The World Forgetting

Two women stumble into the divisive politics of memory alterations and magic in medicine while out on a first date.

Photo by Jose Losada on Unsplash

“What do you do for work? Your profile didn’t say.”

Lena looked up from her menu. The woman sitting across from her smiled, her green eyes peeking over the top of her own menu with genuine interest. Her false eyelashes, the loose strands of blonde hair that framed her round face, and the way her pale skin glowed in the soft light of the pub made it impossible not to smile back.

From what little Lena knew about her, Rachel was kind, thoughtful, and attentive, at least in her text messages. But everyone was on their best behavior when first getting to know someone, especially while on a first date.

“I’m in medicine,” Lena decided to say: the truth, but only part of it. Her profession and the national debate that had recently exploded around it was one of the reasons her last relationship ended. That wound was still fresh. It was not something she was keen on addressing quite so soon. “You’re in IT, right?”

“Yeah,” Rachel replied, eyes narrowing, “but what does that mean, ‘medicine?’ You’re not a doctor or something, are you?”

“Not exactly.” Lena grimaced, tossing her head from one side to the other. “I mix together liquid medicines. Prescriptions, that sort of thing.”

Her date frowned, brow furrowing. “So, a pharmacist…?”

“Er — yeah. Something like that.”

Rachel put down her menu, her expression dripping with thinly veiled skepticism. She looked intent on probing further, her soft green eyes turning sharp and focused, but the waiter interrupted before she could.

“Alrighty then. What can I get you?”

They ordered two whiskey sours — an ambivalent Rachel following Lena’s lead — and politely relayed their choice of meal: Lena ordering a burger and fries, and Rachel ordering a side salad with no croutons or dressing.

“So,” Lena sighed after their menus were handed over and the waiter walked away, seizing on the opportunity to change the subject, “have you lived in Wardwell long?”

Rachel blinked. Her mouth opened and then closed as she visibly deliberated whether to press the issue about Lena’s vagueness or just let it go. She chose the latter, but did a poor job of hiding that this was not her preference. “About a year.”

“Where were you before?”

She rested her elbows on the table, one hand moving to the glass of water sitting before her. She looked at it instead of Lena when next she spoke, running a finger up and down the thin layer of condensation on its outer ridges. “Central Quill, actually.”

The name held significance. It caught Lena by surprise, just as Rachel’s demeanor suggested it would. The tragedy that occurred there had been plastered on every television, newspaper, and mobile phone around the globe.

“Central Quill,” Lena repeated. “Where all those people…”

“Died.” Rachel nodded, her fingers circling the glass. Her voice sounded different, strained. “Before you ask: no, I don’t know anything about what happened, but I did live pretty close. A few blocks away, actually.”

They called it the Avondale Aquarium Massacre, and it was one of the biggest driving forces behind mainstream opinion’s souring on not only Mnemopathy — an already controversial form of alternative medicine that treated mental and physical illness through the altering of memories — but by extension Magiopathy — employing magic as medicine. Witches and wizards using their abilities for medicinal purposes was something that had once been celebrated as a modern marvel, but was now being blamed for perverting the natural order of the world, among other things.

“Wow.”

The tragedy was enacted by a wizard. He entered the Avondale Aquarium that fateful afternoon and used his magic to block the exits, freeze the tanks, and unleash utter horror. No one could explain why he did it, but an autopsy found traces of memory erasure potion that had been prescribed to him three days before, and hinted at his motivations. Despite the details that had trickled out since then about the abuse this was meant to assuage — torture imposed upon him as a child by non-magical folk who wanted to snuff the magic out from within him — the general public was convinced that the potion and Mnemopathy as a whole was to blame for his actions. He was troubled, there was no question about it, but to Lena and many others like her this explanation did not paint the full picture.

By that point there were thousands of patients, perhaps even millions across the entire world who’d undergone the same treatment as the Avondale Aquarium killer without anything close to the same result. Most found success in removing their life-altering tragedies, traumas, and sources of great pain without complication, and those few who did not — who’s memories solved the why but did nothing for the what — found relief elsewhere. Studies were limited, and there was inarguably much they still did not know about magic’s effects on the body, but in Lena’s opinion the wizard was an edge case. His actions and what led to them demanded further study, not further limitation or an outright ban.

