I have to decompress the amount of time I saw into a few moments or experiences. I would imagine it’s like zooming into a camera, but with memories and a lot of effort. 

The man was astonished. His whole life was laid out in front of a monster in his head? All the time? 

What about moments I don't remember? Like what I had for breakfast last month on the same day as today?

The voice was silent for a while, then responded. I have no idea why, but it is super fuzzy. It looks like cereal. Cheerios maybe? It isn't very clear, but it is there.

That didn't take you very long. Why can't you find the path to Annie's that quick?

I am working on it. Instead of having to focus so hard on one thing at a time, I am trying to memorize the directions for you. It comes easier the more I repeat the sequence. 

The man stood and went to the counter. He had yet to try and call the authorities. He found the landline eventually, brushing his hands over the mushy fruits he left on the counter before knocking the phone off its base. Stumbling for the cord, he pulled the phone to his hand then his ear as he envisioned the number pad and typed 911. The man listened as it rang, but no one answered. The messaging system went off, letting him know the Federal Way Police Department was not available and to leave his location and emergency in the message. He tried again and again, but was left without an answer. 

The voice spoke up in his head, letting him know he had the directions ready. 

You know what the police are, right? The man thought.

The voice began in an annoyed tone, Yes. I have all your memories. I am willing to bet I could score one-hundred on your SWAT exam easily. I would think it easier for the both of us if you assume I know everything you do but better. 

The man ignored the voice's snarky attitude, Listen, the police department isn't responding. Something big must have happened. What if some chemical warfare went off and you are a hallucination?

The voice was again silent, probably in personal thought. It responded flatly, So be it if I am. Either way, I am helping you. I may very well be a hallucination, but right now I feel very real. 

The weird thing is that the phones aren't down. They just sit there and give me the busy tone or the message box. Let me try a few more numbers. Maybe I can call Annie's phone to get a hold of her. 

It was very early in the morning and he doubted she would answer. He called twice, but the answering machine repeated her cheerful chirp,"Hi! Annie here. Sorry I didn't answer. I probably couldn't find my phone. Leave a message and I may be able to listen to it later!". The man left a half-hearted message. He tried a few more numbers to old acquaintances, but there was no difference.

Are you ready to go?, the voice chimed lazily. 

"Yeah, just let me find the door," the man grumbled.

You should get a water bottle. You'll need some water in about ten minutes. 

How do you know that?! The man's interest was increasing, and his patience declining, every time he felt he was being analyzed. 

I dunno. Reflexes?

He scoffed and shuffled across the wall to his small pantry. Reaching down, he smacked his head on the bottom shelf, cursed, and grabbed a water. He shuffled slowly across the wall once more, mistaking the bathroom door for the front door before he found the real front door. He opened it and sighed as the crisp morning air hit his face. 

The stairs were roofed and outdoors, with a single stairway to the right as he left his apartment. He forgot how close he lived to the stairs. As soon as he stepped down the first step, he flung forward. He let out a sharp scream and tumbled face first halfway down the flight and rolled over himself the rest of the way, landing on something soft and fleshy. He didn’t want to move; his body ached. 

That hurts. Why did you do that? The voice questioned.

I didn’t purposely roll down the stairs. I think I busted a tooth and some ribs. The man responded, groaning.

No, you didn’t. You’re just bruised. You knew there were stairs; why didn’t you slow down?

Because I thought they were farther out! And how in the world can you tell how injured I am?

That is stupidity on your part, not mine. The voice replied snarkily. I don’t know. The more you ask the more I think about it. Maybe it’s ‘cause I’m hooked into your nervous system. I can sense hormones, damaged nervous tissue, and anything else you can. Besides sight that is.

Great. I continue to be analyzed twenty-four seven. 

He sat up as he talked with the voice, feeling around to figure out what he landed on. He felt something like skin and a thick wet substance out of a crack in the ground. 

“What the…” He smelt his hands. Copper. It was blood.

“Ah! Someone is bleeding out!” The man exclaimed. “Help! Someone help!”

He backed towards the stairs, scared and confused. The sounds of the world flooded his ears all at once. Screams and cries for help in the distance. Calls and pleas waiting to be answered. All with the same voice, distant and sad.

“My eyes!” One would say.

“Help me! I can’t see!” Said another.

“Anybody out there!”

Some of them answered to each other, sounding out as they made their way closer to one another. Others remained where they were, resigned to wailing. Few even cried out that they had loved ones or someone near them that was dying, as if they had been struck by something or fell. The man sat still. Listening. Silently hoping the screams would stop and the blood on his hand would be washed away. 

Hey… you need to get moving. We should go back upstairs and wait for everything to die down. I think we aren’t the only ones stuck together.

He nodded, gripping the railing and maneuvering up the stairs. As he reached the top, he heard a gunshot from the right, opposite to his room. A scream soon followed. 

“HAROLD!” His neighbor’s voice began to lament. 

I think Jean’s husband just shot himself! What is going on?

I think that other people are like us; they have lost their sight. I guess he couldn’t take the strain.

“Dude! That’s a person! He was an old man worthy of respect! I bet it was because of something like you, rattling off in his head like a woodpecker. He already had mental issues; he was a veteran.” The man said, shocked and angered at the voice’s apathy.

I base myself off of you, we have a similar personality-

“I don’t care! Whatever you are you’re honestly sounding like pieces of absolute-”

Hey, shut up for a sec.

“No, I want you out myself and I- I-“ He began to choke in fury. 

Stop and listen! 

“I don’t want to-“

Jean’s wailing had stopped. He heard the door creak open as her voice trickled out the door, weary with age, “H-Hello? I have a gun; you should go on home.” 

