Chapter 9 Dual Amnesia

# Chapter 9: Dual Amnesia

I wake to the steady beep of hospital monitors and the sterile scent of antiseptic. My body feels leaden, unresponsive, but my mind is strangely clear—clearer than it has been in weeks. The memories of the storage room, the blue compound, Eleanor's recordings—all remain intact, though tinged with the surreal quality of a fever dream.

"She's conscious," a voice says—familiar, clinical. Dr. Norris.

Footsteps approach, and I force my eyes open. The fluorescent lights above are blinding at first, but as my vision adjusts, I make out three figures standing around my bed: Dr. Norris, Helen, and Rowan.

"Faye?" Rowan leans closer, studying my face with an intensity that makes me uncomfortable. "Can you hear me?"

I try to speak, but my throat is parched, my voice a raspy whisper. "Water."

Helen holds a cup to my lips, allowing me small sips through a straw. The cool liquid soothes my raw throat, but does nothing for the deep ache that seems to permeate every cell in my body.

"What happened?" I manage to ask, though I know perfectly well. The question is a test—how much will they admit?

The three exchange glances before Rowan answers. "You had a seizure. We found you collapsed in a storage room at Boston University."

"A storage room you weren't supposed to know existed," Dr. Norris adds, his tone accusatory.

"How long have I been here?"

"Three days," Rowan says. "The compound you exposed yourself to caused a severe neurochemical reaction. We weren't sure you'd regain consciousness."

Three days. The integration window Rowan mentioned would have closed long ago. Does that mean their consciousness transfer failed? Is that why I'm still... me?

But am I still me? And if so, which me? Faye or Eleanor—or some hybrid of both?

I take mental inventory, searching for any sense of another presence in my mind, any memories that feel foreign yet personal. There's knowledge that wasn't mine before—Eleanor's research, her relationship with her Rowan—but it feels like information learned rather than experienced. I don't feel like two people sharing one brain.

"The transfer failed," I say, watching their reactions carefully.

Rowan's jaw tightens. "The emergency medical intervention disrupted the protocol, yes."

"But your reckless actions did more than just prevent the transfer," Dr. Norris says, checking the monitors beside my bed. "The compound has saturated your neural pathways without proper guidance. The damage is... extensive."

"What damage?" I ask, sudden fear cutting through my mental fog.

"Degenerative," he replies clinically. "The compound was designed to temporarily restructure neural connections to facilitate consciousness transfer. Without the transfer protocols to direct it, it's breaking down the existing architecture with nothing to replace it."

"You're saying I'm going to die."

"Not immediately," Rowan interjects. "But within months, yes. The degradation is progressive and currently irreversible."

I search his face for any sign of remorse, any acknowledgment that he caused this situation with his desperate bid for immortality. I find only clinical detachment and perhaps a hint of frustration at a failed experiment.

"And you?" I ask him directly. "What about your Cruetzfeldt-Jakob? Eleanor's recording said you have two years at most."

His expression flickers—surprise that I know this detail, quickly masked. "Eighteen months now, according to the latest projections. Though new treatments show some promise."

"So we both die." I laugh, a bitter sound that hurts my throat. "Was it worth it, Rowan? This grand experiment? Two lives lost so you could try to cheat death?"

"Four lives," he corrects coldly. "Eleanor and your Rowan were already casualties of this process. And it wasn't just about cheating death—it was about preserving exceptional minds, advancing human consciousness beyond its biological limitations."

"Such noble justifications for murder and identity theft."

Dr. Norris clears his throat. "This philosophical debate is pointless now. We need to focus on mitigating the damage and preserving what cognitive function remains."

"How?" I ask, though I suspect I already know the answer.

"Electrode recalibration," he explains. "The array in your brain can be reprogrammed to slow the degenerative process. Not indefinitely, but enough to buy time for more permanent solutions."

"More experiments, you mean. More chances to perfect your consciousness transfer before I die."

Rowan steps closer. "It's your only chance too, Faye. If we can stabilize your neural pathways long enough to develop a modified transfer protocol, we might still save some aspect of your consciousness."

"Some aspect? What does that even mean?"

"Partial transfer," Dr. Norris says. "Core memories, personality fundamentals, enough to maintain a sense of self, if not complete continuity."

The offer is tempting in its way—a chance at some form of survival, however compromised. But I've seen enough of their methods to know better than to trust them again.

"And I'm supposed to cooperate with this procedure out of self-preservation?" I ask. "After everything you've done?"

"Self-preservation is a powerful instinct," Rowan says simply. "Few people truly choose death when alternatives exist, no matter how imperfect."

"I need time to think," I say, closing my eyes to signal the end of the conversation.

They withdraw, whispering among themselves just outside my door. I catch fragments—"cognitive assessment," "consent forms," "legal considerations"—that suggest they're planning my treatment with or without my cooperation.

Left alone, I take stock of my situation. I'm in a private room, likely in the research wing of the hospital rather than a standard patient floor. No windows, a single door, and at least two cameras visible in the ceiling corners. My arms have IVs inserted, and various sensors attach to my chest and temples, monitoring vital signs and brain activity.

