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Description
I started writing this almost a year ago back in October, this story started telling itself in my mind.
I only have a few parts of it composed, but I'm only really lacking a solid middle of the story, and I have a basic idea.
It would just be a very short story though.
I am re-arranging these from old conversations I had, because a hard copy no longer exists (unfortunately)

This is all I have, the brackets are my thoughts, or rather my comments that I made while writing this and brainstorming in this conversation.

July 10th

        The doctors said I should start a journal; a record of any changes that may occur as a result of the surgery. It's still several days before the procedure, but in order for them to accurately detect any changes, they want documentation of my state of mind before hand.

        With the date of the operation drawing closer, I'm feeling anxious. The booklet they gave to me after the I'm not entirely sure what the consequences will be, but I was assured that I would be reimbursed adequately for my contributions to the field of medical science, and the future of mental health. I hope all goes as planned.

        July 11th

        I finished all the necessary paper work concerning my job today. I had to sign several stacks of paper work, ensuring the big wigs of my employer that their company would not be held responsible for any injury caused as a direct result of any side effects that may be caused by my participation in this experiment. Lots of liability stuff. a slew of fancy terms for "not our fault."
        "Sign here," my pen slides slick across another bold line,
        "And here," another "X"
        "Here too. . ." as I lose myself in the waves of ink swirls and lines,
        "Just initial this," I find myself wondering,
        "One more here." Is this how it feels to sign away your soul?
        "Thank you so much for your co-operation! We hope you won't be away long."

        I bet Satan requires less paperwork.

July 12th

        "I'm worried."

        My wife is pacing the bedroom floor, her fingers pulling through her lose tangles in her corn-silk ringlets. I note the grimace spreading slowly across her face as her eyebrows knit themselves together.

        I smile.

        "Elizabeth, everything is going to be fine. Dr. Johnson says that slight memory loss should be the biggest thing we have to worry about." I lie.

        She sighs as she seats herself at the end of the bed, her leg folding underneath her, out of habit. She takes my hand and massages little circles in the palm, rotating my tarnishing wedding band.

        "It's just not right. Tinkering inside someone's brain. . .God made us as we are for a reason; I think these are waters best left untested."

        I kiss her forehead, and cup her face in my own calloused palm.

        "Try not to fret so much." I say softly, urging her onto her side of the bed, under the blankets.

        I let my smile drop as I listen intently at her deep, even breaths of a comfortable sleep.

        I'm terrified.

July 14th

        It is the day before the surgery, and I can't sleep. Even now, the house is completely silent except for the sound of my scrawling, and the nearly silent ticking of the living room clock.

        My mouth is dry, and the taste of acid is burning the back of my throat. I glance up at the clock's expressionless face, and I find myself counting the hours. 4. . .5. . .6. . .
        "Seven hours." I whisper aloud, and my stomach churns again.

        But in 24 hours, who knows who I'll be?

________

[I'm debating on what to put in the next one, I'm thinking I'm going to say that his daughter tells him she wants to be a doctor that works on brains when she grows up, and that she has a revolutionary idea that she will make not smart people smart.]

        [I think

        that it's going to go somewhat like this]



        "Daddy! I know what I'm going to be when I grow up!" My daughter exclaimed through a mouthful of cereal. "A brain doctor!" she grinned ear to ear, a hole gaped where her baby incisor once hung in her mouth now awaiting the arrival of a new adult tooth.

        I smiled at her enthusiasm.

        "And I'm going to be the best doctor ever! I'm going to make a medicine that makes not smart people smart!"

        I laugh a little at this.

        "Sounds like you'll be a great doctor."

        "No daddy the best!" she insists.

        "Okay, then the best."


       [ Hmmm I think somethings missing, I might make this part a little different]


       [ I'm thinking that instead of at breakfast, maybe on the way to daycare. . .]


       [ Originally I was going to have this just be a melancholy scene where he's dropping her off at daycare, and tells her that mommy will have to drop her off tomorrow]


        and she smiles and says "That's okay daddy. I decided I'm going to be a brain doctor when I grow up, so that I can take care of your brain when it's sick next time!"

        [ I'm also debating on whether he's doing this because he was randomly selected to receivevc information on it, or if he's doing it because of some underlying problem with his brain. ]


       [ I'm thinking I want to do this because he has some sort of mental disorder]

       [ I'm kind of second guessing it now. I was going to maybe do some type of autism, or perhaps mild schizophrenia

        but he develops schizophrenia as a result of the surgery

        so I don't want to do that

        so I'm thinking he just does this because he's told that he could have his family taken care of with the money he gets from it. ]




July 15th

        When I awake, I'm never entirely sure of who I am. Sometimes when I open my eyes after a peaceful slumber, I don't recognize myself. Seeing the reflection in the mirror is often startling, and my thoughts drift elsewhere into the ever expanding universe.

        Imagine your skull as a box; every though you have ever had, and ever will have bounce around inside this box. Now imagine this box opening and you conjure thoughts to attempt to fill the void, the thoughts gushing forward quickly, without settling. This is what it feels like.

        Today the person in the mirror is haggard and desperately lonely. I know them very well.

        The forecast for today is cloudy and cold.

        [here is the one I wrote right after that, it's incomplete though.]

July 18th


        I woke up today and it was jarring to find a small child in the bed next to me. My initial thought was terrifying when I suddenly realized it was my daughter Rebbecca sleeping soundly with her small tender face next to my own. I knew who's child this was instantly, but in my mind for a brief moment, it was not mine. . .

        Today my socks do not match.


I have decided to leave out the ending in case I decide to ever finish this, as not to spoil it.

