Someone To Kiss My Scars: A Teen Thriller

by Brooke Skipstone

  He kept denying what he was for years, even marrying and having kids, but he never felt the same excitement as he had with Parker and Sam. Or with another man in Fairbanks four years ago.

  He’d lost interest in pretending to enjoy sex with his wife when he began working at Prudhoe Bay. On one trip home, his plane was diverted to Fairbanks due to a volcano south of Anchorage erupting ash. During the day he spent waiting for another connection home, he visited a bar and met Stanley, an off-duty detective. Joe spent the night at Stanley’s house. On subsequent trips, he made sure to spend at least one day in Fairbanks going to and coming from Prudhoe.

  He wasn’t sure if Savannah had started drinking before or after that change. She had accused him of having an affair with a woman, of course. When a private detective told her about Stanley, she’d threatened to tell his boys. She’d called him a “fag”—as if she were able to judge him.

  He had called her much worse and threatened to call the police.

  Where was Hunter getting these stories? How could he know about these events?

  Something bad was happening to Hunter. No normal kid would be forced to write these stories day after day, watching the most intimate details of other people’s lives. After reading thirty of them that morning, Joe couldn’t believe Hunter hadn’t gone crazy. Stories of pain and abuse and disappointment, but still, none of them coming close to the horror of Hunter’s own experience, which had caused all of this.

  And they were all probably as true as those about Joe.

  His son was seeing other people’s memories! Not just everyday events. No, these were painful, traumatic, or joyful in their illicitness.

  In many ways, so similar to Hunter’s own experiences.

  Why had Hunter seen those particular memories from Joe’s past?

  What if he’d seen others?

  Hunter’s memories were erased, but Joe’s weren’t. He trembled at the prospect of Hunter learning more about him and about Stanley in Fairbanks. Or what really happened that last day when Savannah and Frankie died.

  How was this possible?

  He had to call Dr. Ru.

  Joe had gone to that doctor as a last resort, knowing his methods were unorthodox, even dangerous. But Hunter had spent over three years screaming or in a fog or trying to kill himself, so what else could Joe do? He wasn’t foolish enough to believe his son was cured or wouldn’t have future problems, but having his head invaded by foreign memories wasn’t on anyone’s list of possibilities.

  At least not Joe’s.

  After his final session with Hunter, Ru had said to contact him if his son showed signs of regaining his memories. “How would I know?” Joe had asked. Ru had replied that Hunter might become violent or depressed. Joe had seen no sign of either, but Ru had added, “or other unusual behavior.” As Joe recalled the conversation, he realized Ru clearly expected Hunter to change in some way. But seeing the memories of other people? Surely not.

  Joe had hidden his old phone in a broken boot sole taped to the leather uppers. He’d retrieved it and left it charging for the past twenty minutes. He opened his contacts, found Ru’s personal number, and called from the kitchen.

  The phone rang several times before going to voicemail.

  “Please leave a message.”

  Joe cleared his throat. “Hello, Dr. Ru, this is Joe Williams. You treated my son, Hunter, a year ago to eliminate his memories of the deaths of his mother and brother. I need to speak to you about some unusual behavior Hunter has displayed during the past two months—”

  The line clicked, and Ru’s voice cut in. “Hello? Mr. Williams? This is Dr. Ru.”

  Joe heard Ru’s distinctive Asian accent, lyrical and kind.

  “Oh, hello,” replied Joe, “I—”

  “I’m going to call you back on another line. Please disconnect and answer the next call.”

  “OK.” Joe disconnected then took a quick peek out the windows.

  His phone rang, displaying an unknown number. Why did he have to call back on another number? He accepted the call.

  “Hello? Dr. Ru?”

  “Yes, Joe. How can I help you?”

  “Should I use this number to contact you in the future?”

  “Yes. Please. What is Hunter doing that concerns you?”

  Joe sat down at the table and told him about Hunter’s stories, but did not reveal the content of the two from Joe’s youth.

  “Have you heard of anything like this?” asked Joe.

  Ru paused. “A few patients have experienced their old memories and did not recognize them as theirs. Another boy complained to his parents that he heard voices, but I haven’t spoken directly to him to know any specifics. How do you know these are real memories and not just fantasies?”

  He pinched his nose between his eyes. “Because two of them are about me. All the details are correct.”

  “Can you verify any of the other stories?”

  “No. Not entirely, but a few seem to be from people he’s met before, some friends of mine. I haven’t read all of them yet. I’m worried that he’ll remember his mother and her death through my memories, even though his are gone.”

  “Has he said anything to indicate any memories have returned?”

  “Yes. He said he sees a hallway and a door with a handle before his visions start. He asked me if our old house had handles on the doors. They did. But that’s all he’s mentioned. Dr. Ru, how can Hunter see my memories?”

  Ru paused before answering. “Maybe I should see Hunter. Do you still live in Washington?”

  “No. We moved last summer.”

  “Where are you living now?”

  For some reason, Joe hesitated. “Far enough away that returning to see you would be very inconvenient.”

  “I see. This sounds very serious, Joe. Have you told anyone else about these stories?”

  “No.”

  “Does Hunter know these stories are real memories?”