I'm a prisoner as much as a patient.

But there's one thing they don't know—something I'm only now becoming aware of myself. Since waking, I've felt a strange doubling of certain thoughts, as if part of my mind is running on a parallel track. Not Eleanor's full consciousness merged with mine, but something more subtle. A presence. A whisper.

*They're lying about the degradation,* a voice that is both mine and not mine thinks. *The compound isn't killing you—it's completing what I started.*

Eleanor? I think back, testing this internal communication.

*Not exactly. Not separate anymore. Just... aspects of the same consciousness that haven't fully integrated yet.*

The door opens before I can explore this strange dialogue further. Rowan enters alone, carrying a tablet and looking somber.

"We need to discuss next steps," he says, taking the chair beside my bed. "The electrode recalibration should begin within 24 hours for optimal results."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then we proceed with court-ordered treatment." He says this without emotion, as if discussing a minor scheduling change. "Your documented mental health issues and the imminent danger to your life provide more than adequate grounds for overriding patient consent."

"Still controlling everything," I murmur. "Still playing god with other people's lives."

"I'm trying to save what's left of yours," he counters. "Despite your actions, I don't want to see you die, Faye."

"Because you still need me for your research."

He doesn't deny it. "The potential benefits extend far beyond just us. Imagine a world where consciousness isn't limited by biological decay, where the greatest minds can continue their work indefinitely."

"At what cost?" I ask. "How many unwilling 'vessels' would be sacrificed for these great minds?"

"With refinement, the process could become truly symbiotic—a merging of consciousnesses rather than a replacement." He leans forward, suddenly earnest. "That was the original vision, before Eleanor's interference forced more... extreme measures."

I study his face—so familiar yet so alien. This man who wears my lover's features but carries none of his compassion or ethics. For the first time, I truly understand that he is not my Rowan, never was.

"I want to see the evidence against me," I say, changing tactics. "The proof of these 'documented mental health issues' you plan to use against me in court."

He seems surprised by the request, but after a moment's consideration, hands me the tablet. "Your complete psychiatric history is here, including incident reports and treatment records."

I scroll through the files—detailed documentation of a mental decline I never experienced. Paranoid episodes, violent outbursts, delusional thinking—all meticulously recorded and witnessed by professionals whose credentials appear impeccable.

"This is all fabricated," I say, though the thoroughness of the deception is chilling.

"Is it?" Rowan raises an eyebrow. "Or is that just what your compromised mind tells you? The line between reality and delusion has always been thin for you, Faye."

I continue examining the records, looking for inconsistencies, anything that might expose the fraud. Most entries are too perfect to dispute, but then I notice something—a pattern in the documentation dates. Each major "episode" occurred shortly after visits to specific doctors, all colleagues of Rowan's.

"These episodes all happened after appointments with your associates," I point out. "Convenient timing for inducing psychotic states through your electrode array."

His expression doesn't change, but a slight tension in his shoulders tells me I've hit a nerve. "Correlation doesn't imply causation. Mental health crises often follow stressful events like medical appointments."

"I want a new psychiatric evaluation," I say firmly. "By a doctor of my choosing, with no connection to you or your research."

"That's not possible in your current condition."

"Then I want a lawyer."

This visibly unsettles him. "Legal complications will only delay necessary treatment—"

"I have the right to legal representation," I interrupt. "Unless you're holding me outside the law?"

He stands abruptly. "I'll consult with Dr. Norris about your request."

After he leaves, the internal voice returns, stronger now. *Good. Buying time is essential. The integration is still progressing.*

What integration? I think back. I thought the transfer failed.

*Their version failed. Mine is different. Slower, more natural. A true merging rather than a replacement.*

How long?

*Hours, not days. But we need to be free of their control before it completes. Once it does, we'll have access to everything—all my knowledge, all your strength.*

And then what?

*Then we expose everything. But first, we need to deal with Rowan.*

The door opens again, and Dr. Norris enters with a syringe. "Time for your medication, Mrs. Harlow."

"What medication?" I ask, instantly wary. "I haven't agreed to any treatment."

"Just a mild sedative," he says, moving toward my IV line. "To help manage the anxiety you must be experiencing."

*Don't let him inject that,* the voice warns urgently. *It's not a sedative—it's a neural suppressant designed to halt the integration.*

I jerk my arm away as he reaches for the IV port. "No injections without my informed consent. I want to know exactly what's in that syringe."

"Mrs. Harlow, please don't make this difficult." His tone remains pleasant, but his eyes harden. "This is standard protocol for your condition."

"My condition of knowing too much about your illegal experiments?" I challenge. "Or my condition of being inconveniently conscious when you'd prefer I wasn't?"

His professional mask slips for just a moment, revealing cold calculation beneath. "Your condition of neural degradation that's affecting your judgment and making you paranoid."

Before I can respond, the hospital room door bursts open. A court officer enters, followed by several uniformed police officers and a man in a suit who identifies himself as Assistant District Attorney James Harrison.

