We were desperate.
Every month, I prayed that I could pay the minimums on our credit cards, the mortgage, two car payments, student loan debt, and still have enough for food without charging more.
My husband and I were both already working two jobs. If once of us agreed to be a host mind, then we could each drop to one job, pay off all of our debt, and start over. It was ideal.
The Institute said my brain engrams were more suitable to the transfer than his, so I was going to have it done. That was fine; I was honestly looking forward to it.
The Institute started around five years ago, and at first, it was protested. It was immoral to have two souls occupying one body! It was a way of living forever, people claimed.
The dying, provided they were insanely wealthy, could have their memories and their consciousness transferred into a living host.
Here’s the catch, though. It didn’t wipe out the original host! The living person would receive all of the donor’s memories, and the donor would remain buried within the host’s mind.
They would just be a passenger.
So, what does the host get? The host gets two things. One, the host gets access to a new lifetime of memories. And two, a crapload of money.
I read several files for people who were looking for a host. I selected one older woman. She was in her late nineties, had lived a full life, and was about to die but didn’t want to.
I expressed interest in having her transferred into my brain. We were a compatible match, and I got to meet her briefly.
She was very pleasant and very charming. I looked forward to seeing what she had lived, and she said she was excited to experience life through my eyes for a while.
When my husband left the room so we could be prepped for the transfer, she said, “He’s a gorgeous man. I hope you have a good time with him.
And if it’s not too personal, I look forward to experiencing that from your eyes.” I chuckled, assured her we had a very active sex life, and she was then transferred into my brain.
And as soon as she was transferred in, two million dollars was transferred to our bank account.
While I was recovering, my husband paid off all of our bills, and I sorted through my new memories.
Lots of murder. Tons of dismemberment. So many missing people, so much bloodshed. No one expected such a petite woman to be such a monster, and she was never even so much as questioned.
She wasn’t supposed to influence me. She was supposed to be a passive participant in my life.
But that doesn’t explain why I can’t wait to leave the Institute, go home, and murder my loving husband.