[ WP ] Memory erasing tech is now common . A man has large self inflicted gaps in his memory that is he desperate to know more about , but a note from himself keeps him from doing it . when he finally does , the reason is something he would have never expected .

I could n't handle it anymore. 
 
 The door stared at me, as impenetrable as fort knox, mocking my every pass. Day in, day out, it would sit as menacingly as a door could muster. It seemed to me that a gloom emanated from under the door, from the places where the hinges met the wooden frame. It was a quiet herald of darkness that always sat on the edge of my vision. When I woke up and shuffled past, my favourite pair of wool slippers made a hushed kssh ksssh ksshh, and the door seemed to suck the noise into it. Maybe what bothered me the most, was that it was in my own house. How it got there, I do n't know. It was always locked, and forever imposing. 
 
 It felt like the worst hangover I had ever experienced. Even worse than my friend's bachelor party. I distinctly remember throwing up in the banquet toilet. And fountain. And the groom's car. That morning I could n't exactly remember where I had been the night before, but I woke up covered in sick, fully clothed. One has to piece the night together most of the time anyway, this simply seemed like another night out. My head throbbed and pulsed unpleasantly. I remember rolling to my side to see a bottle of water, and a pack of paracetemol arranged conveniently on my nightstand. It was the first time I could recall that drunk me had taken such good care of sober me. 
 
 The same thing had happened on the first day. Fully clothed, covered in sick, I rolled over on my queen sized bed, despairing at the massive distance that seemed to separate my side of the bed with the nightstand, and the precious water and drugs that lay atop it. I smacked my mouth open and closed, tasting the drunken debauchery from the night before. Did I drink gin or whiskey last night? I smacked my tongue against my teeth. Definitely whiskey. 
 
 After a series of mental affirmations that I would not in fact vomit all over the bed if I came to an erect position, I sat up and my shoes smacked against the hardwood floor. It's amazing the detail we retain of things we want to remember. 
 
 While taking my drugs, I stumbled towards the kitchen. I first saw it there. The door. It seemed like something out of a horror film. It was barricaded, blocked, locked, welded and chained, as if the devil himself resided inside. Each lock dared you to trip it.'Open me', it would chime,'open me, and find the treasures within.' I half expected the scent of brimstone to waft out from underneath the heavy oak door. Oh yes, trust me, I smelled under that door. When you forget what a room in your house is, or was, you tend exhaust your options. 
 
 But perhaps the most frightening thing was n't the door itself, but a tiny, cream coloured post-it note, stuck solidly to the middle of the door amid the chains and locking mechanisms. 
 
 It read, in my own handwriting.'Do not open.' 
 
 I had to question how I was able to install what seemed to be state of the art security in my drunken stupor. My head still throbbing, I peeled the note carefully from the door. It, in fact, was not a post-it note at all, but a receipt from Cloud Memories. The pithy phrase underneath their small cloud logo read `` Let us handle the back ups and the clean ups.'' It had my name, an account number, and a help-line number. 
 
 ( sorry, had to post this because I was on somebody else's computer, will finish soon!! )