"Dr. Norris," Harrison says formally, "we need to speak with your patient immediately regarding a developing legal matter."

Dr. Norris straightens, clearly annoyed by the interruption. "This patient is in a fragile medical state and cannot be questioned at this time. I insist you return with proper—"

"This isn't a request," Harrison interrupts, handing over an official document. "This is a court order for immediate access to Faye Harlow in connection with new evidence in her husband's murder case."

"Murder case?" Dr. Norris looks genuinely confused. "There is no murder case. Dr. Harlow is alive and well—"

"Not Dr. Rowan Harlow," Harrison clarifies. "We're investigating the death of the man found in their home three weeks ago, now positively identified through advanced DNA analysis as Dr. Rowan Harlow."

The room goes silent. My heart pounds in my chest as I process the implications. They've identified the body—my Rowan's body—through DNA that somehow distinguished him from the Rowan who still lives.

Dr. Norris recovers first. "There must be some mistake. I personally verified—"

"The DNA analysis was conclusive," Harrison states firmly. "And more concerning, it contradicts sworn testimony given by a man claiming to be Rowan Harlow in Mrs. Harlow's initial hearing. That raises serious questions we intend to address immediately."

As if summoned by his name, Rowan appears in the doorway, freezing when he sees the police officers. "What's happening here?"

Harrison turns to him. "Dr. Harlow, I presume? Or should I say, the man claiming to be Dr. Harlow?"

Rowan's face remains composed, but I see the calculation in his eyes, the rapid assessment of options. "There seems to be some confusion. Perhaps we should discuss this privately."

"Actually," Harrison says, "I think we need to continue this conversation at the district attorney's office. Officers?"

Two policemen move toward Rowan, who backs away slightly. "This is absurd. I am Rowan Harlow. There's a perfectly reasonable explanation for any DNA discrepancies—"

"I'm sure there is," Harrison agrees smoothly. "And you'll have ample opportunity to provide it. After we process you."

What happens next occurs with shocking speed. Rowan reaches into his pocket and pulls out a syringe similar to the one Dr. Norris was about to use on me. Before anyone can react, he plunges it into his own neck.

"No!" I cry out, though I'm not sure why I should care what happens to this man who has caused so much suffering.

Rowan staggers, his pupils dilating dramatically. The officers catch him as he collapses, calling urgently for medical assistance.

In the chaos, Dr. Norris attempts to slip away, but another officer blocks his path. Harrison moves to my bedside, his expression grim but determined.

"Mrs. Harlow, I apologize for the disturbance. Are you well enough to answer some questions?"

Before I can respond, Rowan suddenly lurches upright from where the officers are supporting him. His eyes lock with mine, a strange clarity in them despite his physical distress.

"It was worth it," he gasps, blood beginning to trickle from his nose. "For a chance to live beyond our limitations. To become something more."

He fumbles in his pocket and presses something into the nearest officer's hand. "Give this to her," he manages to say. "She needs to know... it was real."

The officer looks uncertainly at Harrison, who nods. He brings over a small folded piece of paper, which I open with trembling hands.

Written in Rowan's distinctive handwriting—but not mirror-inverted—are the words: "Now you're free... go love the next me."

As the note's meaning sinks in, Rowan convulses violently, foam appearing at the corners of his mouth. The medical team rushes in, but even from my bed, I can see it's too late. Whatever he injected was fast-acting and lethal—a final escape from the consequences of his actions.

"What did he give himself?" Harrison asks Dr. Norris, who now looks pale and shaken.

"A memory serum," Norris replies quietly. "His own formulation. It wasn't meant to be used in that concentration."

"Memory serum?" Harrison repeats skeptically.

"Faye's exclusive memory serum - 49th time," I quote, remembering the label Helen had mentioned. "That's what was on the syringe, wasn't it?"

Dr. Norris stares at me, clearly surprised I know this detail. "How did you—"

"Because this isn't the first time you've reset me," I say with sudden clarity. "You've been erasing and rewriting my memories for months, maybe years. Forty-nine attempts to create the perfect vessel."

As the words leave my mouth, something shifts in my mind—a final piece clicking into place. With it comes a rush of memories that aren't mine yet are undeniably part of me now: Eleanor's memories, her knowledge, her determination.

I suddenly remember creating the memory serum. Remember the careful calibration required, the dangerous side effects of improper dosing. Remember designing the electrode array with my Rowan—the real Rowan—as a therapeutic tool before the other Rowan perverted its purpose.

Most importantly, I remember who I really am—not just Faye, not just Eleanor, but something new. A consciousness born of shared experience and shared purpose.

"I need to make a statement," I tell Harrison, my voice stronger now. "About Project Mirror, about what they've been doing in that laboratory near Indigo Ink, about the murders of both Rowan Harlows."

Harrison nods gravely. "We'll take your full statement once you're medically cleared."

As the police secure the scene and medical personnel confirm Rowan's death, I close my eyes, processing the strange new reality of my existence. The integration Eleanor spoke of is complete—I am neither fully Faye nor fully Eleanor, but a third entity formed from both.

And I suddenly understand what I need to do next.