You Don't Know Me at All

Riley Wakeland knew her name. She knew her mother’s face. She knew the smell of her grandfather’s tractor when it first started and she knew she had two brothers and a sister.

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She knew more than that, but only in the abstract. She knew that there was more, just not what it was.

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Riley woke up in a bare room, yellow with age, gray with grime. She was on a mattress, itself bare and yellow. Light danced through a naked, blister-cracked window. There was a pile of clothes beside the mattress. Trash. Food wrappings and dirty bowls. No furniture besides the mattress. No dresser. No desk.

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Riley’s mouth tasted like soap and sulfur. She was not afraid. Not at first. Just curious. Disconnected and curious.

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She had forgotten so much.

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“Hello?” she said, not knowing if she was alone. There were footsteps above. Soft, pattering creeks. The sound of a puttering air conditioning unit somewhere else in the building. A fly buzzing.

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Riley felt dirty. She was wearing a gray tank top, no bra, athletic shorts frayed at the edges, a warped pair of brown deck shoes. She felt alternately cold and hot, weak and fuzzy.

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What had happened?

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The room was not familiar. She had no recollection of coming there. But then, what did she remember?

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Being young. Being Riley Wakeland.

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She was not young anymore. Her strange, knotty hands said as much.

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Was this amnesia? Had someone taken her somewhere? Had she been kidnapped? Had she been hit on the head?

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There was no phone anywhere nearby. She stood up and felt something in her pocket. Two bank cards. One had her name on it. One had the name “Henry Bell”. Each was enclosed in a folded piece of paper. The paper around Riley’s card said, “5509. Try it soon.” The paper around Henry Bell’s card said, “Your PIN is 1010 – be careful.”

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Who was Henry Bell? Riley had no recollection. She needed help. She needed to call someone.

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She walked out of the room. There was a ratty, bowed couch in the living room. Takeaway containers. A warped, chipped coffee table. Nothing else. No TV. No computer. No phone. She had had a cell phone, at least, hadn’t she? Where was that?

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It was beginning to feel more and more like Riley had been taken against her will. A distant sense of panic began setting in.

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She needed something familiar. She needed her mother.

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She searched the dingy, little apartment. In the bathroom, she found a man with a hole in his head.

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Red spray across the wall, into the bathtub. A puddle of tacky, red-brown blood seeping out from behind the toilet where the man was seated. A young man. A face that wanted to be familiar, but wasn’t. Perhaps that was because of the damage and the gore.

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Riley was surprised she didn’t scream. It was almost as if she had expected to find the man there.

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Had he killed himself? It looked that way. How long ago was another question entirely.

There was no one else in the apartment.

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She returned to the bedroom where she’d started and began digging through the pile of dirty clothes, looking for a wallet or some other clue to the where and the when of her situation. Instead, she found a gun. A small gun. She wouldn’t have known what caliber.

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Was this the gun that had killed the man in the bathroom? Had Riley shot him?

If she had, surely it was self-defense. Right? Why couldn’t she remember anything?

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Riley left the gun where she’d found it. She went out into the hallway. It was quiet and damp. An old building, reeking of cigarette smoke. She heard voices coming from a neighboring apartment and panicked, racing to the stairs, down and out onto the street. It was morning and bright. Cars passed. She spotted a policeman.

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“Hey! Sir!” she called out, racing up to the officer as he stepped out of his vehicle. “I need help.” She wanted to scream, I can’t remember anything! but she felt a strange, sharp fear as the officer turned to face her. There was an instinct there. An instinct to run. To be quiet. To hide.

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“Yes ma’am,” said the police officer.

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“I…” Again, her instincts told her to be cautious. But why? There was no reason for her to distrust the police. They were there to help. “I woke up this morning and…I can’t remember anything. I think…I think I may have been abducted or drugged or…”

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The police officer sighed. He put a hand up to Riley’s face. She flinched away. He grabbed her by the cheek and turned her head, running a finger along the crown of her scalp. “Fuck. I’m so fucking tired of this shit. Just get out of here, alright.” His voice was flat, devoid of any empathy.

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“What do you mean?” said Riley. “Why won’t you help me?”

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The policeman’s eyes flashed. Suddenly he had a baton in his hands. “You’re lucky I’m not arresting you,” he snarled. “That’s a Class B misdemeanor, whether you fucking remember it or not. Now get out of my fucking face!”

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Riley ran. Just like she’d wanted to from the start.

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But where would she run?

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Mother. She needed her mother. A payphone. No, those were rare and besides, she had no cash.