  “I don’t think so. We haven’t talked about them. He knows I read one of the stories, but not any of the others.”

  “Have you noticed anything in common among the stories? Is there anything to connect them to each other?”

  Joe felt his face flush with heat. “Yeah. A lot of sex, most of it hidden or inappropriate.”

  “Give me an example, please.”

  “Incest, homosexuality, assault. Things like that.”

  “I see. Maybe they are connected to aspects of his original memories.”

  Joe thought about the story events and saw similarities to Hunter’s past situation. He stood up and gazed out the window. “Now that you mention that, I can see connections.”

  “I cannot explain why he would see other people’s actual memories, but it is possible that Hunter’s old memories are coming back to him. Is there any possibility that I can speak to him?”

  Joe hesitated. Hunter had no memory of Ru or his treatment.

  “Wouldn’t that be a little awkward since Hunter doesn’t remember you?”

  “You could tell him that you asked a psychiatrist to talk to him about his stories. He doesn’t have to know my connection to his past. I believe talking to me would help Hunter.”

  Joe was hoping for another option, one that wouldn’t accidentally trigger Hunter’s memories.

  “Is there anything else we can do?”

  Ru paused.

  “There is . . . another possibility.”

  Joe thought he sounded unsure.

  “You could try resetting the chip in his brain.”

  Joe gasped. “He has a chip? Did you mention this to me before?”

  Again, Ru paused. “I’m sure I did. The chip does nothing now, but it can be activated.”

  “What would that do?”

  “Reset his memories to what they were when he left my office.”

  “So basically no memories.”

  “Or something close to that.”


  Joe remembered how Hunter was after the treatment. He knew Joe and some basic facts about himself, but otherwise he was like a teenage baby. “How would I do it?”

  “I can email you instructions. Is your old email address still good?”

  “Yes.”

  “I will send instructions in a few minutes.”

  “Would this require us to see another doctor?”

  “No. You can do it yourself. I purposely made the procedure simple to perform, yet unlikely to happen by accident.”

  “Is there any danger in doing the reset? Could all his memories return if I do this?”

  “Resetting the chip would not be dangerous to Hunter, and there’s no reason why his memories would return afterward.”

  “OK.”

  “Joe, if in fact Hunter can see the memories of other people, that would be of great interest to scientists. And possibly government officials. You can imagine how such an ability could be exploited.”

  “Meaning what, exactly?”

  “Meaning it might be better for Hunter if this ability were kept secret.”

  Joe paused. On the one hand, this ability would make Hunter’s life more complicated and even dangerous. On the other hand, it could also be worth a lot of money. “What would you do if you had a patient with Hunter’s ability?”

  “My first priority, as always, is to ensure the safety and well-being of my patients. Subsequent to that, I would try to discover the factors that affect which memories he sees, such as proximity to the person, type of memory, and so forth. And ultimately whether he could learn to control memory acquisition and whether others could learn the technique. But all that is probably not in Hunter’s best interest. Is he bothered by these memories?”

  “Yes. He can’t sleep. They seem to be happening more frequently. He’s also been more determined to get information about his past.”

  “You will have to decide what is best for him, Joe. Perhaps the reset is worth pursuing. How was he before the memories started?”

  “He seemed to be all right. Still spent a lot of time writing on his computer, but he wasn’t so desperate. He was definitely better than he is now.”

  “On which computer does he write these stories?”

  “It’s the school’s property. Each student is issued one during the year.”

  “Perhaps it would be better if he used his own computer to ensure that these stories aren’t seen by others. For Hunter’s sake. What do you think would happen if Hunter’s stories became public? Especially if others recognized their own memories like you did.”

  Joe’s mind filled with trooper car lights flashing outside his house and angry people banging on his door. What’s the penalty for hacking memories, he wondered? “I understand. I’ll get him another computer.”

  “I will send the instructions shortly. Please call me if you need anything else.”

  “Thanks, Dr. Ru. I appreciate your help.” He disconnected.

  Joe stared ahead, seeing nothing in particular. He reached vaguely for a chair to sit in and almost fell on the floor when he missed the seat. What should he do?

  If he did nothing, the chances that Hunter would see more of Joe’s memories increased, as did the chance that others would discover Hunter’s abilities.

  If he reset the chip, things might go back to normal, whatever that was in Hunter’s life, or they might not. Maybe all of his old memories would return. Ru seemed unsure of the results.

  His phone dinged. Joe opened Ru’s email:

  Hunter’s chip can be reset by a specific sound. Since music, especially one particular song, played such a large role in Hunter’s relationship with his mother, I programmed the chip to reset when it senses the opening riff of that song played backwards repeatedly. A speaker placed above his right ear against the skull while the backwards riff plays will prompt the reset. Make sure he hears only the riff backwards.

  Joe knew the song—”Whole Lotta Love” by Led Zeppelin. One common interest he had shared with Savannah was Zeppelin and classic rock. Frankie and Hunter must have heard the Mothership album a thousand times. Now Hunter never listened to music. He had no songs on his phone or computer. Joe had never heard him play the radio in the car.

  He understood why.

