Chapter 4 Scars on the Brain

# Chapter 4: Scars on the Brain

Three days after my surgery, I'm discharged from the hospital with a prescription for painkillers and strict instructions to rest. The tiny chip from the ring sits in a sealed evidence bag, confiscated by hospital security after Rowan made a call to someone he wouldn't name. I wasn't allowed to examine it further.

"It's for your own protection," Rowan explained as we drove home, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. "That chip could have been anything—a tracking device, a remnant from some experimental procedure. Until we know what it is, it's safer in a secure facility."

I said nothing. The distance between us had grown since the discovery of the ring, a chasm of unspoken questions and half-truths. Every time I tried to press for answers about my supposedly false memories—our wedding, his death, the mysterious chip—he deflected with concerns about my recovery.

Our house feels like a beautiful prison. Rowan has removed all sharp objects from the kitchen, locked his study, and arranged for a home nurse to check on me twice daily. The nurse, a stern woman named Helen, dispenses my medications and monitors my "psychological state," reporting back to Rowan in hushed conversations they think I can't hear.

"She's still dissociative," I overhear Helen telling him on my fifth day home. "Keeps insisting on timelines and events that never happened. The delusions are persistent."

"Dr. Chen said that might be the case," Rowan responds, his voice tight with worry. "The trauma of the psychotic episode, combined with the surgery..."

"Has she mentioned the murder again?"

A pause. "Not directly. But she watches me sometimes, like she's seeing a ghost."

I am seeing a ghost—the ghost of the man I thought I killed, now moving through our home as if nothing happened. The ghost of a marriage I thought was real, now revealed as an engagement. The ghost of my own identity, fractured and unreliable.

On the seventh day, while Rowan is at work and Helen steps out to take a phone call, I make my move. The keys to Rowan's study hang on a hook in the kitchen, poorly hidden behind a decorative plate. The lock turns with a satisfying click, and I slip inside the forbidden room.

Rowan's study is exactly as I remember it—walls lined with neuroscience textbooks, a sleek computer setup on an antique desk, framed diplomas and awards documenting his illustrious career. What I don't remember is the wall of photographs behind his desk—dozens of pictures of me in places I don't recall visiting, with people I don't recognize. Me at a beach that might be from the honeymoon video, the snake tattoo visible on my collarbone. Me in a laboratory setting, bent over a microscope. Me receiving an award, shaking hands with a distinguished-looking man while Rowan stands proudly at my side.

A life I don't remember living.

I turn to his computer, relieved to find it unlocked—Rowan never expected me to violate his sanctuary. The desktop is meticulously organized into folders with clinical labels: Research, Publications, Lectures, Personal. I click on Personal, finding subfolders for Finances, Travel, and—my heart races—Faye.

The Faye folder contains hundreds of files, each labeled with dates and cryptic abbreviations. I click on one titled "F_MRI_05.17.22" and a brain scan fills the screen—detailed images of a brain from multiple angles, with certain areas highlighted in bright colors. At the top of the image is a patient identifier: F.HARLOW-32E.

My brain. I know this instinctively, the way you recognize your own reflection even in a distorted mirror.

I scroll through more files, finding dozens of similar scans spanning the past three years, each with subtle differences in the highlighted regions. Some are labeled with notes: "Post-stimulation response positive," "Memory integration successful," "Subject resistant to implantation point 17."

Subject. Not patient. Subject.

A sound from the hallway—Helen returning—sends me searching faster. I click on a file labeled "F_SURGICAL_RECORD_COMPLETE" and a document opens, filled with medical jargon and procedure notes. I scan quickly, catching phrases that make my blood run cold:

"...electrode array placement successful at all 32 points..."

"...minimal tissue disruption during implantation..."

"...subject responded well to post-operative suggestion therapy..."

Thirty-two electrodes. Implanted in my brain.

The sound of footsteps grows closer. I quickly close the files and slip out of the study, locking the door behind me and returning the key to its hiding place. I'm back on the living room couch with a book in hand when Helen enters.

"Feeling any better today?" she asks, her clinical smile not reaching her eyes.

"Much," I lie. "I think I might take a nap."

"Good idea. Rest is essential for recovery." She checks her watch. "I'll be back at six to prepare your dinner and evening medication."

As soon as she leaves, I grab my phone and search for the nearest medical imaging center. There's one three miles away that accepts walk-ins for private pay patients. I order a rideshare, throwing on a jacket and sunglasses as a pathetic disguise.

