The User Agreement

“Welcome to ReWrite®. By using ReWrite you agree to these terms of service. The user acknowledges and accepts the potential hazards and risks involved in memory modification, including but not limited to injury, amnesia, and death.”

I am sitting in a sterile white waiting room in a medical gown. My hand trembles as I hand the last remaining picture of my son, Leo, to an attractive young woman, named Circe. “It is okay,” she says with a smile. Her eyes are aquamarine, and her hair is a metallic orchid color that shimmers as she speaks. Those sparkling blue eyes remind me of my ex-wife Sarah’s, back when she was young, before they dulled with age and heartbreak. I wonder if that is by design. “You understand Alex,” Circe says, “that this is irreversible?” I nod.

Circe hands me a tablet, and says, “Good, please sign the User Agreement and summon me if you have any questions. As your Assigned Editor, I want to make sure you understand the risks. You are going to be like new, before you know it.” She walks over to a high-top table with a computer and silently returns to her work, mapping memories.

Every day was the same: whiskey and Vicodin, with a Vicodin and whiskey chaser. I barely ate. I withered from 185 to a skeletal 142 pounds. I still worked mornings, remotely, on a modified schedule. Mostly, I invented passable excuses to avoid coworkers — which suited them just fine. Afternoons came with sign-off, and that was when I picked up the pace, hoping to pass out in a spinning room that dissolved like a cloud in a burst of white light. I would soon die if I didn’t change. Every part of me was screaming for help—but the gravity of my despair was too dense for the sound to escape.

On one such afternoon, unable to leave my home or even imagine a real life outside of the four walls of my self-imposed prison, the Advertisement had popped up in a box on my laptop. The Ad started with somber music and a young couple, disheveled and haggard, fighting at a kitchen table. It was almost like the marketing department had a camera in my home after the diagnosis. The Ad cuts to a ReWrite clinic, where they sit red-eyed, with fresh tears, as an Editor places a comforting hand on each of their shoulders and removes a box of memorabilia with a girl’s name scribbled in pink crayon on the lid. The Ad cuts to the couple walking into a restaurant in Rome, overlooking the Coliseum, smiling. Then seated, sipping champagne. Only in my case, my wife had already left—had already taken the leap I couldn’t. The music changes to a rousing, melodic tune. The Ad says, ‘ReWrite your story. When the past is intolerable. There is still hope. Erase the past... and… ReWrite. A new future is just ahead. You are going to be like new, before you know it.”

Circe looks over at me, concerned. “Alex,” she says. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes. My mind is just wandering.”

“Please continue reading the terms of use—try not to get distracted. Remember, if you followed the instructions we gave you, you already have closure. Just not relief. In a few hours, you’ll be like new.”

New, I thought to myself. What does it mean to be renewed. It means to die, doesn’t it? To be reborn. To become something else altogether. That’s what it really means, right?

AGREE. I clicked the first check box – Acknowledgement of Risks.

What are you staying for? Leo is gone. Sarah is gone. Everything is. You’ve been trying to kill yourself for a year and a half anyway—this is just speeding up the process.

Speeding up the process. It reminded me of what I had said to Sarah that day after work in Midtown, a few months after we first met. She had lingered by my desk, waiting for me, trying to talk me into a happy hour with the crew. But I had only wanted to spend time with her, not them. “Happy hour? We both know where that is headed. Let’s speed up the process,” I’d said. I’d grabbed her around the waist, pushed the door shut, and kissed her right there. Softly at first. Then as if I wanted to take all of her in at once. I’d wanted to since she started. As our lips parted, she sighed, and said, “Oh my, you are a little devil after all.” “And what are you, an angel?” I said mockingly.

She had drawn a halo over her head with one finger and said, “Your little Angelito, of course.”

Then, I’d said, “There’s a bottle of Prosecco in the refrigerator. Go grab it, and let’s sit out on the deck overlooking the Empire State Building and enjoy the sounds of the City before we head home.” I pulled two pathetic plastic cups off the water cooler and said, “These will do.” Sarah laughed, her emerald eyes singing simple songs, her frosted blonde hair dancing like a mane of energy against her cheeks. The look of her was like a narcotic that heightened the senses on contact.

One Sunday, she woke me up, giggling. She’d had a blue and pink cupcake, one in each hand. Those blue eyes reflected and held all the light in. Then she released it and smashed the blue cupcake on my face, and I knew it was a boy. We’d hiked to the reservoir on our favorite trail that afternoon and had a picnic and daydreamed about the new life we would have. But the man that lived those memories was dead. How do I let him go?

