The Rewritten Memory

CHAPTER 2: I am you, Wyatt!

"Is this Wyatt Calloway's apartment?" The policeman asked, his tone professional as his eyes already assessed the open doorway.

"Yes, sir...I am Wyatt," Wyatt replied, a nervousness etched on his face.

"We got a message from your email. Is everything okay, Mr. Calloway?" Another police officer asked as he was getting inside the modern apartment.

"Some man got inside my house," Wyatt explained, turning quickly and pointing in the direction of the room. "I locked him in my guest room. Please, come in," he urged, almost jogging as he led the way.

"This room?" the first policeman asked, standing in front of the guest room, already pulling out his gun from his pocket to get into action. His gaze focused on the guest room door, and he waved his hand, telling Wyatt to unlock the door.

Wyatt nodded. With a soft click, the door unlocked. Both police officers immediately snapped to attention, straightened their posture, and pointed their guns like soldiers on a thrilling mission.

Both stood one by one. The first policeman gave a single nod, silently commanding the second policeman to follow. After they step inside, they move with defined focus and silent steps.

The first police officer gave an unspoken eye signal to watch the right side of the room to the second police officer. He nodded and scanned the entire right side, pointing the gun straight and alert in every single move.

But no one remained.

"This side clear..." the second police officer whispered as he lowered his gun, and the first police officer also put his gun down after confirming both sides were clear.

"Everything clear?" the first officer whispered as his focus landed on the restroom after hearing a metal clinking sound.

"Area clear..." the second policeman replied in a low voice.

"Shh!" The first police officer placed a finger to his lips to signal him to stop talking. He pointed his finger towards the bathroom.

The second policeman understood the silent command as he nodded in agreement.

The first policeman silently walked towards the restroom, gun raised and pointed. He smoothly grabbed the handle, twisted, and pulled the door open. His eyes scanned every corner of the room in a rapid, practiced sweep. But it remains silent, and only the movement of the curtain fills the window air. "Clear," he commanded as a relieved sigh escaped his mouth.

Then both walked outside the room. "No one was there, Mr. Wyatt.... Maybe you're mistaken about something...." The policeman replied, his voice softer as he glanced again at the room to confirm his assessment.

Mistake! I am sure he was inside my room, Wyatt thought as he stood silently.

"If you have any emergency, please contact us," another officer assured, and his tone suggested hope. He then extended a file for Wyatt to sign, a routine formality.

"Okay... sir. Thanks for your arrival." Wyatt gestured to send them off with a forced smile.

After obtaining a signature, both policemen left the place. He immediately walked towards the guest room, and his eyes scanned every inch of the room again, but no one was there. His gaze fixed on the particular place as his mind replayed the last scene, trying to reconcile it with the empty room. "How did the clone escape... But I locked the room with my hands," he questioned himself aloud, glancing down at his veiny hands, then to the doorknob. "Is that person existing, or am I just imagining? How did he escape without any trace?" A tonne of questions swirled in his mind, threatening to overwhelm him.

"Beep."

A sudden sound of the electric stove jolted him awake from the doubt to reality.

Then, his eyes unfocused, watching the table, his hand scooping the pasta, absently chewing the creamy pasta, without any expression on his face. "I am you, Wyatt..." the voice reeled in his mind again and again. "His tone and his behaviour are opposite to mine. Why does it still feel strange to me? But he looks energetic and smart," he thought and questioned himself as he placed a plate in the dishwasher.

After a few minutes, in the dim room, Wyatt lay on the bed, his eyes watching the ceiling with star-like dots sparkling in the dark, a pleasant, mild sleeping vibration playing in the room. "He resembles me exactly... exactly?" His eyes furrowed in disorientation. "But... I am sure he is not a clone! The way he talks and his confidence in everything-- that doesn't fit cloning.... Even he said he wouldn't hurt me... Something is fishy!" He murmured a question; his mind processed his every expression as he closed his eyes tightly. The light and music went off when he drifted to sleep.

 The next day, a bright morning, people moved through the streets like automatons, with no more expression on their faces; their lips were sealed and dried with an absent smile. They took every step with precision, defined and calculated, and made a few spaces between them as lined, without disturbing others. Even the silence was occupied, and the streets and footpaths, stores, and roads. Cars and buses glided by in a hushed procession.

Wyatt, posture rigidly straight in an office suit and black coat, strode into a vast hall with glass walls reflecting the muted cityscape. His eyes were fixed on the lift as he approached, but the door started to close, with no one, not even the lift attendants, pausing the lift. Even then, there was no fury or disappointment on his face. He glanced at his digital watch, which showed 8:55 am. Still, his expression remained calm, with no sign of urgency. He thought and remained silent, "Still, I have five more minutes."

Finally, the lift opened with a single click before him. He stepped inside, joining the handful of others already present. Still, no one opened their mouth and not even flicked their eyes at nearby colleagues. They exited on the lift according to their floor. Then the lift stopped at the twenty-fourth floor and automatically opened as he stepped out and walked directly towards his company-allocated room.

He stood in front of his room entrance door, scanning his eyes using the biometric method. After checking the process, the room unlocked with a single beep and an automatic voice announced in a cold, mechanical tone."Welcome, Wyatt Calloway... Have a good day...."

Wyatt stepped inside; the light automatically turned on, and the air conditioner hummed to life. Without glancing at anything, he walked towards his seat as he placed his files on the desk and switched on his laptop, and started working. His eyes were glued to the screen, his face looked bright and energetic while doing his job, and his hands were flying across the keyboard.

Meanwhile, a man dressed in a high-quality suit sat coldly and comfortably in a leather chair. The office takes place on the 100th floor of a sleek, modern building with innovative architectural design. The large glass windows behind him offered a stunning view of the city sprawled out below. A man in his 50s scanned the file and documents.

His assistant, standing respectfully in front of his boss, his hands clasped, watched him closely, waiting for Arthur Huxley's next move.

Arthur, the assistant manager, started, adjusting his tie and standing straight. "Mr. Huxley, sir... The cloning technology is getting worse than before. We got reported; hundreds of members were killed by clones just yesterday." He explained, his voice deep and determined, and was waiting for his reply.

Arthur tapped his tablet, watching the victim's faces and information labelled in blue text.

Victim name: Manson Wrister

Age: 38

Cause of death: Brain blood clot with neck broken.

"How did they confirm they were clones?" he questioned, gently placing the tablet on the table.

"In previous cases, one of them, the victim, accidentally shot the video before his death. The killer looks similar to the victim, and he lived in Area 69, sir." The assistant manager explained as he submitted the video proof in front of him.

The tablet screen blared footage with broken audio, "Die!!!! Die...." A killer voice roared in a cold and guttural tone. "We're going to rule this entire world.... Humans are just trash...." A killer slapped him hard until the victim's cheek became a red handprint. Then the killer folded his knuckles and brutally punched with the same force on the victim's face like a punching bag, and the blood splattered from his mouth and covered the entire face, and his eyes were smashed and out with his hand.