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There was a man stepping out of a convenience store. “Hey!” said Riley, trying not to shout, trying not to seem as desperate as she was. “Can I…I’m sorry, I lost my phone and…”

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“Right.” The man rolled his eyes. “I’m not an idiot, bitch. Fuck off.” He walked on. Riley felt too stung to call after him, to ask him why he’d say something like that. Why would anyone say something like that to her?

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Maybe it was naïve, but Riley had always been cute and charming. She was aware of it. It wasn’t something she saw any reason to pretend wasn’t true. People smiled when she talked to them. They laughed when she told jokes. They did what she asked. She wasn’t perverse about it. Just aware. So why…

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Riley looked at her hands again. The veins seemed so pronounced. Was that normal? Was that even possible? She traced the veins up her arms, which were thin and boney. That’s not how her arms were supposed to be. That’s not how they’d ever been before.

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She hadn’t looked at herself in the mirror in the apartment. It had been too covered in blood and bits. She took a step toward the convenience store window. A figure materialized. A ghoul. With Riley’s face.

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How much had she forgotten?

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She felt dizzy and overwhelmed and so, so cold.

She needed her mother.

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Inside the store, she approached the counter. The clerk whistled.

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“Looks like somebody made a sale, huh?”

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Riley couldn’t make sense of the comment, so she ignored it. “Can I use your phone?”

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“No,” said the clerk. “Never. Who you even calling?”

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“My mother,” said Riley.

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The clerk whistled again. It was a mocking sound. “Right. Right.”

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“Sir, I can’t…”

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“Remember anything?” said the clerk, leaning forward across the counter. “Yeah, so I figured. And what do you want your mommy to do about that?”

“I need help…”

“Oh, post-ripper remorse?” The clerk laughed. “So it goes, right? Sorry, baby, you can’t put that genie back in the bottle. Ripped is ripped. So it goes.”

"Ripped?” Riley’s head hurt. Something about the word made it hurt even more. “What does that mean? Do you know what happened to me?”

The clerk’s eyes went to a pair of customers loitering near the back of the store. “Educated assumption. You got ripped. Hey, I got eyes on you!” he shouted. The two boys at the back of the store flinched, shuffled, and made for the door. “Lady, you got no money, get out of the store, alright?”

“But what happened to me? You have to help me!”

The clerk laughed again. Spittle coated the counter. “Jesus. Sure. You got ripped *deep*, lady. Talk to the dip sellers out behind the server farms on Russell. They’ll explain it. I don’t have time for this shit.” He moved to the front door, watching the two boys disappear down the street. “Take your eye off those monsters for two seconds…”

Riley lingered. Nothing made any sense yet. She hadn’t heard or seen a single thing that made any sense since she’d woken up. “But I don’t…”

“Lady!” snapped the clerk. “Get the fuck out! Christ almighty…”

Riley went. But still she had no idea where she was going. Wandering aimlessly, reading street signs, she saw something familiar. A bank logo. It was the same logo as the two bank cards in her pocket. An ATM. She entered the card with her name on it, typed in “5509”. The ATM considered the card and the PIN and asked her what she wanted to do. She selected “Withdrawal”.

Balance: $0

She tried the card marked “Henry Bell.” Entered the PIN.

Balance: $0

Nothing.

What next?

She started asking for Russell Street. She started asking about the server farms and the dip sellers. Most people ignored her. Some threatened her. But a few pointed her on. They sent her down quiet streets, past empty stalls, and on to a series of booths covered in black tarps. There were signs there, handwritten and messy.

2nd gen RIPS! Tradesmen dips! Skill and hobby dips! Exotic experience dips!! Good prices!!

“What’s your pleasure, dearie?” An old woman sat outside one of the black tarp booths. “High quality duplicates – last longer than the competition, I can guarantee. Got a trial coming up? Just got a few excellent lawyer rips. Represent yourself!”

Riley reached out to the old woman. “I think someone stole my memories,” she said, words tumbling out. “Do you know…I mean…can I get them back?”

The old woman sighed. “Oh, dear. They took a lot, did they? Must have been something deep you sold.”

“Sold?” Riley stepped back. “No. Stole. If this is real…I mean, if people can take your memories, they took mine. I don’t know what’s happening, but someone took my memories. I want them back…”

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The old woman nodded. “Might be. It’s shameful, but it’s happened. Some people take rips without consent. That’s rare, but…”

“Who?” said Riley. “Who does that?”

“That’s not the kind of business we do here,” said the old woman. “We don’t buy stolen rips. Just duplicates of fair rips. That’s all. I wouldn’t know anyone who does that.”

Riley thought she was going to fall over. Everything throbbed. She put her hand to her head and felt the little depression at the base of her hairline. The spot the policeman had search for. “How does it work?”

