There are two types of people in the world—those who make memories and those who devour them.

Devon was one of the latter. He sat in the shadows of the alley, a dark man with dark thoughts who watched and waited. A girl with hair the color of sunset walked by, her red high heels tapping out a steady rhythm on the sidewalk that matched the swing of her hips and the swish of her hair. Devon barely noticed her; his eyes skimmed across the street and into the eyes of another man.

When their gaze met, a flash of understanding shot between them. Their world narrowed. There were no longer crowds of people on a busy city street, not even beautiful girls with hair the color of sunset. There were only the two of them, the buyer and the seller.

Something about the other man made Devon hesitate. A wave of déjà vu swept over him. He shook it off. One such as he were ever haunted by senseless déjà vu.

The other man had the stony face of one who is strong enough to hide his pain. He crossed the street without checking the traffic and walked straight through the shadows to Devon.

“I’ve got a deal for you,” he said without preamble.

Devon glanced up, fighting to keep the interest from his eyes. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said.

“Yes, you do. Make an offer.”

Devon shrugged. “Perhaps,” he said. “But I’ll want to know exactly what you’re selling.” The man opened his mouth, but Devon held us his hand, his eyes darting back to the street. “Not here,” he said. “Follow me.”

Devon stood, steadying himself on the grimy wall he’d been leaning against. He took a deep breath. The other man watched his effort, but made no move to help him. He appeared disgusted by Devon’s presence. Devon didn’t care. Stumbling only a little, he led the other man down the alley.

The buildings towered over them, blocking the sun and what little warmth it provided. The alley twisted behind the walls, skirting the building and avoiding public streets. It was sprinkled with garbage cans and raggedy boxes and smears of filth.

“What’s your name?” the man asked.

Devon rolled his eyes, but the other man, who was behind him, couldn’t see. It was only those who still had their own memories that cared about names. There wasn’t any point in remembering names. The memories of such useless trivia had hardly any taste at all.

“They call me Devon,” he said and left it at that. There was no point explaining to this person who clung to his memories that the name wasn’t really his own. He’d heard someone mention it in passing since the last time he’d awoken after a hit. That name was as good a one as any to give those who cared to know one.

“I’m Thomas.”

Devon shrugged. He didn’t care. It didn’t matter.

When Devon stopped in front of the extraction hall, Thomas hesitated. Devon turned, not sure of what he could say to lure the other man inside. Before he could speak, however, Thomas strode past him, descended the steps, opened the door, and stepped into the poorly lit building. Devon followed.

The guard standing at the door narrowed his glance at Thomas, but Devon shook his head imperceptibly. He paid the fee for the use of the hall and led Thomas to a booth in the corner.

Around them people sat, each caught in their own trapped lives. Closest to the door, an older man lay across a table, sleeping off an extraction while the woman opposite him closed her eyes in transfixed bliss. Another man haggled over the price of his memories to a boy who looked much too young to be in the business. Across from the booth Devon and Thomas sat at was a young woman with a haunted face who pulled the extractor over her head so hastily that she accidentally yanked some hair from her skull. She did not seem to care.

“You said you wanted to make a deal,” Devon said.

Thomas drug his gaze away from the girl at the other booth.

“Well?” Devon prompted when Thomas didn’t speak.

“What would you pay,” Thomas asked slowly, “for someone’s most precious memory?”

Devon’s eyes narrowed. This was not a common deal. Selling memories was—technically—illegal, but there were still enough people in the world desperate enough for money to sell, and enough people desperate enough for a fix to buy. Most of the time, though, people were willing to give up bad memories, like the pain of a broken bone as a child, or worthless memories, like the phone number of an ex. These memories could be broken up and devoured, but the satisfaction never lasted as long as a strong memory nor tasted as sweet as a precious one.

“Why would you want to give up such a memory?” Devon asked, unable to keep the wariness from his voice.

“Money.”

Devon glanced at the gold watch on Thomas’s wrist. Thomas pulled the sleeve of his immaculate linen shirt over it.

