Forced Rememberence (standard:other, 977 words)
Author: Strange Thoughts	Added: Jan 27 2001	Views/Reads: 3699/8	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Peter's mind was sealed of his past, unreleased to him until a hypnotist sends him to the deepest darkest recesses of his mind and back on a frightful journey.(WARNING: some graphic violence contained.)

Forced Rememberence By Jason Smith 

As the lights slowly began to dim around him, Peter felt his mind
slipping away, diving into his mental recesses as the soothing words of 
the man went deep inside his hidden psyche.  His eyes closed as 
everything around him went dark, and his mind blank as a single stretch 
of parchment. 

“And now, Peter, you are asleep,” the hypnotist spoke, just as Peter’s
chin pressed to his chest, shoulders square in the chair he sat upon on 
the stage.  A few soft chuckles rose in the crowd, one or two light 
applause in the smoky lounge room.  The Mindwalker, or so the hypnotist 
had liked to be called, gently placed his fingers beneath Peter’s chin, 
lifting his head to face the crowd. 

“Peter, I want you to listen to me,” he said, his voice again calming,
soothing and suggestive, “do you understand this, speak yes if you do, 
no if you do not.” 

With a sluggish tone, the deeply tranced Peter spoke, “Yes.” 

“Very good Peter.  Now, why don’t you hold your right arm to your side,
palm up, straight out for me,” the hypnotist spoke again with soft 
tone.  Then, at simple mention of the words, Peter’s arm came to term 
with his request, palm up and to the side. 

The show continued on for another twenty or so minutes, Peter being the
main attraction.  His girlfriend Sara, on the other hand, was none too 
happy about what was happening to her man.  So far “The Mindwalker” had 
made Peter dance like a ballerina, recite “Mary Had a Little Lamb”, and 
give away details about their relationship, which had her face still 
red as crimson.  She made friendly applause and enough enthusiasm 
forced to seem a good sport, but inside she hated it all. 

Peter, however, stayed within those recesses of his mind through all of
the time and length he was upon the stage.  Through his eyes, it was 
not a mere twenty minutes, nor even thirty or a full hour, but rather, 
an inescapable cell of his inner soul and thoughts, things he buried so 
long ago in the past... 

A scream entered Peters mind as he now watched life through the eyes of
a child.  Though he wanted to turn away from the sound, hurting his 
ears, he could not, and he found himself with no control upon this new 
body and form.  As he was pulled along for the ride, he noticed things 
from his past.  The trailer walls littered with Post-Its and old 
monthly calendar slips; His juvenile senses detecting the odor of sweat 
and spilled alcohol upon the indoor/outdoor carpet.  All of these 
things returned to him in a sudden wave, as though thrust into his past 
life.  Still, he could not stop, driven by his past, unable to change 
it from the future, as he was forced to watch what he had chosen to 
forget. 

The man was perhaps 5’9” at best, with wide shoulders and large hands,
with thick, greasy arms.  The back Peter saw was covered by a white 
wife-beater tank top shirt, stained with slick marks of sweat and oil.  
A pair of tattered blue jeans were worn upon his stocky legs, and a 
thick mass of oily brown hair beneath a red and white baseball cap.  
The man held something in his hand, long and thin.  It didn’t take 
Peter long to realize it was a belt.  His form drew back, young and 
childish, fearful of the sight, but the man didn’t seem to notice 
Peter; he was focused on the form in front of him; she was in a 
bloodied housecoat, sobbing upon the floor, the source of the horrible 
cry that Peter had heard.  Thick red welts crossed her cheeks, and upon 
her neck small cuts ran chaotically. Her mascara was smeared down her 
cheeks from salty tears, her black hair up in rollers of assorted 
colors and sizes.  She looked like all hell, and from the way she 
cried, you’d think she was already there. 

Peter was starting to remember now... remember what he did and how he
did it.  As though it were second nature, he moved with the body, no 
longer pulled along for the ride, his body turning to the 
mini-kitchen’s counter, looking for anything he could use to help the 
woman; to help his mother.  His young fist curled tightly around the 
end of something black, pulling it from a wooden block with a hiss of 
steel on fiber.  He held the long butcher’s knife in his fist like a 
serial killer stalking his victim, the feel of it just right for his 
nubile hand as he moved forward with a scream, stabbing forward hard 
with the blade. 

The man screamed in truly mortal pain as his nine year old son drove the
knife up and around, piercing through the flesh of his groin and 
protruding through the front of his jeans before it slid away and 
out... He screamed as bile rose in his throat, and fell to the ground, 
twitching in true pain, the greatest he had ever felt in his woman 
beating days.  His hands dropped the belt and went to his groin as he 
dazed out, slowly slipping into unconsciousness as the bile simply 
stayed itself, choking him as he slipped into a coma, dying within ten 
minutes. 

His mother, horrified by the sight, drove herself into the corner of the
trailer, rocking it upon the wheels as she did.  The body would twitch 
time to time, as young Peter simply stood there, knife in hand, the 
front of him covered in blood.  He smelled the stinking man; the putrid 
stench of the vomit stuck inside his throat; and he liked it. The knife 
dropped with a clatter to the floor, and a grin crossed to Peter’s 
face. 


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