“You assume the risk of depersonalization, derealization, or anhedonia. WARNING: This procedure, wherein you erase painful memories, can disturb neural pathways and result in unintended changes, such that “you” are no longer “you.” Painful memories shape core personality traits such as loyalty, empathy, and self-preservation. In rare cases, disorientation may result in emotional destabilization, identity loss, or brief dissociative episodes. You may become unrecognizable to loved ones — or to yourself. Stop and consult an Editor if symptoms develop. Please clickthrough to acknowledge that you agree to this portion of the User Agreement.”

My mind races with images of Leo in a tent fort underneath the dinner table, with Sarah hovering while he plays with Marvel action figures and narrates the action with explosion sounds and other dramatic fight cues. Then my mind fills with images of Leo, silent and shirtless, pale and prostrate, in a hospital bed with an unbelievable number of wires penetrating his tiny body. Machines beeping and whirring. Sarah collapsed in exhaustion in a chair in the corner, with a smelly hospital blanket draped over her like a body bag, as I search the internet for obscure remedies, stumbling on a website claiming that an animal dewormer, Ivermectin, could be a potential cure. I feel the bile in my stomach and the sweat of anxiety leak from the pores of my forehead.

AGREE. I clicked the second check box – Consent to Emotional Dissociation.

Was this the final time I’d think about Leo? Would I even remember I’d forgotten him? Please forgive me, son. I can’t go on like this.

“WARRANTY DISCLAIMER AND LIMITATION OF LIABILITY. No warranty is given regarding the quality, performance, or efficacy of ReWrite for your intended use. ReWrite is provided “AS IS” with all faults. ReWrite provides no guarantee it will eradicate all unwanted memories or emotional disturbance. The procedure may not be uninterrupted or error free and may require multiple applications. Human memory is complex, unified, and panoptic—and is not fully understood. YOUR SOLE AND EXCLUSIVE RECOURSE IN THE EVENT OF ANY DISSATISFACTION IS A FULL REFUND OF THE COSTS OF THE PROCEDURE, WHICH IS THE MAXIMUM ALLOWABLE LIABILITY, LIMITED TO DIRECT DAMAGES ONLY. WE EXPRESSLY EXCLUDE ALL LIABILITY OR RESPONSIBILITY FOR INDIRECT CONSEQUENCES SUCH AS SUICIDAL TENDENCIES, PSYCHOLOGICAL TRAUMA, AND/OR VIOLENCE AGAINST YOURSELF OR OTHERS.”

AGREE. I clicked the third check box – ReWrite Does Not Warranty Positive Results.

“MAINTENANCE AND UPGRADES. This is an experimental procedure being offered in beta. From time to time, it may become necessary to provide follow-up treatments to ensure your ReWrite is functioning properly. Some updates will be provided electronically on an automatic basis without your advance notice or consent. You acknowledge and agree to permit such upgrades. This consent gives ReWrite the absolute and unconditional right to access your memories and patient data and to utilize same for purposes of improving both your treatment and the larger product offering at large. ReWrite is granted ownership and access to all data and memories compromising “you.” You authorize to provide this content, personal data, and to submit to updates, upgrades, and maintenance services, including supplemental procedures and/or full mind erasure and reboot in the event of catastrophic systemic disturbance or life-threatening conditions. You understand that your consent is irrevocable and may not be withdrawn, either by “you” or the new “you” who may read these documents subsequent to the ReWrite process. It is further recommended, for your own safety, that you regularly visit a ReWrite clinic to upload archival data in the event of reboot, particularly in the first year after ReWrite is administered.”

The funeral had been our last day together. Sarah had looked at me when I had said goodbye. The tears in her eyes collected, filling them deeply, so that the density of her eyes sucked in all the brightness, her sunken face tensed to breaking. “Goodbye my love,” I had said, hugging her, as we parted from the embrace. “I’m not ready to let go,” she said. I squeezed her one more time. “Let’s…” I was about to say it, when I turned. I didn’t look back at her, for fear I would not be able to leave her side if I did. That night I went back to an empty apartment in Dumbo filled with boxes. She went back to her mother’s house in Jersey. And I never saw her again. Not even on the day two years ago when she went for her appointment at ReWrite. We’d kept track, with friends. I knew she had a new job. New hobbies. But I had never wanted the details.

When she had a misread from the procedure and had to be hospitalized for a week to fix the bugs, I had nearly gone to see her. But Bobby had reminded me, “Alex, she’s not the same woman you knew, and she won’t remember anything about you. It wouldn’t do any good. It would just confuse her.” That had been the moment I knew that I had not only lost my son, but my wife too.