  Joe’s hairs on his neck tingled as he realized that Ru had acted suspiciously. Why did Ru email the instructions rather than tell him during the call? And why did he not name the song?

  Because he’s worried about being discovered? By whom? Who would be interested in the song title?

  Could someone be monitoring his phone or Ru’s? Who would care?

  And why had Ru called back on another number? And the chip. Joe would’ve remembered Ru telling him about an implant into his son’s brain. So Ru was lying. Why?

  Maybe he should buy another phone, as well as a computer. He should drive to Fairbanks. Now.

  He still had stories to read, so he hurriedly removed all the papers from Hunter’s wall and put them in a box, which then went into his truck. He would text Hunter later to explain.

  And say what?

  His son was not ready for the truth about his mother’s death.

  He never would be.

  After another five minutes, he pulled out of his driveway. He had a little over an hour of driving to Fairbanks to figure out what he and Hunter were going to do.

  Chapter Eight

  Jazz waited outside the classroom as Hunter walked out, his face focused on the floor, not looking where he was going. Her heart fluttered as she reached out for his arm. “Hunter? Are you OK?”

  He stopped, lifted his head, and smiled at her, but it didn’t touch his eyes. “I just failed a quiz. I sent you two stories.”

  “I know, but you said not to open them. What’s going on?” His shoulders slumped as he leaned against the wall. She so wanted to give him a hug, but they had never really touched. Sometimes she thought he would reach out to her, but he held back, like he was scared.

  He pushed himself from the wall. “Let’s walk down to the gym. Just for a minute.”

  They walked side-by-side, forcing others to move out of their way. The lobby outside the gym was empty.

  Hunter clutched his computer to his chest and sighed heavily. “I keep having visions flash through my mind at all hours of the day. I write them down and when I’m home, I print them out. The two I sent you were from classes this morning, one about Eric and Ms. Tucker. The other is about how the fire started on the Parks Highway south of Nenana.”

  “Yeah, the father blamed his son for starting it.”

  “There’s more to the story. I saw it happen. In my head, Jazz.” His eyes opened wide. “The stories run through my head like a movie, just like you said this morning.”

  Jazz saw his bloodshot eyes as he blinked too rapidly. She ached for him. “Since when?”

  “About two months ago. One night I had just finished another Tremarian story, and I heard a sound. Like a pounding. Then I saw a hallway and a door, and then the story started. It kept looping in my brain over and over until I decided to write it down. Once I finished, I stopped seeing the story. But here’s another thing that’s really strange. I wrote a story in English today about Eric and Ms. Tucker having sex at her house this weekend.”

  “Having sex?”

  “Yeah. I saw the entire thing. Just when I was describing how they ran back to the bedroom, Tucker came by my desk to see how I was doing. She read the story and got upset. She didn’t want anyone else to read it. She got angry with Eric after class, which was why he pushed me into the Pit. They both claimed nothing had happened between them. But I saw them, Jazz, as clearly as I saw Anthony start the fire. Why would my head make up a story about Tucker and Eric screwing each other?”

  Jazz saw the confusion and pain in his face and noticed the vein pulsing in his neck. She reached for his hand.

  “How can one be real and the other not be?” asked Hunter. “Do you kn
ow how Anthony started the fire?”

  “Supposedly, he tossed some burning coals into the trees.”

  “OK. I never knew that, but that’s exactly what I saw in the story. His father forced him to stay outside while he and his wife had sex inside. He told Anthony to dump the coals from the burn barrel into the woods to keep him occupied so he wouldn’t come into the house.”

  “Really? The father told everyone that Anthony did it on his own.”

  “Not in the story I saw.” He shifted his feet and tried to swallow. He looked desperate, almost crazed.

  Her chest hurt with worry about him. “Hey, we’ll figure this out.” She pushed some hair out of his face and tried to smile.

  “Do you believe me?”

  “Of course, I do!” Did she? This sounded crazy. But he had always listened to her when she needed to talk, had always smiled when he saw her. She would not fail him now. “I’m worried about you.”

  “I’m worried about me.”

  His eyes twitched and his breathing quickened.

  “This morning I was going to drive into the trees. I couldn’t stand it anymore. Then my phone buzzed with your message.”

  “Hunter!” she gasped then wrapped her arms around him. “No, no, no. You will not do anything like that.”

  “I need help. I need someone to talk to.” He crushed her against him.

  Jazz felt a rush of panic but also a flood of warmth feeling him hug her. When was the last time anyone had hugged her out of sympathy? She couldn’t remember. Tears ran down her cheeks as her stomach twisted. Hunter was her only friend, and he could have died this morning! She couldn’t lose him.

  “Hunter, I will help you. We can talk at my house during lunch. Just one more class period to get through. OK?” She leaned back from him and held his face in her hands. “OK?”

  “OK. Thanks.” He wiped her cheek with one hand. “And then you can tell me what you want to forget.”

  Jazz smiled. “Deal. And promise me you won’t drive toward any trees or do anything else like that. I couldn’t stand you being hurt.”

  “We’ll go in your car. You drive.”

  She hugged him hard again. The bell rang. “We need to get to math.” She grabbed his hand. “C’mon.”