Jean was a 64-year-old lady, and her husband was 65. She sometimes brought the man cookies on holidays. 

Shaking his face, he attempted to ask her if she was alright. As soon as he uttered a sound, the gun went off. He felt pain in his outstretched left hand and screamed. He quickly shoved his hand into his armpit to stop any bleeding as his ears burned from the sound. 

Once his hearing was back to normal, he spoke again, “Jean, it’s me.”

“Who?”

“Your neighbor, uh…”

WHY CAN’T I REMEMBER MY NAME? Thought the man

I don’t know! I may have eaten those cells by accident. I don’t even know your name.

“Oh. I see.” She said, cocking the gun quickly.

“Please don’t-“

DUCK!

He felt the heat of the barrel a foot in front of him and went down as the gun went off. Ignoring the blasting pain in his ears, he jumped the last two steps and shoved himself into Jean with a sense of guilt. He heard the gun clatter as she hit the ground and groaned. Jumping to her left, he felt around for the gun. 

“M-My husband just died, let me alone…” Jean said, frightened.

He stood still as his uninjured hand found the gun. It was a shotgun of sorts. He couldn’t tell by touching it.

Shoot her!

What?! I can’t. She was really nice to me.

She is trying to kill you and I can feel as much pain as you can!

Don’t care, we can’t go around killing my neighbors even if they do that to us. We are all scared and confused.

Fine, but I’m on alert. On the voice’s command, he felt a rush across his body like adrenaline. His heart thumped along and he felt cool and ready to act. 

“Don’t shoot me!” Jean had finally realized her husband’s gun was out of reach. With the weapon aimed at her voice, he attempted to tell her he made no plans to shoot her. Jean remained silent. He pressed that he was blind and did not know what was going on, but still no response.

“I’m just trying to figure out what is going on!”

Cut off once more by a thud from the door behind him, another voice rang out, this time from the apartment next to his. The man guessed he was close to his own door, since there were two on his side and Jean’s apartment was the only one opposite to his. It sounded like Jean was shuffling away from him, softly weeping to herself and repeating her husband’s name.

“Stupid woman!” he heard from inside.

His next-door neighbors were a struggling couple, he was sure that becoming blind made their relationship even more tense. They usually woke up for work at about seven-thirty in the morning. As much as he appreciated a sense of time, the sudden commotion outside and in his apartment complex was not worth it. He trained Jean’s gun towards the yelling. The man had his girlfriend in some kind of threatening situation by the sound of it. After the door opened, he could hear a woman whimpering and crying. It sounded like she was shuffling on the ground, trying to escape her attacker.

“I can’t see either! Please don’t shoot me!” The lady begged.

“What did yuh do tuh ma eyes?! I need tuh see!”

The man shot the gun a couple times, angered by his partner's answers. The woman whimpered out as he shot, his aim becoming truer the more she talked.

“There’s your new piercings!”

The woman screamed as he shot her again. Afterwards, everyone could hear the man kicking her. Jean cried in fear for him to stop.

“Whatchu lookin’ at? You want summin’ to?” His gun went off and the man heard bullets ricocheting off the brick. Jean was still safe, but the man’s neighbor was shooting like a maniac.

I think you should shoot that guy instead. 

Agreed. He aimed the gun with his good hand at his neighbor, steeling his face.

Dude, where is your backbone?

Shut. Up. I quit for this reason here.

“I can’t see either, please don’t shoot.” Jean began begging.

“Don’t take me fo’ no foo’,” the neighbor said, pausing his spray of bullets and foul words. “I hate lia’s. You saw what I did; you’re gettin’ the same.”

SHOOT ALREADY!

He pulled the trigger, but the other man’s gun went off many times before. The shotgun flew out of his hand, not properly stabilized. There was silence now, besides the occasional scream or cry for help in the distance. He dropped onto his knees and cradled his injured hand. It was bleeding profusely now and he needed to know how bad it was damaged. The blood trickled down his arm like a small stream, warm and smooth.  

Cover that up, your pinky is mutilated as well the muscles below. The voice said quickly. Go inside ASAP and get a wrap on it. Keep it in your armpit.

He didn’t move. In the distance he heard crashes from cars. Alarms and horns went off in every direction. More screams in the distance. Another cry for help here. His home city had been crushed under an unknown force.

Get inside, now.

Silently, he obeyed, propping himself up slowly as the adrenaline began to wear off. Inside, the man felt around his bathroom for the first aid kit. He needed to sterilize his hand and find the gauze wrap. With painstaking effort, he ran his hand under the water. There was hydrogen peroxide in the box; it was the only thing in a bottle. He poured the stinging liquid over the wound, somehow feeling worse than usual. He bit one end of the gauze and wrapped his hand tightly. 

I never thought people would go this crazy. I didn’t even make it to the road. Thought the man.

Me neither. The voice agreed. I feel bad for existing. I stopped the bleeding in your hand by the way. I sent hormones that help heal and speed up recovery to your injuries and regenerate non-osseous tissues.

What does any of that mean? Are you sure you learned to speak from me?

Idiot, I’m helping you heal. I can’t get your bones back to normal though; I haven’t figured out how to grow bones, just how to speed up the mending process. You’ll still have scar tissue; you aren’t some superhero.

“Of course not.” The man responded vocally; the pain in his hand made it difficult to think. “We need to get out of here. I want to find Annie before she gets hurt.” 

First, you need to eat. I need all the nutrients you can get to eliminate the pain and help speed the process. Cook the pizzas.

“How can I do that?! I’m really freaking blind.”

Don’t worry about that, I can help you. I’m starting to see shapes and shadows.