The Memories Of
Flatworms
In the early 1950’s Dr. James McConell ran experiments with platyhelminthes, also known as flatworms, training them to follow the most effective route through a maze. Once they had learned the route, he took them, crushed them and fed them to an additional group of flatworms. By eating the first group this second group of flatworms learned to run the maze considerably faster than the first group.
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My Brother and I
I was never lost. I always knew which way to go. I was sure. I felt it in my gut. Every turn, every move I made, was right. It was in me, in my memory, even though I had never been there before. I am a flatworm.
I was born with the memories of my brother. He was crushed one month before age thirteen, two years before I was born. I remember it. He didn’t hear or see the car, but he could feel it. He felt the hair on his neck prickle at the distinct, almost physical separation of air and space, a tremor like a lightning bolt down his spine. Then it hit him. The pain shot through his thighs, electrifying out towards every extremity in the body, he felt the tearing of his pelvis, then it was over. My parents told me that the medic said he didn’t feel any pain. They lied. I felt it. The car hit his body before it hit his head, I remember.
I consumed his memories, as I gestated inside my mother’s belly I felt her pain. She had lost a child, it was unnatural, children were supposed to bury their parents, not the other way around. Her sorrow overwhelmed me. I was born into the waiting hands of my father, hoping I could repair the hole tearing across his broken heart. And I could, I knew how. I was born ready.
I was my brother. Green eyes that could be blue if given the right light. Blonde hair. Feet that were too big for my body. But I wasn’t just his mirror image in appearance. I performed through life’s maze perfectly because my memories and actions fit together. All of my own memories, every snapshot of my childhood matched my brother’s. Our photo albums are mirror images of one another. The first time we kicked a soccer ball - we were two, we saw it rolling towards us and we slammed our foot against it, squealing with delight as it bounced off the wall back towards us. The first time we ate out of the family dog’s food bowl – we were five, we reached in wondering what it was that Max begged for every morning, spitting the dusty pellets out once the disgusting taste soaked into our taste buds. The first time we fed a duck -chucking entire slices of bread into the pond as the ducks flew away in fear of the huge objects being hurled towards them by a seven year old giant. In these moments we would look back at our parents and see our memories welling up to form tears in their eyes, played out for them in absolute repeat - sad tears - tears that would fall down their checks, like snowmelt flowing downstream.
But now I am lost. I sit staring at the thirteen quivering flames of light atop a simple sponge cake, not sure what I am supposed to do. Will my brother still be here if I blow them out, will he stay with me or will he be gone? The wax is beginning to drip onto the cake as the candles shrink, everyone is standing waiting for me to make a wish, but I remain frozen, steady and still as a kitchen sink. Can I exist without my brother, will I know what decisions to make, which paths to choose? I look up into my parents eyes. We’ve never been here before. I am a flatworm.
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