The Memory on Trial

The cold metal chair pressed against my back; the edge of the seat dug painfully into my side. The courtroom lights dazzled, making it difficult to keep my eyes open. The chandelier on the ceiling refracted a piercing light that fell onto the bench before me, casting a cold, hard sheen. My name is Angel Bailey. I stand here today because, three days ago, at the intersection in the city center, I assaulted my foster father, Jack James. The hall was packed. In the front row, reporters held up their cameras. The lenses were like countless cold eyes, fixed unwaveringly on me, unwilling to miss even the smallest movement as I clenched the edge of my clothes. The presiding judge tapped the gavel. The wooden hammer striking the desk echoed through the microphone throughout the entire hall, instantly quelling all noise. "Angel Bailey, pursuant to Article 43 of the National Trial Regulations, you are suspected of intentionally assaulting your foster father, Jack James, and must choose a trial method."​ He paused briefly, lowered his gaze to the document in his hand, and recited the rules with a completely flat tone, as if reading an unimportant notice. "First, accept the Memory Extraction trial. Professional technicians will extract your memories from the relevant time period and broadcast them live nationwide. The public will vote online to determine your sentence. If over 60% vote for execution, you will be executed within seventy-two hours."​ "Second, refusal of Memory Extraction. You are required to compensate Jack James in full for all property damages, including the medical expenses and mental distress fees he claims to have incurred from the assault, as well as one house and savings under your name, totaling 2,137,621 dollars." ​ More intense whispers arose from the audience, their voices louder than before. Someone pointed at me and shouted, "It will never be okay to hit your foster father. Even if he was at fault, you should never have resorted to violence! Compensation is definitely the right choice; life is more valuable than money!" "Exactly, why die for a beast worse than nothing? It's just not worth it! Is Angel really that foolish?"​ "I believe she is psychologically twisted, spoiled during childhood, and ungrateful as she grew up!" I lifted my eyes, looking past the crowd toward Jack in the Defendant's Seat. He wore a faded blue shirt, his face bearing just the right degree of a "aggrieved" smile, yet his eyes hid a slight, barely perceptible gleam of triumph as he secretly measured the reactions in the courtroom. I took a deep breath; the air in my chest carried the courtroom's distinctive scent of disinfectant—somewhat stinging, yet it sharpened my focus. Facing the Presiding Judge, I spoke softly but clearly: "I choose the first option and accept Memory Extraction."​ No sooner had my words fallen than an uproar erupted from the audience. Someone abruptly stood up, pointed at me, and shouted, "Are you insane?!" Reporters' camera flashes fired relentlessly, the bright lights stinging my eyes. Jack was stunned; the hand resting on his knee clenched tightly until his knuckles turned white. He then quickly leaned towards the lawyer beside him, whispered something, and the lawyer frowned before nodding. The Presiding Judge set down the documents, furrowed his brow, and regarded me with a more probing gaze: "Angel Bailey, are you certain? The Memory Extraction process may involve physiological pain, and once the vote exceeds sixty percent, you will lose your life with no chance for remorse." "I am certain." I met the Presiding Judge's gaze, then turned to Jack and spoke deliberately, "If I am not executed in the end, I will reduce Jack to dust and ashes."​ Each word felt as if it were tempered with ice, piercingly clear in the silent courtroom. Jack's expression changed instantly, shifting from one of grievance to outright panic. He suddenly stood up, placing both hands on the rail of the Defendant's Seat, shouting loudly, "Your Honor! Look at her! She's still threatening me! She's a madwoman! People like her should be sentenced immediately!" The Presiding Judge raised a hand to silence him. The Bailiff stepped forward and gently pressed on Jack's shoulder, urging him to sit down. "Jack James, maintain courtroom order." The Presiding Judge's voice carried authority. "Now, in accordance with procedure, we shall proceed with the Memory Extraction preparation."​ He nodded to the technicians below the bench. Two men in white lab coats pushed a metal trolley forward, on which rested a silver Helmet densely covered with cables, the other ends connected to a black Instrument whose screen glowed green. The technician approached, crouched down beside me, and gently helped me put on the helmet. The cold plastic pressed against my scalp, and the connector at the wiring interface felt slightly uncomfortable. He adjusted the helmet's position a few times and said quietly, "Relax. Memory Extraction may cause slight headaches, like needle pricks, but it will not harm your brain. We will monitor your physiological indicators in real time."​ I nodded and closed my eyes. A faint buzzing from the instrument starting up reached my ears, like a mosquito buzzing nearby. Soon, the darkness before my eyes gave way to a clear scene—it was a memory from when I was five years old, fifteen years ago. In the scene, at the entrance of the vegetable market in my hometown, Jack wore a faded military uniform and stood in front of my mother, Hailey Smith, blocking two shabby-looking hooligans. One of the hooligans held a cigarette butt, cursing profanely, and tried to grab my mother's arm. Jack pushed them away firmly, his voice loud and clear: "What do you think you're doing? Bullying a woman in broad daylight—have you no shame?"​ The hooligans staggered back after being pushed, glanced at Jack's physique, dared not advance further, cursed under their breath, and then left. Jack took a bottle of mineral water from his pocket, twisted off the cap, and handed it to my mother: "Lady, don't be afraid. As long as I'm here, no one will dare to bully you."​ My mother took the water, her cheeks flushed, and she whispered, "Thank you," her eyes full of gratitude and carrying a trace of vulnerability from the recent divorce. I stood beside her, my small hand clinging tightly to the hem of her clothes, tilting my head up to watch Jack's figure, feeling he was like a hero from the television—tall and reliable. After this "heartwarming" scene finished playing, the instrument's humming ceased, and the screen displayed "Memory Fragment Extraction Complete." The murmurs from the audience instantly erupted into a roar, louder than before. "So Mr. James only got together with Angel's mother because he saved her? Isn't he quite a good man?"​ "With such a good foster father, how could Angel bring himself to do this? She must have grown arrogant and ungrateful!" "I vote for execution! Such an unfilial person is a menace and should be eliminated!" The Presiding Judge glanced down at the tablet in his hand, then looked up and calmly announced the real-time voting results: "Currently, 95% support the execution of Angel."​ A sharp pain suddenly jabbed my gums, as if pierced by something; the metallic taste of blood quickly spread through my mouth, carrying a rusty flavor. I clenched my teeth tightly, suppressing any sound. I knew this memory was fabricated. It was a carefully woven illusion by Jack; those hooligans were hired by him, the mineral water was prepared well in advance, yet everyone in the courtroom and in front of their screens believed it.