The question was: where did Rachel stand?

“It was rough,” Rachel continued, filling the stunned silence, “but it‘s all just kind of a blur now. After it happened all I knew was that I needed to get out of there. Start over somewhere new.”

“I don’t blame you.” Lena shook her head to dismiss the images and thoughts of the tragedy. “Sometimes I can’t believe it happened at all.”

“Yeah.”

The conversation paused as their waiter floated back over to their table. He dropped off their drinks, informed them that their food would be out momentarily, and then went on his merry way.

When he was gone, Rachel picked up her whiskey with both hands. She stirred it with its tiny straw, glancing at Lena momentarily before taking a sip. Her face contorted, suggesting regret about her choice. “I’m sorry,” she wheezed, a sternness blooming beneath her sour expression, “but I have to ask: do you not want me to know what you do?”

Lena took a deep breath and picked up her drink, too, nerves flooding her system.

“People just don’t react the same way that they used to.”

Something like understanding flickered in Rachel’s eyes. “Are you…?”

“A witch.” Lena watched her date’s reaction very closely. “Yes. I practice Magiopathy.”

Rachel’s polite smile vanished and her expression went blank. “Oh.”

Lena deflated, disappointment making her sink into her chair.

They nursed their drinks in silence while tension enveloped the table. Neither one of them spoke again for what felt like an eternity, until Rachel asked: “Does that mean you’re with MAGIC?”

The Magical Alliance for Garnering Interdisciplinary Cooperation (MAGIC) was formed in response to the nation-wide protests that followed the Avondale Aquarium Massacre. It aimed not only to advocate for magic’s place in the medical field, but to combat the rampant misinformation that was being spread by talking heads and political figures alike, all of whom placed the blame for the day’s social and economic problems squarely on witches, wizards, and others of their ilk.

“I do,” Lena answered. “Yes.”

The billboards could be seen all over Wardwell, especially in the inner city, asking: “What can MAGIC do for you?” The MAGIC sigil was displayed proudly in the waiting room of the doctor’s office that Lena worked for, in fact, but judging by Rachel’s reaction she would not be happy to hear this. There was a distinctive shift in the air: no longer appearing curious and relaxed, she looked suddenly tense and uneasy, like she was trapped.

“If that’s a deal breaker, I understand,” Lena offered, acknowledging the growing sense that their date had already reached its end. “We can call it now and you can leave, if you that’s what you want. I can take care of the check.”

But Rachel shook her head. “No,” she said, lacking conviction. “I’m just… surprised, I guess. How can you work for someone like that?”

Lena stared into her drink. She shrugged. “We help people.”

The air that Rachel blew through her nose, then, made Lena freeze. She felt the dismissal behind it, and all at once her measured patience vanished.

“We do.” Her mouth pinched into a hard line as she lifted her eyes, aiming a stern look directly at her date. “I know it’s not popular to say, that people would rather focus on mistakes and conspiracy theories, but MAGIC isn’t evil.”

“I didn’t say it was,” Rachel responded.

“Then why did you ask? What are you saying?”

She pursed her lips. “I think it says a lot that you didn’t want to tell me. People are so quick to get aggressive and defensive, but shouldn’t we all be talking about it? Shouldn’t we all be asking questions about the institutions that serve us?”

Lena’s cheeks flushed with heat as Rachel leaned forward.

“Don’t you think it’s a little alarming that no one is allowed to criticize it?”

“It isn’t above criticism,” Lena replied, her frustration affecting her expression. “I’m not saying that, but the lies that are being spread about it? The way it’s being demonized? It just isn’t right. You have no idea how many people modern medicine has failed. There are so many things it cannot do, and so many ailments it cannot ever hope to cure. MAGIC brings a lot of people relief, comfort, and peace of mind, and I think it could do so much more if we only let it.”

“Right,” Rachel chided, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms in disdain. “Because that’s what the world needs: more magic.”

