Alex pulled the collar of his trench coat up a bit more to try and keep the rain from seeping in, as he stared at the entrance to the small shop where his wife’a memories were being kept.
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For the better part of an hour he had stood in a dirty little alley watching the projected images on the black windows. He watched the scenes change every few moments. Each one a memory that had been sold to the shopkeeper.
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A family playing on a beach. A judoka who has just won his first tournament. An old man sitting on what Alex assumed would be his death bed speaking to his grandchildren for probably the last time. A mother and father taking their child to a pumpkin patch. A policeman in pursuit of someone who had just robbed a store.
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All of these had been in somebody’s mind at one point or another. All of these were no longer in the head of the person who originally had them. All of them now sat in a small metallic circle with a price tag on them. For sale. For anybody who paid the price to experience. For it to become their own.
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After working up his courage, Alex made his way out of the little alley he had been standing in for so long and crossed the street. He stared at the black sign that simply read, “Dreams”, as he opened the door and strode into the tidy little shop.
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There were monitors on almost every shelf. Rows and rows of them. All of them played a scene from someone’s mind. He wondered if the people had sold them to the shopkeeper willingly? Or if they had done it out of desperation as his wife, Juanita, had?
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He felt foolish as he stared at the monitors. He had half expected to see his wife’a memories of him playing on a screen, but he realized as he saw so many different memories just how many people had sold their memories. These shops were everywhere. It was the new “addiction”.
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It was the cool thing to purchase and implant someone else’s memories. To have that instant, perfect recall of a stranger’s thoughts and visions had become the most popular thing to come along since the invention of the smart phone so long ago.
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The wealthy just had to have it. The middle class got as much of it as the could. The poor… the poor made of the bulk of those who were providing the memories. It was easy money. You went into a memory center, had your thoughts extracted from your brain, and a man or woman would hand you a check for a few thousand dollars.
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The appeal was too sharp not to take advantage of for those who were desperate for cash. And there were a lot of people desperate for cash. Times were tough for just about everyone. And this was being touted as a sort of relief program by the government. A way to help your families. A way to feed your kids. A way to pay for college. A way to keep a roof over your head. Many thought of it as a godsend.
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Until they actually did it. Then there was this black space in their memories. A nothingness that had once been full of vivid detail. While some welcomed it, it was more than some of the sellers could bear. The mental illness rates has skyrocketed since the invention of memory extraction. Suicide rates had tripled.
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Why? Because the brokers only wanted to buy the best memories. The ones that would bring a great price. They didn't want the bad memories that would relieve the pain from people by getting rid of them. Purchasing those memories was frowned upon (although there were places that specialized in nothing but horrible memories that catered to the wealthy with “fetishes”).
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They only wanted the memories that would make the new buyer feel good. Memories that would help enrich their lives. That would let them experience something that they never had before. Something that would leave them feeling horribly empty once they were gone.
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Alex watched one of the monitors as a little blonde boy took his first few steps. His mother held her arms out to him and told him how proud of him she was. Alex turned his head away and started to move onto the next monitor when he was startled by the sudden appearance of an old man in a black suit.
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“Hello, young man,” the old man said with a smile. “Is there anything I can help you with today?”
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Alex nodded. “I'm looking for a particular set of memories,” he answered.
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“As are all that step through that door,” the old man replied. “Is it a particular experience? Or a particular person’s memories?”
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“A person,” Alex said. “My wife. Juanita Reyes.”
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The old man took his phone out of his pocket and typed a few lines. “Juanita Reyes,” he said. “Right this way.”
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Alex followed the old man down the rows of monitors. They reached the counter and the old man stepped behind it and typed into a computer. When he was finished typing there was a small beep and what sounded like the whirring of motors.
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Within a few seconds a small tube popped out of a much larger tube. The old man picked it up and held it out towards Alex. “These are the memories we purchased from Juanita Reyes three years ago,” he said. “Would you like to preview them?”
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Alex shook his head negatively. “No,” he said, “I would just like to purchase them.”
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The old man looked at the computer screen once again. “The complete set comes to fifty thousand dollars after taxes and fees.”
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Alex looked down at the counter and stared at it. “Fifty thousand?” he asked.
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“That is correct,” the old man said as he nodded. “Will that be cash or credit?”
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“Neither,” Alex said as he pulled his revolver out of his jacket pocket. He aimed the silver gun at the old man and held his hand out.
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