Two hours and twelve hundred dollars later, I sit in a private consultation room, waiting for the radiologist to return with my MRI results. I gave a false name—Emma Watson, like the actress—and paid in cash, claiming I needed the scan for a second opinion on migraines.

Dr. Patel enters with a tablet in hand, his expression professionally neutral. "Ms. Watson, your scans are complete. I'd like to discuss what we found."

"Please," I say, my mouth dry.

He pulls up the images on a wall-mounted screen. "Your brain structure is generally healthy, with no signs of tumors or lesions that might explain migraines. However..." He zooms in on several areas. "We found these anomalies throughout your cerebral cortex."

I lean forward, staring at the tiny bright spots scattered across my brain scan. "What are they?"

"That's what's unusual. They appear to be some kind of microelectrode implants—extremely sophisticated ones. I've only seen similar technology in experimental neurosurgery journals." He turns to me with concern. "Ms. Watson, have you participated in any clinical trials involving brain stimulation or neural implants?"

I shake my head slowly, counting the bright spots on the scan. One, two, three... all the way to thirty-two. Exactly as the surgical record indicated.

"These implants," I manage to ask, "what would they be used for?"

Dr. Patel hesitates. "Without knowing the specific technology, I can only speculate. Similar devices are being developed for treating epilepsy, Parkinson's, severe depression... but this array is more extensive than anything currently approved for clinical use. These are positioned primarily in areas associated with memory formation and emotional processing."

Memory formation. The pieces start to align—the false memories of a wedding that never happened, the missing memories of places I've apparently visited, the vivid recollection of killing a man who's still alive.

"Can you give me copies of these scans?" I ask.

"Of course. But Ms. Watson, I strongly recommend you consult with a neurologist about these implants. If you didn't knowingly consent to their placement—"

"Thank you for your concern," I interrupt, not wanting to hear the word that's forming in my mind: assault. Medical assault. "I'll follow up with a specialist."

Back home, I hide the envelope of MRI images under the mattress in the guest bedroom just minutes before Rowan returns from work. I greet him with a manufactured smile, playing the role of recovering patient while my mind races with questions.

Why are there electrodes in my brain? Did I consent to this? What memories are real, and which ones were artificially created or suppressed?

"You look better today," Rowan says, kissing my forehead. "More color in your cheeks."

"I feel better," I lie again. "Helen says I'm making good progress."

"That's wonderful." He busies himself unpacking takeout containers in the kitchen. "I brought your favorite—pad thai from that place on Seventh Street."

I've never liked pad thai. Or have I? Can I even trust my own food preferences anymore?

We eat in strained silence, Rowan occasionally attempting conversation about his day at the research facility. I nod and smile at appropriate intervals, studying him when he looks down at his food. This man who may or may not be my husband. This brilliant neuroscientist who may have experimented on my brain.

"Actually," I say when he mentions an upcoming conference, "I've been having some strange headaches. Almost like electrical pulses."

His chopsticks pause halfway to his mouth. "When did those start?"

"Recently. They come with flashes of... memories, I think. But they don't feel like my memories." I watch him carefully. "For instance, today I remembered a laboratory I've never been to, running tests on a patient with electrode implants. But I was the one holding the controls."

Rowan sets down his chopsticks, his expression unreadable. "The mind creates all sorts of scenarios during recovery from trauma. Your subconscious might be processing fragments of things you've heard me discuss about my research."

"Maybe," I concede, then push further. "Or maybe they're real memories trying to surface despite someone's attempts to suppress them."

A muscle twitches in his jaw. "Faye, we've talked about this. Your psychiatrist warned that you might develop conspiracy theories as a way to explain the gaps in your memory."

"It's not a conspiracy theory if it's true." I stand up, unable to maintain the charade any longer. "I know about the electrodes, Rowan. All thirty-two of them."

His face drains of color. "What are you talking about?"

"The implants in my brain. The ones documented in your computer files—files you thought I wouldn't find. The ones that showed up crystal clear on the MRI I had done today."

For a moment, genuine shock registers on his face, quickly replaced by something harder. "You went behind my back to get medical tests? Do you have any idea how dangerous that is in your condition?"

"My condition?" I laugh bitterly. "You mean my condition of having been experimented on without my knowledge? Of having my memories manipulated? Of being gaslighted into thinking I'm insane when the truth is much worse?"