“Yes.” Lena spoke firmly, with conviction. “That’s exactly what the world needs. Preliminary data suggests that it might even be able to cure cancer. Cancer! Do you know how monumental that would be?”

Rachel was unimpressed. “That hasn’t been proven,” she argued. “Those cases are only hypothetical.”

“Because no one is allowed to study it in order to find out for certain.”

Rachel glared. “Because it’s dangerous...”

Lena screwed up her face. “Because of greed.”

“A lot of people say that cancer is only on the rise because of MAGIC…”

“That’s ridiculous and you have to know it.”

“No one has disproven it…”

“Because no one will let them!”

The women fell silent as they caught their breath, each one of them consulting with their beverage before continuing.

“Magiopathy is a choice,” Lena insisted. “It isn’t being forced on anyone. People have other options, and they will always be able to go somewhere else, seek out whatever other medical treatments or institutions if that’s what they really want.”

There was a fire in Rachel’s eyes, and it wasn’t just the tiny reflection of the candle on their table.

“What about kids? What say do they have?” she asked, making Lena roll her eyes. “We don’t know how magic affects them, their development, or their psyche. And what about all of those people from the leak?”

She was referencing a recent development: a Mnemopathic clinic whose disgruntled receptionist had stolen and released the confidential patient information of over a hundred clients to the public, exposing the sensitive details about their memory alterations.

“What did MAGIC do for them? I mean, an ex-boyfriend erased after a fight? Multiple pets wiped away because their owners didn’t want to deal with the grief? Husbands, wives, and several mistresses erasing all traces of their affairs? None of that seems like something a trained professional can’t do better — a therapist who could help them learn from those experiences instead of making them disappear.”

“Anecdotal edge cases,” Lena rebutted, her chest growing hot. “We’ve done exactly four alterations this week. Do you know how many of them were exes, pets, or affairs?”

Rachel pursed her lips, her eyes flicking to the door, and then to the other tables around them, some of which were casting curious glances.

Lena took the hint. She inhaled slowly, then exhaled, consciously trying to calm her racing heart and lower her volume by a few notches.

“None.” She lifted her drink to her lips for good measure, never once taking her eyes off of Rachel. “One was for someone who watched a man fall onto the tracks of the subway. Three were for abuse.” She took a long, slow sip. “Three.”

Rachel looked nonplussed, but nonetheless unmoved. “Potions I understand. From what I’ve read about them, most are very natural.” She spoke calmly, swirling the ice around her glass, her discomfort palpable. “But come on. Messing with memories? It flies against the laws of nature. Some things just shouldn’t be possible.”

“It’s not natural, Len.”

The voice of Maggie, Lena’s ex, pierced through Lena’s subconscious as if by projection, interrupting their already ruined evening.

“It’s evil. I don’t think I can be with someone who supports and defends evil.”

Rachel was looking at her in much the same way that Maggie had that night, when everything came crashing down. Her eyes were hooded, like she was the one who was right and Lena was the one who was wrong; like throwing away the alchemical gifts she’d gotten from her mother should be easy; like the many years of schooling it had taken to even get to this point should be ignored all because someone on television said that it should.

Lena knew that Rachel wasn’t Maggie, but the hurt exploded within her anyways. It warped her thoughts and even her perception, making Rachel’s false lashes seem suddenly grotesque; a physical embodiment of her hypocrisy.

She let out a derisive chuckle.

“You want to talk about what’s ‘natural?’” She derided. “Let’s talk about your fucking eyelashes.”

Behind the words was an intent to hurt, and even though the shame hit her as soon as they were out in the open, they’d hit their target with precision.

At first, Rachel was taken aback. She recoiled, shrinking into her chair with poise, as if not knowing what to do or how to react, but then she seemed to make a decision. Her nostrils flared and her expression went ice cold.

“I think—” she slid out of her chair and got to her feet “—I am going to go, actually. Thank you for, um, whatever this was.” She snatched her bag from the back of her chair and turned to leave. After taking a few steps, however, she paused. “Please don’t text or call me.” She tossed the words over her shoulder, to ensure that there was no need for follow up or closure. “Good luck with enabling cowards and helping people run away from their problems. I hope that works out for you.”

