[ 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 .

**Edit: Just re-read and there's some continuity errors and some tense switch-ups. may fix them in a while. Or not. Not sure. Still, not bad for being written at 4am after battling a baby who did n't want to sleep the previous two hours. Comments and critiques are welcome. ** 
 
 Soft light filtered through a crack at the base of the stairs. Tom moved as quietly as possible, to avoid being caught. He had no idea what these White Wings people were capable of, the journal had n't made that apparent. 
 
 Ah, the journal. Tom's life had been forever changed the first time he found it. Sequestered away in an old box, hidden within a small luggage bag inside a lockbox with the keys nowhere to be found. 
 
 Inside, cryptic messages about one of the world's leading pharmaceutical companies, White Wings Medicine. Pages upon page of ranting, crazy conspiracies about them blackmailing powerful politicians and celebrities. All seemingly the ravings of a madman. Until of course the president and CEO of the company had been found guilty of insider trading, and solicitation of underage prostitutes. Just as the notebook had said. 
 
 Nearly a year of unravelling the mysteries of the journal had led him here, searching for something the author only called, `` Trove of Truth.'' 
 
 Carefully, Tom felt around the old and musty wood that made up the panel of wood the light was leaking through. To the right, hidden as a part of the moulding he found a switch. 
 
 A firm press released the switch with a heavy clack and the panel spring towards Tom's eager hand. 
 
 In front of him was a small work space with a three legged stool that looked to be closer to sawdust than lumber. Thick cobwebs draped themselves over most surfaces, vying with the dust to cover every object in the small space. 
 
 His eye was caught by metal, glinting in the yellowy light. It was the corner of a gilded page of a book, buried amid a mass of journals, newspaper scraps and writing implements. Pens, pencils and quills all present along with crayons, chalk, and even some calligraphy brushes. 
 
 On the wall a compendium of articles with notes scribbled all over them, passages highlighted or surrounded in angry red ink. Question marks and arrows linked disparate elements from multiple pages with odd numbers. One column had four headings that read: c7zqypr, txv8d, c8yuns, e44uys. 
 
 In the center of everything was a journal that looked slightly newer than the rest, bearing a simple paragraph. 
 
 `` I know. I've been where you are. It's tempting, is n't it? To try to piece the clues together. To be the *one* who figures it out, finally. But you ca n't. You mus n't. The lost memories are just that, lost. Do n't pursue it, you will not be happy. White Wings is too involved. It will not end well for you. It did n't last time. DO NOT PURSUE THIS MADNESS AGAIN, TOM. You will regret it. -5/16/2068'' 
 
 Pure and abject terror gripped Tom for a long while. His mind thrown back to all the times he'd been caught red-handed doing something bad as a child, every lie he'd been caught in as an adult. That pit in your stomach that feels like it's pushing your organs into your throat when you know, *you know* that trouble is coming. 
 
 He stared, utterly still, at the paper before him. It was clearly addressed to him. It was dated a year before he moved into the house, and most distressingly, it was in his own handwriting. 
 
 *********************** 
 
 TWO YEARS LATER 
 
 *********************** 
 
 Peering into the window of Tom's house had become much like looking into the mind of a paranoid schizophrenic. Sheafs of papers ranging in topics from pharmaceutical testing procedures to agriculture to advanced thermodynamics lay strewn about. Seemingly random, the chaos has an order that he can see. 
 
 A web of thread and ink hinted at connections between data points, the name White Wings Medical appears over an over again. Articles about disappearances and obituaries of over 20 individuals all pointed back at the company. Sketchy writing, Tom's own, repeated the same question everywhere. `` Whitecoats?'' 
 
 To the side, a separate set of portraits. A middle-aged woman, closer to aged than to middle, smiled up at him alongside pictures of two slightly older gentleman and another man, roughly 30 years old. Beside and underneath was his own writing, `` Wife and Son? Cousins? Related somehow. Where did the memory go?'' 
 
 Pale light bloomed in the cramped space between papers, books and treatises on game theory as a monitor sprang to life. Programs trawling the web for keywords fed him new information on a near-constant basis. 
 
 A message flashed on the screen: **NEW AUDIO FILE READY FOR ANALYSIS** 
 
 Tom swiped a few times on the keyboard, readying a transcribing program and a few others that would create and disseminate the information to his many backup servers. 
 
 The faint hiss and pop of a recorder trying to imitate silence reached Tom's ears as he waited to see why the computer had pulled this file. His pupils dilated and that familiar pit of terror grabbed at his throat. Heart pounding, Tom put the message on repeat and listened for ages he leapt into action. 
 
 Underneath the commotion of hurried packing and Tom's hurried footsteps the message played over and over, Tom's own voice playing back at him. 
 
 `` The Whitecoats are coming. Tonight. Run. Fast and far. And for God's sake please give this up. It's better this way. Let them do their work.'' 
 
 ( continued in reply, was too long )