Something about the whole thing was suspicious. “I don’t know…” Devon said, trailing off as he weighed his options. His ears rang. Being in the extraction hall made him monstrously starved.

Thomas leaned over the table, his elbow brushing up against the extractor, smearing grease on his sleeve. Thomas ignored it, not an easy feat considering how the extractor took up over half the table.

“Look,” Thomas said, “I didn’t say a precious memory. I said the most precious memory. Take it or leave it.”

Devon’s mouth watered. He’d never been offered such a deal. He knew of no one who had. Precious memories hardly ever came up for sale. They were too deep to be stolen, too valuable to be sold. They were virtually unattainable.

He had had one, a long time ago, before he had become what he was today. Once, Devon had been a normal boy. He was sure of it.

He just couldn’t remember it.

Those who devour memories, who place more importance on the euphoria of the instant than the dull fulfillment of a lifetime, begin their downward spiral into addiction by eating their own memories. Devon had no recollection of the first memory he’d consumed—that of the taste of cold watermelon eaten on a warm day—but that was his first step to addiction.

He was just under twenty years old when he started. He was broke and alone, bored and tired. He had gone into an extraction hall not unlike this one, dark and sad, and he had set the extractor onto his head himself. It was simple enough. Think of the memory, push the red button on the front of the extractor, and wait for the pain to be over. In the end, the memory was nothing but a thin jet of liquid silver, but when he tipped it into his mouth, it exploded on his tongue. His senses burst in joy; his mind screamed in ecstasy; his body throbbed in pleasure.

It took him only three days to extract all his memories and eat them. After that, all that was left of his life was a mingling taste of joy on his lips. Then that, too, was gone. He became a buyer, his bloodshot hawk-eyes seeking out the desperation that led others to sell their memories.

But a most precious memory? This was something he’d never tasted. Or, at least, it was something he couldn’t remember ever tasting.

Thomas tapped his fingers on the table. “Deal or not?” he asked impatiently. Devon’s eyes flitted over the man, staring into his eyes, trailing over the white outline at the edge of his lips, noting the way his jaw clenched and unclenched. Instinct told him this man would sell to him no matter what price he said.

“Fifty dollars.”

“Fifty? You offer just fifty for a pure, perfect memory?”

Devon snorted. “How perfect could it be if you’re willing to sell it?”

Thomas glared. “People sell their memories for many different reasons.”

“Seventy-five.”

“It’s worth ten times that.”

“I’m not the one desperate to sell.”

“A thousand.”

“A hundred.” Devon held his breath. He was playing with fire. If he scared off this man, he wasn’t sure where he’d find his next fix, and he needed it. Badly. But he only had a little over a couple hundred in his wallet, the leftovers of a commission for bringing some sellers to the extraction hall.

“Five hundred.”

“Two.”

“Three.”

“Two.” Devon tried to remember how much he actually had, but even though he’d looked in his wallet just moments before he’d first seen Thomas, it was all a blur. The more one consumes memories , the harder it becomes to hold onto any.

Thomas seemed to be considering. “Fine. Two-hundred.” He grimaced, as if selling at such a low price disgusted him.

Devon shifted his weight and pulled out his wallet, handing over most of the bills inside. Thomas pocketed them without counting them or even looking at them.

“Pleasure doing business with you, uh…”

“Tom,” Thomas prompted when Devon’s voice trailed off.

“Tom. ‘Course. Pleasure doing business with you, Tom.”

Devon watched Thomas with hungry eyes as he lifted the extractor from the table. Thomas met his eyes and held his gaze as he settled the heavy contraption onto his head. His hair stuck out under the rubber that cracked the base. Thomas’s eyes did not leave Devon’s until he pushed the red button and his eyes rolled back into his head.

Devon watched, counting the second methodically. The longer it took to extract the memory, the sweeter it could be, the longer the high would last. One. Two. Three. Four. Thomas’s eyelids flickered over the white balls. Five. Six. Devon stared at the glass tube attached to the plastic hose that snaked down from the extractor. It was filling with silver liquid; it was already over a third full. Devon licked his lips. Had he had the money, he would have paid anything Thomas had asked.
Devon forgot how many second had passed, then forgot to count, then forgot he had been counting at all.

