Jake clutched the tablet under his arm as he got out of the taxi, struggling to keep his balance on the crutch he still had to use. Pedestrians rushed past; phones in hand, earplugs blaring, cams switched on to record every detail. His right hand throbbed where it pressed on the crutch. He held the tablet tighter. He needed to be here. Not at home, not speaking to some shrink who thought he shouldn’t be “so private about his pain”. This was private. His. Not everyone found it freeing to upload every memory as creative commons videos to be changed and shared again and again. He didn’t care what they thought. He just wanted his memories. Without tampering and without comments. He had to live it again. To see where it went wrong.
He reached the intersection and leaned against the wall of the corner shop to catch his breath. He placed the crutch against the wall and waited for the pain in his hand to subside. Around him glass-encased buildings towered above the exhaust fumes and rushing people. The tablet blinked and beeped as a notification popped up. His brother had posted the memory of his wedding vows on a cc site. The divorce must be final, then. Jake closed the notification and let the SharedMemories app sync with his GPS coordinates to make it easier to find the files. He swiped through them until he reached the last one he’d saved. Until two months ago he’d passed here every day. Sometimes his cam picked up the same people and faces, the same cars. He never bothered to watch them.
Now it was as if he was reliving that day. The picture shifted and bumped as they made their way across the street. The recorded cacophony of rush hour mixed with the reality around him. Every few steps his daughter’s smiling face came into view as he looked down at her. He stopped the playback when they reached the other side of the road.
Watch again? the app asked.
His finger lingered over the buttons.
Yes?
No?
He touched the screen. Yes.
They walked across the street, the picture shifting. Amy’s face, smiling. Stop.
Watch again?
Yes.
Across the street, Amy smiling. Stopping in front of the sweet shop. Amy laughing. Stop.
Watch again?
Yes.
Jake took a deep breath. Okay, he could make it to the sweet shop on the corner.
Watch again?
No.
Share with friends?
No.
Are you sure? Yes? No?
Thumbnails of video memories his friends and family had shared showed on the screen, making him feel foolish for not wanting to do the same. One was of him in the hospital, taken by his sister. He looked back at the button.
Are you sure? Yes? No?
His parents would love to see Amy like this. He wiped clammy hands on his shirt, shifting the tablet from one hand to the other. No, this one was his alone. It was bad enough the police had a copy. The screen blinked, insisting he make a quick decision.
Are you sure? Yes? No?
Yes.
Add music? Yes? No?
No.
The app returned to the home screen. Thumbnails of videos and snippets of posts loaded automatically.
Watch “Amy’s birthday, age 9”
Watch “Amy’s first day of school”
Watch “Family picnic”
Watch “Amy’s funeral”
Girl (9) killed in hit and run
Girl (9) dies of injuries, father in a coma
Community holds vigil for “Angel Amy”
Community: “We want justice for Angel Amy”
Like page “Justice for Angel Amy”
A new notification popped up, hiding the content beneath. The thumbnail showed a blurry shot of a hand holding a cocktail.
Lindy shared “Wild night at club”. Watch now? Yes? No?
“No!” he shouted at the screen, causing a few pedestrians to scowl at him.
Watch “Taking Amy to Work”?
Jake slid to the ground, sending the crutch clattering to the cement. People rushed past, oblivious to the crying man. A few cams caught glimpses of him as they passed, adding him to the background of other’s memories. The wall stung cold against his back. Pain throbbed down his leg. He cradled the tablet as he drew his knees to his chest.
Gareth shared “Crap day at work (with music) FUNNY!!!” Watch now? Yes? No?
The screen remained static for a few seconds before the notification disappeared.
Watch “Taking Amy to Work”?
No.
Watch “Taking Amy to Sweet Shop”?
Jake paused. Yes.
The playback stops when they step out of the shop. In the background is the red car. Tinted windows. A mud-splattered number plate. Stolen and later abandoned in an alley. He didn’t see it coming. But the cam did. He should have seen it. It was right there. He should have seen it.
The rest of the recording was erased. He didn’t need the reminder. The police could keep it.
Watch again?
No.
Tears blurred the screen until he blinked. He swiped back and forth between files before choosing a thumbnail.
Watch “Amy’s birthday, age 9”?
Yes.
Someone dropped a few coins next to him. He didn’t look up. On the screen Amy was smiling. A silver plastic tiara was in her hair. He smiled.
Watch again?
Yes.
Share?
He paused. This was what they should remember. Not the red car. Not the blood. This must be the memory.
Yes.
Carin Marais is a South African living in what have been called the largest man-made urban forest and the City of Gold. A language practitioner by trade, she blames exposure to too many books from an early age, a motley of interests and a stationery addiction as the catalysts that led to some thoughts escaping and turning into stories, articles and even poetry. Visit her blog at www.hersenskim.blogspot.com and her tweets @CarinMarais.
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