Rowan stands, his movements deliberate, controlled. "Faye, please sit down. You're having an episode."

"Stop it!" I slam my hand on the table, sending a water glass crashing to the floor. "Stop treating me like I'm crazy! I saw the scans. I saw your files. '32 electrode array placement.' 'Subject responded well to post-operative suggestion therapy.' Those are your words!"

He takes a deep breath. "Yes, there are electrodes in your brain. Yes, I was involved in their placement. But it's not what you think."

"Then what is it? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like my fiancé has been performing unauthorized brain surgery on me and manipulating my memories."

"The surgery was authorized. By you." He moves to a cabinet, retrieving a folder I've never seen before. "You signed consent forms for an experimental treatment for your condition."

"What condition?" I demand. "I was perfectly healthy before all this!"

He hands me the folder. Inside are medical records dating back three years, detailing a progressive neuropsychiatric disorder characterized by paranoid delusions, memory distortions, and periodic violent episodes.

"You were diagnosed shortly after we met," Rowan says softly. "The traditional treatments weren't working. The electrodes were a last resort—a way to stabilize your brain chemistry and help control the delusions."

I flip through the pages, seeing reports of incidents I have no memory of—me attacking a colleague who I believed was trying to steal my research, me setting fire to our previous apartment because I thought it was bugged, me attempting suicide because I believed parasites were living in my brain.

"This isn't me," I whisper, but doubt creeps in. What if these gaps in my memory aren't from Rowan's manipulation but from my own fractured mind?

"It is you," he says gently. "The you that exists during episodes. The treatment was working beautifully until three weeks ago, when you stopped taking your medication and removed one of the electrodes yourself—that's the scar on your temple you've been hiding with your hair."

My hand flies to my right temple, feeling a small, tender ridge I'd attributed to hitting my head during my arrest.

"The electrode malfunction triggered a cascade failure in the array," he continues. "Your delusions returned—including the persistent one about killing me, which first appeared two years ago."

My certainty wavers. Could he be telling the truth? Am I the monster in this story?

But then I remember the files on his computer—not patient records, but research notes. The way he called me "subject" instead of "patient." The mysterious chip in the blue diamond ring.

"If I'm so dangerous, why was I never hospitalized long-term?" I challenge. "Why do I have a successful career? Where are the police reports from these violent incidents?"

He sighs. "You were hospitalized, Faye. Multiple times. Your career has been on hold for two years—your colleagues think you're on sabbatical. And the police reports were sealed as part of your treatment agreement."

I shake my head, refusing to accept this version of reality. "I want to see my medical records. The real ones. Not these... fabrications."

"They're not—" He stops, visibly gathering patience. "Fine. I'll arrange for Dr. Matthews to review your complete file with you. But please, in the meantime, take your medication. It's the only thing keeping the electrode array stable."

I look down at the folder again, at a history of mental illness I don't remember living. Then I think of the brain scans hidden under the guest room mattress, the chip from the ring, Dr. Norris's cryptic whisper.

"I'll take the medication," I agree, knowing it's the only way to maintain this fragile peace while I continue investigating.

After Rowan goes to bed, I sneak back to his study, using the key I pocketed during dinner. This time, I go straight to the filing cabinet in the corner, the one with the heavy-duty lock that seems excessive for home office storage.

I don't have the key for this, but I do have the hairpin techniques I learned from a roommate in college—or did I? Are those memories real? I push the doubt aside, focusing on the lock until it clicks open.

The bottom drawer contains what I'm looking for—a thick file labeled "HARLOW, ROWAN - ELECTRODE PROTOCOL." Inside are surgical reports, brain scans, and detailed notes about electrode placement and response testing.

Not my records. His.

Rowan has the same implants I do. Thirty-two electrodes, placed in identical positions to mine.

The last page in the file is a handwritten note that makes my blood freeze:

"19th memory reset complete. Subject again referenced the 'snake tattoo' motif despite complete removal from stimulation protocol. Recommend moving to Phase 3 testing with dual implantation."

I close the file, my hands shaking so badly I can barely return it to the drawer. Whatever is happening here goes far beyond one mentally ill woman and her concerned fiancé. This is something systematic, experimental, and deeply disturbing.

As I carefully relock the cabinet and slip out of the study, one question burns brighter than all others:

Which one of us is really the subject in this experiment? And which one is the controller?


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