Stevan Mena - Transience

“In the following weeks I did some research. Doctors who’d risked their practice to publish articles on their experiences, ones I would have normally dismissed. Now they had a profound resonance. I discovered that an overwhelming majority of these children recalled suffering through a painful, untimely death. Usually very violent and traumatic. There’s nothing more traumatic than murder.”

“What does it prove?”

“Do you remember your dreams?”

Jack shook his head, “Not really.”

“But I’m sure in your line of work, you’ve awoken on several occasions from a terrible nightmare.”

Jack nodded. Leonard removed his glasses and rubbed the sides of his nose. “Most of us pass away having lived out our dull, normal, boring lives; lives many of us might want to forget. But should you be taken before your time, perhaps stabbed and strangled as you repeatedly begged for your life, that might be too painful to ever forget. We lose most of our childhood memories, but we retain the painful ones in intricate detail. Many of my adult patients come to me because they’re plagued by traumatic events from their adolescence. Most of us have difficulty living with just the problems of this life.”

Jack looked at Leonard a long time. “You really believe all this?”

“It took a while to discard my scientific ideals, but after your discovery by the river, how can I dispute it?”

Leonard unwrapped the file he took from the cabinet. “I’ve always been fascinated by stories of how some children come out of the womb with the uncanny ability to speak and read before they can walk. Or to draw and paint— ” he removed Rebecca’s sketch pad and tossed it across the table to Jack, “with the skills it takes many artists a lifetime to acquire.”

“Something in the brain chemistry,” Jack said, feeling as if he was defending rationality itself. He picked up the book and flipped through Rebecca’s work. His eyes widened, each sketch was more brilliant than the last. His resistance was wearing thin. “She drew these?” Leonard waved his hand , that’s nothing .

“1962, in Glasgow, a five year old child was placed in front of his aunt’s piano for the first time at a party. The child proceeded to belt out excerpts from Beethoven’s Appassionata. Neither of the parent’s came from any musical background, they didn’t even own a piano. A noted physician who attended the party documented the case. There are hundreds of these on file.”

Jack flipped to a charcoal rendering of Laura. Her face was neither happy nor sad. The detail was extraordinary, he couldn’t turn the page, transfixed. He examined each hand drawn line.

“Most of the children documented seem to lose the ability to recall these memories after age six. Coincidence that this age coincides with the onset of the childhood latency period? I now believe this regression is the stage where old and new merge, and the soul accepts its new identity. But in extreme cases, perhaps involving murder, violence — it scars the soul. It doesn’t recede. In Rebecca’s case, her episodes were triggered when she arrived in Monroe County. New to her — grievously unforgettable to Carmen.”

“What about these people who get hit in the head and suddenly remember what the weather was like every day of the year for the last 20 years, or can suddenly memorize entire volumes of encyclopedias?”

“Photographic memorization is far different from being able to recall something you’ve never been exposed to.”

“If it was her own death she was describing, why was Rebecca talking in the third person?”

“She was recalling the moment of detachment from the physical state. Looking down at her own body, unable at that point to make the distinction of self, since we had yet to make that connection. She didn’t know it was her own body.”

Jack stared at the floor. Leonard waited for his reaction, expecting him to roll his eyes. But Jack was stoic, sincere. Leonard seemed relieved; Jack was the first person he’d confided his theories in and he had fully expected ridicule. Instead, Jack was curiously intrigued, even if skeptical. At least he was still in the room. Still listening.

Jack finally looked up. “The tape you gave me of Rebecca. It seemed like parts were missing.”

“They’re not missing…” Leonard returned to the file cabinet and retrieved his cassette recorder.

Jack watched from the window as Leonard’s secretary exited the building. Leonard had given her the rest of the day off.

Leonard sat at the table, a tape playing. It was a different session and much more intense than the previous one Jack had heard. Some of the material was tough to listen to. Rebecca recited very adult situations through her tiny young voice. Sexually violent, horrific situations.

Rebecca’s fragile voice cracked on the recording: “ I can’t! I can’t, ” she repeated, sounding so helpless, “ Please! ”

“ Rebecca, detach yourself! ” Leonard’s voice was clear on the tape, in control. “ He can’t hurt you! ”

“ No! Oh God! ” Rebecca shrieked as if being defiled, violated. She began to choke. Her suffering, even if just recollections brought to the surface with dexterity by a doctor’s skilled coercing, was excruciating to bear witness to. Jack winced with every scream. The experience was real and heartbreaking.

“ You’re safe, Rebecca. They’re just images! ” Leonard’s voice assured, “ I want you to move away from here. Go back, before this happened. How did you get here? ”

The tape fell silent for a moment. Then Rebecca’s voice reappeared, but different, deeper, not her own. “ Mi madre y yo tuvieron una pelea. ” Jack recognized the deeper tone of her voice from the hospital. He watched Leonard quickly sift through his notes. He found the right page and began translating for Jack:

“…My mother and I had a fight.”

“ Ella piensa que soy no más larga una virgen. Pero no es verdad. Estoy limpio. Es una fantasia que compuse. ”

“She thinks I’m no longer a virgin, but it’s not true. I’m clean. It was a fantasy I made up. ”

“ Pienso que mi hermano lee mi diario. ”

“I think my brother read my diary.”

“ Me escondí debajo de mi tocador. ”

“I hid it under my dresser.”

The tape went silent again. Only Leonard’s voice, “ Rebecca? Rebecca? Can you hear me? Rebecca?”

“ It’s raining, ” Rebecca said, “ I don’t want to go home. I’m scared. ”

There was another long silence. Jack looked at Leonard, wondering if that was all there was. Leonard shook his head, there was more:

“ Rebecca? Rebecca?”

“Trusted him … ”

“Who, Rebecca? Who did you trust?”

“Lied to me.”

“Who?”

Rebecca’s started to choke on the tape. “ Oh, God, please … No! ”

“ Who is trying to hurt you? ”

“ Catch her. Catch her! No! Stop! ”

Jack clenched his teeth as Rebecca’s sobs grew so loud the sound on the tape started to distort.

“ Rebecca, breathe! Breathe! ” Rebecca started to calm down, her breathing slowed. “ That’s it, breathe, deep breaths, good girl. Float past this. What do you see? ”

“ It’s dark. My hands are tied. Legs hurt. My hair is wet. Blood … my blood. Can’t move. Can’t move! ” Rebecca grew hysterical again.

“Enough, shut it off,” Jack said.

“Not yet, it’s important. You must listen,” Leonard raised the volume on the player.