“It’s voluntary,” said the old woman. “Always supposed to be voluntary. But not exactly legal, I guess I oughta say. People sell their memories and their skills. Usually old folks that need some money at the end of their run, you understand. No Social Security like we used to have when I was a kid. A good ripper, they take it out, clean as can be. You buy a 1st gen rip and it’s like those experiences were yours. But mostly folks buy ‘em for the skills. Wealthy folk buy ‘em for their kids, so they don’t have to go to school or any of that. Just dip a 1st gen memory and you’ve got nearly everything you need.”

She looked Riley in the eye, appraising her closely. “As lost as you seem, they must have ripped for a skill. Skill rips require you go all the way to the root. Pull out the beginning, middle, and end. What was your skill, dear?”

Riley swallowed. She looked back inside herself. Her grandfather’s farm. Her older brother’s face. The uneven lump at the base of the yard where they’d buried the family dog. A lopsided bowl on her mother’s nightstand.

The bowl. A block of clay. Gray-caked fingers.

“Sculpture, I think.”

The old woman nodded. “I’m sorry, dear. If it was taken from you, I’m very sorry, but there’s nothing to be done now. You couldn’t put it back, even if you found it again.”

“What do I do?” whispered Riley. “I tried to talk to the police, but…”

“No, no, no,” said the old woman. “They wouldn’t help. As I said, this isn’t legal. They have no sympathy for people who’ve been ripped. They’ll arrest you, not help you. You need your family. That’s what people need. People who love them. Where’s your family?”

“Maine,” said Riley. “Do you have a phone? I need to call my mom.”

“Sure thing, sweetie.” The phone was small and glass. There were no buttons. Riley had no idea what to do with it. “Just give me the number. I’ll punch it in for you.”

Riley gave the number. The line was disconnected.

“Anyone else you wanna try?” But Riley couldn’t remember any other numbers.

“I need money,” said Riley.

The old woman held up her hands. “Only so much I can do.”

“Can I work for you?” said Riley. “I’ll work. I will. I just need enough to get home.”

“You sure home is still home?” said the old woman. “Seems there’s a lot missing.”

“I need money,” repeated Riley. Money was the starting point. Money was a chance. She remembered the dead body in the apartment. Sher couldn’t go back there. She couldn’t go anywhere.

“Try the body shop,” said the old woman. “I hate even suggesting it, but it’s money. Someone like you, might be the best chance you have. And I hear it’s like sleeping. You won’t even know it’s happening.”

“Where?” The old woman gave her directions. By the time Riley got there it was night. The building was neon blue and flickering to the beat of some wordless, bass-heavy song. The man at the door asked if she was buying or selling.

“Selling,” said Riley, ignoring the voice in her head that was trying to work out exactly what it meant to be a seller in place like this.

Enough for a ticket home. That can’t be too much.

The doorman pointed Riley down a hallway to the left. At the end of the hall, a woman hopped off her stool and pushed Riley in front of a bare, white wall, then stepped back and took two pictures.

“Do you need my name or…?”

The woman shook her head. “Just the pictures and your signature.” She held out a glass tablet with pages and pages of legalese. “Basic agreement. Works on an auction system, same as everywhere else. Guarantee a minimum, don’t guarantee anything higher than that or that you’ll get any bids at all. Pay is by the hour. We do monitor and record all sessions in case of violations. We don’t allow any conduct that may cause lasting harm. Sound good?”

Riley didn’t reply, but signed her name on the glass tablet. “Step through and have a seat,” said the woman. “Injections at the top of the hour.”

The room beyond was dim, lined in red runner lights and filled with stuffed armchairs where women and men sat and waited. Some were awake. Most were not. An attendant came and led one of the seemingly unconscious women out as Riley took her seat. The unconscious woman had her eyes closed, but responded to verbal commands. “Stand up. Follow me.”

No one spoke to Riley as she sat. She waited in silence, trying not to think. When that failed, she tried to focus on her mother and her siblings. She just had to get to them. They would help her. They would work tirelessly to restore her memory and undo all the terrible things that had been done to her.

A man came along shortly and asked her to hold out her arm. She did and he injected something into a vein just below her wrist. She fell asleep almost instantly.

Her dreams were awful. Filled with leering male faces. Hands pulling at her. Tearing at her. Choking her.

But they were dreams. They ended when she awoke back in the waiting room.

“Morning, sunshine,” said a new woman, flipping through pages of data on another glass tablet. “Not a great night, but not terrible either. Next time, I might suggest a little make-up, cleaner clothes…if you can afford to put on a couple pounds, not a terrible idea. Just some small tweaks. Take it or leave it.” She held out a small stack of rumpled bills. “Your pay. Come again any time.”

