UnWholly (Unwind Dystology 2)

“Then make something up. Use your imagination.”

There are images of people in various walks of life, and Roberta asks Cam to imagine who they might be. What they might be thinking. Roberta doesn’t allow him to speak until he has taken a moment to find the proper words.

“Man on a train. Wondering what’s waiting at home for dinner. Probably chicken again. He’s sick of chicken.”

Then, amid the pictures strewn across the computer tabletop, Cam sees an image of a girl that catches his attention. Roberta follows his eyes to the image, and she immediately tries to wipe the image away, but Cam grabs her hand and stops her.

ta puts a finger to his temple. “But the best of it all is right in here!” She moves her finger around the multitextured fuzz of his hair, pointing out different spots on his cranium, like travel destinations on a globe.

“Your left frontal lobe holds the analytical and computational skills of seven kids who tested at the genius level in math and science. Your right frontal lobe combines the creative cores of almost a dozen poets, artists, and musicians. Your occipital lobe holds neuron bundles from countless Unwinds with photographic memories, and your language center is an international hub of nine languages, all waiting to be reawakened.”

She touches his chin, turning him to face her. Her eyes, which seemed so far away in the mirror, are now only inches from his. They are hypnotic and overpowering.

“Anata wa randamu de wa nai, Cam,” she says. “Anata wa interijento ni sekkei sa rete imasu.”

And Cam knows what she’s saying. You are not random, Cam. You are intelligently designed. He has no idea what language it is, but he knows what it means, all the same.

“Every part of you was handpicked from the best and the brightest,” Roberta tells him, “and I was there at each unwinding, so you would see me, hear me, and know me once all the parts were united.” She takes a moment to think about it, and sadly shakes her head. “Those poor kids were too dysfunctional to know how to use the gifts they were given—but now, even divided, they can finally be complete through you!”

Now that she speaks of unwinding, fragments of memories flood him.

Yes, he had seen her!

Standing beside the operating table without as much as a surgical mask to cover her face, because the point, he now realizes, was for her to be seen and remembered. But it wasn’t just one operating room, was it?

An identical memory

from dozens of different places in his mind.

But it’s not his mind, is it?

It’s their minds.

All of them.

Crying out.

Please, please make this stop,

until there is no voice to beg,

no mind to scream.

At that singular moment

When “I am” becomes “I’m not . . .”

He takes a deep, shuddering breath. Those final memories are a part of him now, spliced together, like the skin of his face. The memories are impossible to bear, and yet he bears them. Only now does he realize how strong he truly must be to hold the memory of a hundred unwindings without crumbling to nothing.

Roberta bids him to look around at the wealthy spoils of the cliffside mansion. “As you can see by your surroundings, we have very powerful backing to support you, so that you may continue to grow and prosper.”

“Backing? From who?”

“It doesn’t matter who. They’re friends. Not just your friends, but friends of a world we all want to live in.”

And though it is all beginning to come together, his whole life beginning to slide into place, one thing still plagues him.

“My face . . . it’s horrible . . .”