Thomas sighed and passed out, his head thumping on the table in front of him. Devon, who had been watching the spider crawl up the wall, jumped. He couldn’t remember the man who lay sprawled across the table, but he recognized the extractor and the vial that was nearly overflowing with silver.

Carefully, his hands shaking, he unscrewed the vial and held it in his hands. Other addicts glanced up from their booths and looked at him eagerly. Devon shifted in the booth, turning his back on them and shielding the vial from their gaze.

Bad memories are broken down, so the high lasts only seconds. Good memories are rare but taken whole, making the high last longer.

This memory was the strongest Devon had ever had. He felt his eyes vibrate in his skull, felt his body melt into blind stupor.

This was indeed a cherished memory, one that spanned years. Images sped through his mind, faster and faster. Flashes of childhood games played with a boy that looked oddly familiar were replaced with Christmases shared under the tree with the boy, and family vacations riding in the backseat with him, and the first day of school with the boy, older now, walking beside him. Devon realized that he’d just taken the memories of the other man’s brother.

On some level of consciousness, Devon felt déjà vu.

The brothers played the same sports, joined the same clubs in school, helped each other with their homework. Devon smiled as the memories swept over him, absorbed into him. This was the fix he needed, the high he craved.

The images burst in his mind like flavor on the tongue. High school now. A new person was drawn into the memories. A girl with sunset hair, a girl who looked at the brother with the eyes of love. Double-dates and movies, prom and graduation.

Something, a wave of euphoria mixed with deep urgency, swept over Devon but was quickly drowned.
There was a name in the memories. James. The brother’s name was James.

The girl with sunset hair flashed before Devon in his mind’s eye, and the remembrance of love observed was replaced with the remembrance of real love. Thomas appeared in the memories again, laughing and happy. Thomas. The one who had sold the memories of his brother.

Something snapped within Devon, and with a shock that threw him out of his high, he realized that the brother in the memories was himself.

He was James. He was James. Thomas was his brother. The memories he was getting high off of were of himself.

He had never since his first high fought to keep a memory after he had consumed it. He fought now. If he let the memory fill his senses, if he let his mind devour it, it would be gone forever. And now, as flashes of his own life seen through his brother’s eyes filled him, the man once called James and sometimes called Devon could think of nothing more than to hold onto the memories with everything he had.

Across the table, Thomas stirred.

With the slick-sweet taste of the memories still on his lips, Thomas’s brother clenched his eyes shut and concentrated on retaining the memories Thomas had sold him. There was sorrow within them now, starting with a bittersweet farewell as he left Thomas to go to college. He remembered his own voice in a conversation to his brother as he mentioned his first trip to the extraction hall. He remembered his brother’s fear for him. The remembered the way he had looked on the last trip he’d taken home, and the way Thomas had tried to talk to him. He remembered the face of the girl with sunset hair after he’d broken up with her, then the way Thomas’s heart had clenched with fear after he’d devoured his memories of her.

He remembered Thomas’s memories of going into the city, tracking him down, watching him for days and seeing the blank look when their eyes met, day after day, until today, when he’d finally gotten the nerve to give him the only thing he had to save him.

He remembered, and he would not let himself forget. Not again. Not after seeing it through his brother’s fading memories.

Thomas groaned and lifted his head, his neck straining under the unaccustomed weight of the extractor.

“Tom?”

Thomas pulled the extractor off and set it on the table. “Where am I?”

“In an extraction hall.”

Thomas blinked in surprise. He glanced down, rubbing a smear of grease on his otherwise pristine shirt. He took a deep breath, then looked back up.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“I’m James,” the man who had once forgotten his own name said.

For one full second, recognition flashed in Thomas’s eyes. Then nothing.

It had simply been déjà vu.


****

Note: Our thanks to Beth Revis, author of Across the Universe, which debuted last week on the New York Times Bestseller list! Congrats, Beth, and we're so glad to have had you and your story!


image by: gabork, via flickr creative commons.