The money was enough to buy a cellphone and some food. Riley was too nervous and nauseous to eat, though, so she dialed 411 and asked for her older brother’s number. There was nothing listed under that name and city. She couldn’t find her younger brother either. After three failed tries, she finally managed to get her sister’s house. A man answered. It wasn’t a voice she recognized.

“Maeby Wakeland please?”

“Is this Riley?”

Riley nearly screamed. Her heart pounded violently. “Yes! Yes, hello? Who is this? Is Maeby there? Oh god, can I talk to…”

“No more of this shit, Riley,” said the man. “You call again and I’ll just go ahead and block this number, too. We’re done with this. Knock it off.”

Riley was crying, though she wasn’t even aware of it. “What? Where’s Maeby? I need Maeby! I need my mom! I need someone to help me. They…someone took my memory and now I’m all alone and I’m scared and I…”

“No.” The man didn’t shout, but Riley went silent. “We’ve been over this. Again and again and again. We’re not doing this ever again. You’re out, Riley. We won’t help you. Not ever again.”

“Why?” Now Riley could feel herself sobbing. It felt like she was melting. Disintegrating. “Why won’t you help me? Why won’t anyone…” But the phone clicked and went dead. The call was over. Riley called back. No answer. Again and again, she called. She didn’t know what else to do. It was the only small connection to reality left to her. She had nothing else.

Finally, the call was answered. “Oh god, please, just tell Maeby…”

But the voice was not the man. It was a woman. A recording. “The number you dialed is no longer receiving calls from this number. The number you dialed is no longer receiving calls from this number. The number you dialed is no longer…”

There was nothing else. A corpse in an apartment. A gun. A sandwich she couldn’t eat.

Someone had taken everything away from her. Her life. Her memories. Her talent. They had come to take her precious skills and destroyed everything along the way.

Why?

Why?

Why?

She must have been very good. She must have been a world class talent. Perhaps she was in museums. Perhaps she had a name. Perhaps she had patrons. There must be someone who could help her, but how would she ever find them? She felt overwhelmed and adrift. She needed skills she did not have; skills she likely never had before.

The skills of a hunter.

It would take money. She went back to the body shop. The morning attendant was still there.

“No go on the new clothes and makeup?” she said, pulling Riley’s arm straight. “I really think you ought to consider investing in yourself. That kind of stuff pays good dividends.”

Riley slept. Half-slept. Lived in a mobile nightmare. She felt her flesh contorted. The coldness inside her only deepened.

A man stood over her as she awoke. “You had an accident in one of the rooms,” he explained, holding out her money. “Deducted for cleaning. If you’re sick, you oughta stay home. You’re not gonna make much, looking half-dead.”

Would it be enough?

“A detective?” said the old woman outside the black tarped booths. “I’m sure we’ve got one. Not 2nd gen, though. Probably a rip of a rip of a rip, you know what I mean. More degraded means it won’t last that long, but I’m sure it’ll be right up your alley. Besides, 4th gen’s really more your price range, anyway.”

A young boy beckoned Riley into one of the booths. “Edouard will help you with the dip,” said the old woman. The booth was just about pitch black. Riley took a seat, which reclined almost all the way down to the floor. She felt something circle her head, resting just above her ears. A band of plastic, tightening. A crackle of electricity. A high frequency whine.

“Think about your name,” said Edouard. “Just your name.”

“My name?”

“Yah. People suck at clearing their mind. This is easier. Just picture your name. However you like. Only think about that.”

Riley Wakeland.

Riley Wakeland.

Was it really so easy to take someone apart like that? To peel off veins of memory and seal the wound shut? Was reality that fragile?

How can I lose something so precious? thought Riley. Was my grasp that light?

Riley Wakeland.

Riley Wakeland.

Roy Sheridan.

Riley Wakeland.

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Roy Sheridan.

Riley suddenly remembered a woman screaming at her. “How?! How can you not know!?” She remembered a child hanging by its neck in a tall doorframe. She remembered a bar filled with men and smoke. She remembered being shot in the leg. She remembered limping. She remembered having an affair and a divorce and being alone. She remembered talking to people. She remembered being suspicious of everyone.

She remembered never taking “no” for an answer.

All of it. It seeped into the big, porous cracks in her own memory, like hot oil. It filled those empty spaces, but wouldn’t settle; wouldn’t stick. Some other person’s life, dripped artlessly over the tattered tapestry of her own past.

She knew what it was to be a detective. The small, thankless, unmemorable parts. The paperwork. The phone calls. The interviews. The looking. The rare, rare finding.

She remembered how to make connections.

She remembered how to *start*.

“Are you alright, dear?” said the old woman as Riley stepped out of the booth. “It can be a very intense experience that first time…”

“Who’s your supplier?” said Riley.

