You don’t answer her.
You can’t.
That voice—that soft, gentle, melodic tone—it's not your mother's. You know it comes from her, somehow, but your ears don’t accept it. Your heart won't make peace with it. And the way she looked at you—those eyes, yes, those were hers, but everything else felt like... like a mask. A cruel joke.
“I’m still your mom,” she had said.
No, no. You can’t do this.
You turn your face away before she can see your lips trembling. Before she can see the confused, stunned emptiness behind your eyes. You clench the arms of the wheelchair, your breath quickening, throat tightening like you’ve swallowed barbed wire.
Without saying a word, without meeting her gaze again, you motion to your father with a frantic jerk of your hand. The nurse gets the hint first and moves around behind you, her hands gently touching the back of your chair.
“Wait,” you hear from the bed. “Timmy—wait!”
But you're already being wheeled back out into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind you with a heavy finality that feels like betrayal.
You don’t speak.
You don’t cry.
But your jaw is tight, your eyes unblinking, staring straight ahead as if looking too hard at anything might make the whole world shatter again.
The nurse doesn’t say anything either. Maybe she knows better. Or maybe even she doesn't know what to say when a teenage boy just looked into the eyes of his mother and saw his teacher staring back.
The hallway is long, the walls a faded beige that makes you feel like you’re stuck in the color of apathy itself. Each wheel rotation seems louder than it should. You feel the weight of every second you spend trying not to think about what you just saw.
And then you hear them.
A voice—familiar, hushed but urgent—bleeding from behind a door that wasn’t quite shut.
"...I'm telling you, Peter, this is something you need to be aware of."
Your father's name stops you. You raise a hand.
The nurse glances down, confused, but you whisper, “Wait—stop here.”
She frowns, but obeys, letting the chair rest just beside the ajar door to what looks like one of the consultation rooms. You turn your head slightly, heart beating faster.
Inside, you hear Dr. Saunders again, his voice quiet but firm.
“She doesn’t remember everything. Not just gaps—we’re talking sensory detachment. Phantom memory conflicts. I warned you about this before we even went into the procedure.”
Your father's voice answers, hoarse. “But you said those were rare—extremely rare.”
“Yes, well, so is a living human brain being housed in someone else’s body, Peter,” Saunders replies sharply. “And now Jennifer Connors is experiencing cross-identity sensory bleed. Her brain is still mapping itself onto Miss Card’s neurological pathways.”
Your stomach drops.
Cross-identity what?
“I don’t understand,” your father says, clearly struggling.
“It means... well, we’ve seen early signs. She mentioned smells. Tastes. Even momentary flashes—things she’s never experienced as Jennifer, but that Laura Card did. It’s like echoes from the body itself. We theorized this might happen with organ memory in transplants, but this...” He pauses, sighing deeply. “This is a full system override. Her brain is interfacing with an entirely foreign nervous system. It’s... remarkable, yes—but unstable.”
“But she knows who she is,” your father insists, almost pleading. “She knows she’s Jennifer. She remembers us. She knows Tim. That’s all that matters.”
There’s silence for a moment.
Then another voice enters the mix—Dr. Kerry’s this time. Lower. More clinical.
“It's more than just memory. We’re already seeing signs of hormonal misalignment. Neurochemical spikes in places we didn’t expect. She may begin to experience emotional irregularities. In time... even behavioral drift.”
You hear your father inhale sharply. “You’re saying she might... become someone else?”
“Not entirely,” Saunders says quickly. “But yes. Some traits may emerge. The body has its own... rhythms. Preferences. Jennifer might begin to feel things she doesn’t recognize. Cravings. Emotional reactions. Even attractions that don’t make sense to her. Or to you.”
Your grip tightens on the armrests. Your teeth clench.
“What about her stuff?” your father asks suddenly, voice quieter. “I mean... Laura Card’s things. Her life. What happens to it all?”
“We’ve boxed everything,” Kerry replies. “Clothes, personal belongings, electronics, documents. Most of it will be archived under a sealed protocol. But some we had to keep accessible—for adjustment. A new body with different needs. The wardrobe alone, Peter—Jennifer’s not just in a younger body. She’s in a completely different one. Different proportions, posture, muscle structure... her old clothes don’t fit anymore. Hell, her walk doesn’t even feel natural to her yet.”
There’s a pause.
Then, with devastating quiet, Dr. Saunders adds: “And then there’s the more... delicate matter.”
Your skin prickles.
“The implant interface at the base of the neck,” he continues. “It’s small. Hidden. But the surgical area is still healing. If she turns too sharply, there’s risk of inflammation, even disruption to the cortical link. If that happens...” He doesn’t finish.
Your father does. “She could lose control.”
“Or worse,” Kerry says softly. “She could dissociate completely.”
You’ve heard enough.
“Take me back,” you whisper to the nurse. Your voice is raw, barely audible, but laced with enough urgency to snap her from her silence.
Without a word, she begins turning the chair, rolling you slowly down the corridor again. But now it’s different. You feel the weight of every breath. The chaos of every thought.
You don’t even realize you’re gripping the blanket over your legs like a lifeline.
Behavioral drift. Emotional irregularities. Cravings. Control loss.
You think of her eyes—those warm, familiar eyes set into Miss Card’s painfully beautiful face. You think of how her voice trembled when she called you Timmy. How her hands fidgeted in her lap like she didn’t know what to do with them.
Like she didn’t even know if they were really hers.
And most horrifying of all... what if, slowly, day by day, that feeling gets worse?
What if one day she wakes up and stops remembering she’s your mom?
You don’t even notice when you reach your own room again. The nurse helps you into the bed as your father walks back in, clearly surprised to see you already there.
You don’t look at him.
You just stare up at the ceiling, the room spinning quietly around you, and for the first time since the accident, you wonder if maybe... maybe saving her wasn’t the victory everyone thought it was.
Maybe it was something else entirely.
Something far more terrifying.
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
More by this author