AGREE. I clicked the final check box – Assignment of All Rights to ReWrite; Permission for Upgrades and Ownership of Data.

Circe smiled. She took me by the hand. We walked to the edge of the corridor. “Just walk toward the light. By the time you reach the end of the corridor the system will have finished the mapping process and implanted the necessary receivers. Then you can recline on the lounge chair. The procedure will take just thirty minutes. I will be here when you wake up. All you must do is walk back toward me when you are finished.” Circe smiled and put a hand on my shoulder. “It is always hardest to take the first step. You will be just like new, before you know it.”

As I walked, the light was warm. Comforting. I could feel a tingling on my scalp. Then deeper in my skull. I felt light. Almost as if I was floating. Similar to the whiskey and the pills. But I wasn’t foggy. Everything was clear. I felt even lighter as I laid down in the recliner. The light growing brighter. And reality seemed to be pixelating. And the pixels running away from me. As if reality was being plucked apart piece by piece. Little by little, I lost consciousness. And all the threads of light were cut. Leaving me floating in a lake of tranquil soothing blackness. It was quiet. Like the forest. Just at nightfall.

I blinked. The tablet was gone. Circe smiled, as I walked toward her. “Welcome back,” she said. “You’re like new.”

“A new future is just ahead,” Circe said softly as she handed me my name.

“I am Alex.”

“Yes,” Circe said, handing me a tablet. “If there is anything that doesn’t come to you. Anything important. Addresses. Work details. Contacts. Medications. Your daily routine. It is all here. And call me if you experience any confusion.”

“Where do I go now?” I asked.

“If you go downstairs, there is a little café, the Tuscan Garden. It is a ReWrite property. You will be very hungry from the procedure.”

Not knowing what else to do, I took Circe’s advice. An escalator took me down into the lobby. Before I even reached it, the smell of the plants and the kitchen smells emanating from the Garden restaurant greeted me. The walls below were tiled with terracotta, with wooden beams for the structural elements, and hexagonal flooring that absorbed some of the light.

I walked off the escalator in the lobby, which immediately drew you in to an immersive garden. There were vines of grapes draped over awnings. Bench tables were set on a manicured lawn in the central area. Smiling waiters and waitresses in fresh white coats skittered back-and-forth laying out a buffet of family-style dishes. There were no private tables, and people came and went. I was pulled toward the most central wooden table, where about a half dozen people were seated in groups of two, with plenty of space to sit wherever I wished.

All around were hydroponic produce and herbs. There were cylinders of ripe red tomatoes in one corner. A carpet of basil adjoining a central walkway. Grape vines were strung in various places. A candy cane style carousel of eggplants rose like a column in a cool enclave. Baskets of overflowing peppers dripped like a waterfall under a set of colorful lights.

I was drawn to a woman at one of the tables. She was wearing white pants with a white blouse. There was a blue bracelet on her right wrist and an angel heart necklace with an aquamarine gemstone around her neck. Frosted blonde curls draped her rosy cheeks. Next to her was an older man, who carried himself authoritatively, like a doctor, and who looked strangely familiar, but for the life of me I couldn’t place him.

Unsure how this worked, I looked at the two of them and said, “I’m starving.”

They looked at each other and laughed.

“Everyone says that!” he said with a warm smile. “I’m Abe.”

I shook the man’s hand instinctively. And I realized as I squeezed his hand that everything felt amazing. I felt sociable and happy and fulfilled – like a kid – excited without even knowing what I was excited for.

“You look like new,” she said. She smiled softly and bit her bottom lip, as if covering up some emotion that she didn’t quite understand. I watched as she took a little covered bowl with an ornamental lid on it from the center of the table and presented it to me like a gift. She pulled the top off and said, “Ta da!”

“What is this,” I said, laughing at her excitement, without really understanding it. “What, they don’t take your order over here?”

“No, no – they do,” she said, with little grin. “It’s just that I’ve been waiting here for a long time. They just put out the tiramisu. And let me tell you, their tiramisu is to die for.” I made a show of trying a bite. Even before tasting it, I nodded. She was right. It was creamy and rich and drove my senses wild. In fact, it was the best thing I’d ever tasted.

There was something familiar about her.

“Have we met?” I asked.

“I don’t think so,” she said. “Maybe in another life.”

As I looked into her eyes, I knew there was something about her.

“Then let’s speed up the process,” I said. “I’m Alex.”

And I reached out to shake her hand.