Thursday, October 4, 2018

A Cure for Lying

The interval between the discovery of the anti-ageing drug and its first use as a weapon was as narrow as a needle tip.

When injected, the drug undid the damage to your DNA, removed the wrinkles from your skin, scrubbed decades of neglect from your arteries. And from your brain. It unraveled all those messy, tangled connections between the neurons in your brain, those little things we call memories.

The prisoner was understandably bewildered when he came to, squinting his eyes against the accusing glare of our lights, flexing his wrists against the zip ties that kept him secured to the seat. Where was he, who were we, what did we want?

I held up the needle. "Never mind that. You know what this is?" I smiled when he swallowed and nodded, the way he always did. "Good, now let's start again. No hurry."

I put down the needle, and picked up the pliers. I grabbed, am grabbing, will grab a hundred times more one of his fingers. Hard to keep your story straight when you can't remember the lies you told last time.

"We've got all the time in the world."  



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