Then, Rachel marched away.

The silence she left in her wake was disquieting. Lena‘s cheeks were on fire, so was her chest, and her stomach twisted into knots that not even the whiskey could assuage. She had not handled that well, and even though she wished she could go back in time and do things differently, much like she did about her argument with Maggie, the deed was already done. The words had already been spoken, and contrary to popular opinion magic did indeed have its limitations.

“Ma’am?”

The waiter stood before her, confused. She hadn’t registered his approach. At first, she assumed he had come to check up on her, but then she saw the plates in his hands.

“Oh.” There was no way she would be able to eat now. “She isn’t coming back. Could we get some boxes? And the check?”

The waiter looked bewildered. He set the plates down on the table, sputtered out an awkward apology, then shuffled off.

Lena felt like she was going to be sick. The pub was closing in around her. It was claustrophobic, and all she wanted to do was get as far away from there as possible. But as she slowly retreated inward, something instinctual happened: her body seemed to take autonomous control, and it knew exactly what to do.

“Here you are,” the waiter said when he came back. Lena ignored the pity in his eyes, and she didn’t argue when he started boxing up the burger and salad for her while she fished for her card.

She smiled once the receipt had been signed, apologized for leaving so soon, and thanked him for everything anyways.

“She doesn’t know what she’s missing,” he said in kindness.

“I think that she does, actually,” Lena replied. She grabbed her coat in a hurry. “Have a good night.”

---

When Lena finally got back to her apartment, she rushed inside, locked the door behind her, then pressed her whole body against it, as if to make sure that it stayed shut; that the rest of the world stayed on the other side. With her back against the cold metal, she lowered her head, closed her eyes, and inhaled the faint scent of lavender that she associated with home.

Her lids were heavy and her stomach growled with hunger, but she ignored it. Instead of eating, she stuffed the boxes into the fridge — out of sight and out of mind — and poured herself another glass of whiskey.

---

In the morning, she hoped to wake up feeling forgetful or better, but she sat up on the side of her bed feeling much the same, if not worse. A knot had formed in her throat during the night, and even though she knew better, the first thing she did was check her phone, just in case Rachel had texted.

No surprise: she had not.

Lena’s chagrin was there to physically greet her when she looked in the mirror. Her hazel eyes were bloodshot, her dark skin looked parched, and her hair looked wild and unkempt. At first, she felt sorry, but then she wondered: was she being too hard on herself?

She would have to ask her therapist when next they met.

---

Lena was one of the first to arrive at the office that day, besides the doctor, who was holed up in his private office. Before she clocked in and pulled out her first script, however, she hung her bag on a hook in the back, and then meandered over to the front desk computer. She leaned across the chair in front of it, looking left and right to double check that she was alone, before pulling up the appointment history.

Driven solely by curious impulse, she punched two separate words into two separate fields, with six characters each.

First Name: Rachel.

Last Name: Saellz.

She did not expect to find anything, did not even fully know why she was performing the search at all, but then she hit enter, and the system found a match.

Lena’s date, it turns out, had visited a MAGIC clinic before, and not just any: Rachel Saellz had been in this very office a little more than six months ago.

Baffled, Lena opened the file. Although she was fully aware that it would contain very little information (especially given the elevated scrutiny of doctor-patient confidentiality brought on by recent events), it revealed that her appointment was with Dr. Barish, who specialized in Mnemopathy: memory alterations. More than that, the file also revealed that Rachel had not just come in for a consultation. She also scheduled a procedure five days later. Which meant that Rachel had her memories altered.

Lena’s blood ran cold. She suddenly felt like she was doing something wrong, like she should close out of the computer and pretend like she’d never been there at all. But a theory was beginning to form about why Rachel had undergone the alteration, and she needed to know if it was correct.

Pulling her phone out of her pocket, Lena opened the internet, ran a search of a different kind, and to her great dismay it did not take long to find what she was looking for.