Description
I started writing this almost a year ago back in October, this story started telling itself in my mind.
I only have a few parts of it composed, but I'm only really lacking a solid middle of the story, and I have a basic idea.
It would just be a very short story though.
I am re-arranging these from old conversations I had, because a hard copy no longer exists (unfortunately)

This is all I have, the brackets are my thoughts, or rather my comments that I made while writing this and brainstorming in this conversation.

July 10th

        The doctors said I should start a journal; a record of any changes that may occur as a result of the surgery. It's still several days before the procedure, but in order for them to accurately detect any changes, they want documentation of my state of mind before hand.

        With the date of the operation drawing closer, I'm feeling anxious. The booklet they gave to me after the I'm not entirely sure what the consequences will be, but I was assured that I would be reimbursed adequately for my contributions to the field of medical science, and the future of mental health. I hope all goes as planned.

        July 11th

        I finished all the necessary paper work concerning my job today. I had to sign several stacks of paper work, ensuring the big wigs of my employer that their company would not be held responsible for any injury caused as a direct result of any side effects that may be caused by my participation in this experiment. Lots of liability stuff. a slew of fancy terms for "not our fault."
        "Sign here," my pen slides slick across another bold line,
        "And here," another "X"
        "Here too. . ." as I lose myself in the waves of ink swirls and lines,
        "Just initial this," I find myself wondering,
        "One more here." Is this how it feels to sign away your soul?
        "Thank you so much for your co-operation! We hope you won't be away long."

        I bet Satan requires less paperwork.

July 12th

        "I'm worried."

        My wife is pacing the bedroom floor, her fingers pulling through her lose tangles in her corn-silk ringlets. I note the grimace spreading slowly across her face as her eyebrows knit themselves together.

        I smile.

        "Elizabeth, everything is going to be fine. Dr. Johnson says that slight memory loss should be the biggest thing we have to worry about." I lie.

        She sighs as she seats herself at the end of the bed, her leg folding underneath her, out of habit. She takes my hand and massages little circles in the palm, rotating my tarnishing wedding band.

        "It's just not right. Tinkering inside someone's brain. . .God made us as we are for a reason; I think these are waters best left untested."

        I kiss her forehead, and cup her face in my own calloused palm.

        "Try not to fret so much." I say softly, urging her onto her side of the bed, under the blankets.

        I let my smile drop as I listen intently at her deep, even breaths of a comfortable sleep.

        I'm terrified.

July 14th

        It is the day before the surgery, and I can't sleep. Even now, the house is completely silent except for the sound of my scrawling, and the nearly silent ticking of the living room clock.

        My mouth is dry, and the taste of acid is burning the back of my throat. I glance up at the clock's expressionless face, and I find myself counting the hours. 4. . .5. . .6. . .
        "Seven hours." I whisper aloud, and my stomach churns again.

        But in 24 hours, who knows who I'll be?

________

[I'm debating on what to put in the next one, I'm thinking I'm going to say that his daughter tells him she wants to be a doctor that works on brains when she grows up, and that she has a revolutionary idea that she will make not smart people smart.]

        [I think

        that it's going to go somewhat like this]



        "Daddy! I know what I'm going to be when I grow up!" My daughter exclaimed through a mouthful of cereal. "A brain doctor!" she grinned ear to ear, a hole gaped where her baby incisor once hung in her mouth now awaiting the arrival of a new adult tooth.

        I smiled at her enthusiasm.

        "And I'm going to be the best doctor ever! I'm going to make a medicine that makes not smart people smart!"

        I laugh a little at this.

        "Sounds like you'll be a great doctor."

        "No daddy the best!" she insists.

        "Okay, then the best."


       [ Hmmm I think somethings missing, I might make this part a little different]


       [ I'm thinking that instead of at breakfast, maybe on the way to daycare. . .]


       [ Originally I was going to have this just be a melancholy scene where he's dropping her off at daycare, and tells her that mommy will have to drop her off tomorrow]


        and she smiles and says "That's okay daddy. I decided I'm going to be a brain doctor when I grow up, so that I can take care of your brain when it's sick next time!"

        [ I'm also debating on whether he's doing this because he was randomly selected to receivevc information on it, or if he's doing it because of some underlying problem with his brain. ]


       [ I'm thinking I want to do this because he has some sort of mental disorder]

       [ I'm kind of second guessing it now. I was going to maybe do some type of autism, or perhaps mild schizophrenia

        but he develops schizophrenia as a result of the surgery

        so I don't want to do that

        so I'm thinking he just does this because he's told that he could have his family taken care of with the money he gets from it. ]




July 15th

        When I awake, I'm never entirely sure of who I am. Sometimes when I open my eyes after a peaceful slumber, I don't recognize myself. Seeing the reflection in the mirror is often startling, and my thoughts drift elsewhere into the ever expanding universe.

        Imagine your skull as a box; every though you have ever had, and ever will have bounce around inside this box. Now imagine this box opening and you conjure thoughts to attempt to fill the void, the thoughts gushing forward quickly, without settling. This is what it feels like.

        Today the person in the mirror is haggard and desperately lonely. I know them very well.

        The forecast for today is cloudy and cold.

        [here is the one I wrote right after that, it's incomplete though.]

July 18th


        I woke up today and it was jarring to find a small child in the bed next to me. My initial thought was terrifying when I suddenly realized it was my daughter Rebbecca sleeping soundly with her small tender face next to my own. I knew who's child this was instantly, but in my mind for a brief moment, it was not mine. . .

        Today my socks do not match.


I have decided to leave out the ending in case I decide to ever finish this, as not to spoil it.