The old woman’s kind face faltered. “Oh, that’s not something I ever share. The suppliers are the ones the police target, you understand. They’re the link to the big fish. Best to say as little as possible about that.”

There was a loose board at the base of the nearest booth. Riley pried it loose and, without saying anything, cracked the old woman across the face. The old woman collapsed in a limp heap. Edouard came running, but Riley was already kneeling over the woman, pressing an exposed nail against her eye.

“Stay back,” she said quietly, twisting the board just slightly. “A name and an address. I don’t want to cause you any trouble. You’ve been nothing but kind to me. But I have to keep going. You understand that, right?”

“They won’t sell to me anymore,” gasped the old woman.

“My lips are sealed,” said Riley. “Nothing ever comes back to you. Just tell me where to go.”

Edouard started crying. That seemed to be what changed things. The old woman talked. A name and an address. Not a ripper, but a duplicator. A thru-line to the source. Riley dropped the board and ran.

She stopped in a pharmacy, buying breath mints with the last of her money, tucking lipstick, eyeliner, and concealer into her waistband. At a fast food restaurant she barricaded herself into the women’s room and washed herself down, doing her best to work miracles with her meager cosmetics supply. She found looking at herself to be nearly impossible. It hurt too much. She pressed through it, though. She needed the money. The old woman’s supplier wasn’t located nearby and even once Riley found him, it was only the beginning of the process. Just a starting point.

Already Riley could feel Roy Sheridan disappearing from her body. Taking his stuff. Going home. Until it was only Riley Wakeland.

That would have to be enough.

On the way to the body shop she remembered the two cards. On a whim, she tried them again. Hers came up empty. Henry Bell’s account now had $350 in it. Without any hesitation, Riley withdrew the money. She didn’t know who Henry Bell was, but still she felt no guilt taking his money. Somehow she felt justified – like this Henry Bell wasn’t worthy of the money anyway. Whoever he was. And if, by chance, he was the dead body in the strange apartment, then he definitely didn’t need it.

Riley spent some of the money accessing a public terminal in order to view the supplier’s address and plot out the necessary bus routes. Fighting against the creeping feeling in the center of her stomach, she typed in her mother’s name. It only took a bit of scrolling. Her mother was no one famous. And there she was. Dead. Three years earlier.

Riley logged out of the terminal. She bought bullets for the gun and a bus ticket.

On the bus she remembered learning to shoot a rifle. Her great uncle had taught her, shooting soda cans in a ravine. But never again. She’d never used a gun since then…at least that she could remember.

There was a moment of horrible comedy as Riley looked down at the gun concealed under her tank top and had to remind herself she had no idea what the prize was at the end of this war.

And how could she not know her mother was dead?

…after a long struggle with cancer. Riley couldn’t even remember the beginning of that struggle.

​

There was no way to manage that kind of untethered grief. Instead, Riley just folded it into her anger.

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Someone could do something like this for my talent…my skill? Riley remembered being praised by her art teachers. She remembered being proud of the things she’d made with her own two hands. She remembered ribbons and trophies. But none of the actual making. None of the finished products. That was all gone. So that must have been what they’d taken. What they’d come for.

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How good must she have gotten?

Off the bus, Riley found the apartment easily enough. She watched and listened for a long time, before going inside. And again, she watched and listened. Waiting. Responding to an almost alien instinct, Riley moved, knocking on the door.

“Mr. Haas?”

The door cracked open. One eye staring back, transected by the chain lock. “What?”

“Do you have SAT rips? I need an SAT rip. I’m sooooo fucked.” Riley tried to sound young, ignoring how upsetting it was to have to pretend.

“I don’t do direct sales,” said Haas, his voice high and agitated.

“I can’t get to a reseller in time, though,” said Riley. “Just one. Just a little boost. I won’t tell anyone.” She was glad she’d spent all that time on her makeup. Haas undid the chain lock. Riley worked fast, cramming the pistol up under the surprisingly large man’s chin while grabbing a big wad of loose t-shirt with her free hand.

“Someone ripped me and you’re gonna tell me how to find them,” she hissed, backing Haas all the way up to the wall. “I want every ripper you work with. Now.”

“Jesus, Jesus, Jesus!” panted Haas, holding up his hands. “Look, lady, I don’t know anything about anything. If you got ripped, you’re ripped, that’s that. What the hell do you want from me?”

“I want my life back,” said Riley. It sounded like such a dumb, juvenile action movie thing to say, but it’s what she wanted. Except it wasn’t. It wasn’t that she wanted her life back – she didn’t know what her life was. “I’m alone and scared and I don’t know what happened to me. I’m scared.” She twisted the pistol. “I’m an artist and someone stole my skill for…for…I just…”

She could see the way Haas’ brow furrowed. The way his eyes went up and down her damp, scraggly body.