“Rachel Saellz, 31,” the article relayed, “was one of the few survivors of the attack. She was inside the aquarium for the duration. Authorities say she avoided the killer by ducking into the back, and…”

The rest of the words faded away, their details too horrible and disturbing to even comprehend.

Heart beating fast, Lena locked her phone, discarded it on the desk, and then pulled the computer closer. She logged into the system that kept track of the items they collected as part of the memory alteration potion-making process. They were used to pinpoint memories, link each brew to the person for whom it was intended, and ensure that all traces of the object and its related memories were isolated and eradicated completely. They were destroyed in the process, and because of this they were required by law to be logged, tracked, and filed.

Lena located a blood-stained t-shirt that had been collected on the day of Rachel’s operation, associated with a patient codenamed SA-2e489. The prescription was for an alteration, and it dismissed all remaining doubt: the memories that Rachel removed were undeniably the ones of that horrible day.

“What can MAGIC do for you?”

For Rachel, it seemed to have helped her forget what Lena could only imagine was the worst day of her life. It erased that trauma, making it so that she never had to relive that day or encounter its phantoms ever again… and yet she still expressed opposition to MAGIC, and would no doubt hand a vote to a politician who might one day abolish it completely.

Did she not think or care about how others could benefit from the same treatment as her? Or had it perhaps not actually helped her? Could she be one of the few outliers who sometimes lost the memories, but retained the emotions they elicited?

Lena had no answers. All she could do was stare.

“Morning!”

The voice came from the other room. It was light and musical — said in greeting — but it made Lena jump. She hurried to dismiss what the computer displayed, before craning her head around to see who it was.

“Oh. Good morning, Paul.”

He hung his bag on the hooks in the back, then padded into the room with a grin. As soon as he got a closer look at her, however, his face fell and his brows pinched in concern.

“Girl, you look terrible.”

Lena couldn’t help but laugh. She stepped away from the computer slowly, trying not to call attention to what she had been doing.

“That bad?”

“Yes,” he said. “You need a tonic?”

Lena nodded fervently, more touched by the offer than he could ever know.

“I’ll be right back.”

When he was gone, Lena’s weak smile vanished, her thoughts immediately gravitating towards Rachel. She felt guilty for not being more curious about her experience, for not asking more questions.

Contrary to popular belief, patients did not forget everything. They retained their memories of the procedure: what they had chosen to do, and even their reasons for why they had chosen to do it. To that end, Rachel’s withholding felt intentional, perhaps even strategic. To reveal that she had not only experienced MAGIC, but that the experience had been a negative one would have helped her argument, so it stood to reason that the opposite was true.

Why did so many people align themselves against the things that helped them? Why did they allow such important, complex experiences to be buried, ignored, or condensed into simple, black and white narratives, when so much of it was so completely gray?

Paul’s reemergence forced Lena to snap out of these thoughts, but this did not go unnoticed.

“You okay?” he asked, eying her. A glossy tincture of translucent, light blue liquid glinted in his hands.

“Yeah, just got a lot on my mind.”

He handed her the tonic, then something occurred to him. “Oh shit,” he said. “You had a date last night, didn’t you?” His lips curled into a mischievous smirk. “Is that why—?”

“No,” Lena answered before he could even finish asking. “It was a train wreck, honestly. She was crazy.”

She uncorked the bottle and downed the liquid without hesitation, swallowing both the tonic and a pang of guilt for labeling Rachel this way. “Crazy” disregarded all that Lena had just learned in favor of keeping Rachel simple, black and white. But hadn’t Rachel already done that to herself? Isn’t that what she had done to Lena and others like her, by throwing her support behind those who would dismantle MAGIC?

Paul sucked his teeth.  “Damn. I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

Lena exhaled, making a choice to put Rachel and her incongruities behind her. She waited for the tonic’s effects to take hold, her eyes drifting to Paul’s denim jacket and all of the pins that decorated it. “Save MAGIC,” one of them declared. “Witches, No Stitches,” read another. “Fear the Man, not the Wand.” “Potions Not Power.”

“Me too.”

---