“Listen,” he said. “This happens a lot. You submit to a rip and then you tweak out once the…”

“I didn’t submit to shit!” shouted Riley. “You don’t know me, motherfucker. You don't know me at all. Tell me something useful or I’m going to blow your fucking head off.” More action movie garbage.

“Yeah, but what good it’ll do?” said Haas. “You can’t put a ripped memory string back in. You can’t even dip your own rip without going in-fucking-sane. What’s done is done. Let it go.”

R

iley fired the gun. The bullet pierced the lower corner of Haas’ ear. He yowled, eyes wide. Shocked.

“What the fuck!” There was a surprising amount of blood.

“Tell me!”

Haas gave her a name and an address. Not for any of the rippers, though. He didn’t explain this to Riley, but his duplicates were an under-the-table affair. If word got out, he was good as dead.

​

But still, he gave her a name.

​

“She runs the main online auction site,” Haas explained. “If your rip is out there, she might be able to tell you where it came from and where it went.”

​

Riley ran. There were no sirens as she fled the apartment building. No one cared about the gunshot. She shouldn’t have been surprised.

​

The Auctioneer was three states over. Riley burned through a good chunk of Henry Bell’s money getting to her. A nice house in the suburbs. Riley wondered how Roy Sheridan would have handled things. She was too exhausted by then to even guess. So she knocked on the door.

​

Deliah Sung was a small, tan turtle of a woman. Wide eyes, broad shoulders, slow, cautious movements. She welcomed Riley inside.

​

“Have a seat,” said Deliah. “But let’s leave the gun in your pants, okay?” Riley stiffened, but Deliah just laughed. “This happens enough I’ve developed a technique for dealing with things. Kill ‘em with kindness. You’re looking for your memories, yes?”

​

Riley nodded. “They were taken. I…I’m a sculptor.”

​

“I bet you make beautiful artwork,” said Deliah, strolling into the kitchen. “Tell me what you remember.”

​

“Being young,” said Riley. “Being a kid. Going to school. My parents’ divorce. When my grandfather died. I mean…most of everything until, I don’t know…about 17 or so? I just…I know things have happened since then, but it’s all so hazy and then there’s all this stuff that seems cut out. I would never just give those things away, though. I know that.”

​

Deliah returned with a bowl of nuts and a glass of iced tea. “It does happen, though it’s rare. Every industry’s got bad eggs. If someone ripped your memories against your will, it wouldn’t be the first time. But I’m sure someone’s told you already – there’s nothing you can do about it now. Cruel as that is. Memories don’t go back in. You could try dipping it, but even a clean, 1st gen rip wouldn’t stick. Worse – it’d almost stick. And you don’t want that.”

“I don’t understand,” said Riley, ignoring her tea. “If they’re my memories, shouldn’t they just go back in? Isn’t it like…I don’t know…putting a puzzle back together?”

​

“A bit, maybe,” said Deliah. “But ripping isn’t 100 percent clean. Not yet. Edges get torn. Things get a little warped. That’s fine if it’s someone else dipping your memories. If I dipped your memories I’d be fine, because I have all my own memories and then yours on top. My memories would remind me that I’m me, and your memories would just be their own thing. They’d be like a supplement. That’s how people use them. Someone wants to be a master sculptor, but doesn’t want to do the work. So they dip the memories of an accomplished artist like yourself. Then they’re still them, but they have access to everything that made you such a good sculptor.”

​

Deliah pointed to her temple. “But the mind’s a funny thing. If you tried dipping your own memories, they’d all fall into those gaps and almost fit right. But the thing with memories is – they either fit or they don’t. And if your mind was full of memories that don’t quite fit…well, it’d drive you mad. It’s like, you ever seen a pattern made out of tile and it’s all perfectly symmetrical except that one little piece down in the corner. That piece came out a little short and now…now it’s the only thing you can see. Every time you look at that pattern, you can’t appreciate the symmetry because your eye always goes down to that little mistake at the bottom. That’s what happens to your mind if you try dipping your own memories. It’d mostly look fine, but those little imperfections would dig at you and dig at you and dig at you, until they were all you ever noticed. They wouldn't feel real. You'd have a real hard time believing your own life.”

​

Deliah shrugged. “It’s no comfort. I know that. But it is what it is. You’re alive. It’s a fresh start, in a sense.”

​

“What would it take to figure out who ripped my memories?” said Riley. Deliah’s head cocked at the coldness in Riley’s voice.

​

“Are you not listening to me?”

​

“What would it take?”

​

Deliah sighed. “Haven’t had an unreasonable one in a while. Well, to be honest, I might be able to find your rip in the system, but that won’t get you who did the ripping. Submissions are blind. Rip description and specs only. Never anything on the ripper. Best you’ll be able to grab is the delivery address if there’s a buyer. But even then, that won’t do you…”

​

“Give me that then.” Riley stood up. She had the pistol out.

​

“Don’t go attacking buyers,” said Deliah. “That won’t do anything for anyone.”

​

“I’m taking it back,” said Riley. “Tell me if it’s been sold.”

​

Deliah closed her eyes. “You really can’t help some people.”

​

Riley didn’t care. Whatever damage would be done by dipping her stolen memories was fine. She was past the point of wanting her life back anyway. Now she just wanted revenge. She wanted to see the faces of the men or women responsible for taking her life away from her. She wanted clues. She would pay any price. “Let’s go.”

​

There was a name and an address. A middle class neighborhood halfway across the country. Riley ran out of money on the way and stole to make up the rest. She was well past the point of guilt. She was doing what needed to be done. It was hard to ignore the physical toll, however. She couldn’t seem to stop sweating. Nothing she ate seemed to stick, coming back up almost immediately.

​

She began to wonder if she was dying. Her mother had died of cancer. So what if…?

​

When Riley slowed down things only got worse. The pain in her abdomen. The cold sweats. The fear. Holding on to rage was the only thing that kept her upright. She needed to see things through. Everything after was unknown and unnecessary.

​

Finally she reached her destination. A small, tidy house in a small, tidy neighborhood. Dogs behind picket fences. Stray cats on shaded porches.

​

4889 Hollander Street. Munroe residence.

​

Riley was cautious. She watched and waited, just like she had at Haas’ apartment. That’s what she thought Sheridan would do. Stake out the location. Track the comings and goings. That’s what she thought, anyway. Sheridan was long gone, of course. She was all alone, in every conceivable way.

​

Carl Munroe.

​

There was a man and a woman and a child. Carl had to be the man. So Riley waited until the woman left with the child and the man was home alone. She was a wreck by then. No one in their right would let her in their house by choice. So she snuck into their backyard. She found a heavy stone and tossed it through the window, then hid around the corner. When the man came out to investigate, Riley stepped out, gun drawn.

​

“Whoa,” said the man, hands in the air. “I’ve got money. You can have it. No worries. No problem. Wallet’s in my back pocket.”

​

Riley came forward. “Are you Carl Munroe?” The man nodded. “Did you recently purchase a ripped memory string?”

​

“Why?” said Munroe. “What are you gonna…?” But then a sort of gentle amazement settled over the man’s face. A strange calm. “Riley?”

​

Riley flinched at her own name. “Don’t say my name,” she hissed. “You don’t know me.”

​

“Yes, I do,” he said, sadly, almost mournfully. His tone was somehow infuriating to Riley.

​

“You don’t fucking know me,” she cried, moving closer, gun shaking, fingers slick with sweat. “You’re a thief. You took something that doesn’t belong to you. I want it back.”

​

“I didn’t steal it,” he said. “I really didn’t. I just wanted to do something special for my daughter.”

​

Her sculpture. Her talent.

​

“Show me,” said Riley. “Show me.”

Munroe walked slowly into the house. Riley followed. The kitchen table was covered in newspaper. At the center was a blob of clay. It was a baby. Melted. Distorted. Juvenile. Amateurish.

Pathetic.

“What is this?” said Riley.

“Kassie,” said Munroe, misunderstanding the question. “My daughter.”

“What…” Riley leaned in close. She examined the uneven lines. The warped sense of scale. The crookedness. The nicks and dimples. “Did you not…have you used my…?”

“Yeah,” said Munroe. “I mean, I’d never done anything like this before, so…it’s not perfect, but I’m happy with it.”

“You…you used my memories to make this?” It wasn’t art. It wasn’t a child’s work. It was something the teenaged Riley would have been ashamed to call her own.

Munroe seemed to understand Riley’s thoughts. “I’m…I’m very clumsy. So, even with your memory string, this is really the best I could do for a first time.”

“Where’s the rip?” said Riley, tearing her eyes off the lopsided goblin on the table. “I want them back. Where is it?”

Munroe shook his head. “I don’t know if you’ve heard this, but it’s actually really, really bad to dip your own memories. It’s dangerous and I’d hate…”

Riley pushed the nose of the pistol into the man’s cheek. “No,” she said, softly. “Don’t say anymore. You have a baby and a wife. I don’t want to hurt you. Just give me the rip and whatever I need to dip it.”

Munroe was visibly torn. Riley made it easier for him by firing her gun into the wall. Munroe led her into the bedroom, where he retrieved a small, black square and a thin, metal halo.

“Just think for a second,” he said, as Riley pressed the halo down over her ears.

“No,” she said. “That won’t help.” She held out the device. “Make it go.”

Munroe connected the two pieces, depressed a small, silver button, and stepped back.

Riley Wakeland reclaimed herself.

All in a moment. All in a breath.

It all came back.

“I’m sorry,” said Munroe. “I never thought you’d come here, or else I would have destroyed it.”

Riley dropped the gun on the ground. Her adrenaline plummeting, she suddenly felt the recoil in her wrist. The same as she’d felt in Haas’ apartment. The same as she’d felt the first time she’d fired the pistol, in her apartment, in the bathroom, as her boyfriend Henry sat passed out on the toilet.

He was high. And she was high. They were always high.

It all came back.

Maybe she’d once been talented. Maybe not. She’d loved sculpture. She’d loved art. But Tabby Averson had introduced her to heroin at 17 and then…everything…had just broken. Everything had just dissolved into euphoria and disdain and sickness and relief. From Tabby to Jonny to Kumal to Henry.

Henry.

Henry had blue eyes. He was a violinist. She’d met him in the city, when she was living on couches, thinking about art she never made.

Henry had been clean. Riley had made him unclean. Riley had dirtied him. And together they’d descended into such a lightless place.

Her mother was the last one to let go of Riley, and that was only because she’d died. Everyone else had lost patience, then sympathy, then hope.

The rip was Riley’s last chance and Henry’s last chance. Maybe they could free themselves. Maybe they could forget “Riley” and “Henry”, bury them in blankness, be reborn in the resultant confusion. Run. Like thieves. Escape.

They gave away the only valuables they had left. They sold their talents. The rippers pulled away every root and every branch connected to their lives as artists. Their empty bank accounts were recorded. Someone wrote down their PINs, because they would not remember. The best that Riley Wakeland and Henry Bell had to offer was put up for auction.

The best of Henry Bell sold for $350.

“What happened to Henry?” said Munroe, watching cautiously from the doorway.

He must have seen, Riley realized. It would have been buried in the minutia. When they made the decision to sell themselves, and Riley went out and bought a gun the next day. It wouldn’t have been hard to guess. It seems even the ripper guessed it, based on the note wrapped around Henry’s bankcard.

​

“He’s fine,” said Riley. “He’s okay.”

​

Rips aren’t instantaneous. You hold on to what’s taken, at least until you fall asleep.

Riley could only remember that gap in fits and starts, but she knew well enough what happened. They celebrated their coming windfall with drugs. They got high. As high as they could manage. And then Riley killed Henry before she fell asleep.

She wanted to believe she did it to ensure she broke free. She wanted to think there was some perverse, survivalist logic behind it. If Henry was gone, there was no chance she’d remember what she’d been. She could only truly be reborn if she severed all attachments.

It was cold, brutal realism. But bullshit.

She wanted his money.

She was a junkie and she wanted his money. That’s all it was. That’s all it ever was.

“He just went his own way,” she said, rising to her feet, slouching towards the door.

“Do you need help?” said Munroe, following from a distance. “There’s a women’s shelter in town. I can take you there if you’d like.”

Riley stopped in the door. “Can you take me to an ATM?”

Carl Munroe drove to Riley Wakeland fifteen blocks to the nearest ATM. She waved him away as she exited the car, not saying thank you, not responding to his apologies, which both knew were grossly misplaced.

She dipped her bankcard. Entered her PIN.

Balance: $40.

Riley laughed as she withdrew her two twenty dollar bills. She held them up to the glass, letting the outside light wash over them, and laughed. She laughed so hard she fell over. She laughed so hard she thought she might start crying, but didn’t.

A homeless man knocked on the booth, asking if she was okay.

She asked him if he had any drugs. He didn’t, but he knew a guy. Riley smiled, crawling to her feet.

$40 didn’t buy you much in those days, but it always bought you enough, assuming all you wanted to do was forget why you needed it in the first place.

* * *

Riley Wakeland woke up in a bare bedroom, on a strange, damp bed. She knew her name. She knew her mother’s face and the smell of her grandfather’s tractor.

​

She knew everything. But none of it was real.

​

She put a hand to the back of her head and found a small depression. That was the sign they’d tunneled into your memories. Taken everything out. Put new, strange bullshit down in its place.

​

There was a gun on the floor. Riley picked it up. She was hunting. That was the one memory she knew she could trust. She was searching for the people responsible.

​

She tucked the gun into her waistband and opened the door. The city outside was unfamiliar, but what difference did that make?

​

She began.