Making Memories (Part 1)

I suppose I should start from the beginning.

You see, my mother has this condition. Her sort term memory is fine, but it's her long term memory that she has trouble with. It is passed down genetically, but I've already been tested and the doctors told me that I carry a dormant version of the gene. Which basically means that I am unaffected, although I could still pass it on to my kids.

I remember how my mother would tell me stories about how her father started to act funny when he hit middle age, but I never thought that it would happen to her.

She told me how it started with him forgetting little things, like birthdays and the names of old acquaintances, but eventually It reached the point to where he would wake up each morning not knowing where he was, who he was, or who they were, his family. The disease hadn't been identified in those days, so he was misdiagnosed and put in a home until he passed away a few years after I was born.

And that's exactly what she is like now, waking up each morning not knowing who I am.

Fortunately, she worked quite hard in her life up until the point where she got really sick. So when I moved back in to take care of her the house was already paid off and she had accumulated a nice retirement fund to settle on, which she ended up using earlier than expected. However, she did require a permanent care provider, and she was given two choices: either I, her only close relative, come back to look after her, or she goes to a “special” home. But there had been problems before with hired help taking advantage of people like her, so it was advised only as a last resort.

When I'm not working odd jobs here and there to earn a little more spending money for myself, I am doing the shopping and paying the bills and just about anything else that she can't. She doesn't really leave the house anymore. She used to go on walks until she couldn’t remember the layout of the neighborhood anymore. She can still do things like cook and clean, which she insists on doing since I do everything else for her. She even makes jokes about it sometimes. "It's just like looking after you when you were young," she would say. And then she would laugh, but I knew that she was sad inside.

Do I feel bad about being called back to look after? While I'll admit that it is a bit of a chore, it was actually a relief. I moved out after I graduated, deciding to skip college and get an apartment in the city. That's where I was when I got the call, in that same apartment. I had never moved in those five or so years. So it's not as if I walked away from a glamorous life. Besides, she is my mother, and I would do anything for her.

Anyway, now that we have gotten all of the background out of the way, the relevant part of this story begins with my mother’s notebook. You see, she kept a notebook on her nightstand. And between that and her calendar, which she marked off every morning, and me of course, she managed to keep track of her life on a day to day basis. She also gave me a spare to use in case the original became lost.

In it she wrote only the essentials of her life. It looks something like this:

"My name is Clarissa Moore. My friends call me Claire. I am 42.

I have a son, Blake, who is 23. His father left when Blake was five, and since then it has been just me and Blake.

I have a disease which affects my long-term memory. I wrote this notebook to read each morning to make sure I understand the basics of my life before I go about my day.

I stay home now. I don't go outside without supervision. Blake lives with me and takes care of me."

She tries to keep it down to the bare essentials so that she can learn them quickly first thing in the morning.

"So why did I do it?" I hear you ask. To be honest, I think it was just something as simply and innocent as plain curiosity. I wanted to know if it was really possible.

When she was asleep, I snuck into her room and took the notebook downstairs. I flipped through the pages, impressed at how my mother had managed to condense her life into a minutes of reading, until I reached a blank page.

I had learned how to imitate my mother's handwriting to sign off on the bills. People started to notice when she was signing her bills with a name she didn't recognize, but they didn't seem to notice when it was someone else entirely. Sure it was technically illegal, but it kept things quiet, which was for the best.

I began writing false information into the notebook, inserting false memories in her life. Perverted memories. Fantasies of my own.

"Blake is a nudist. He walks around the house naked. I don't mind," I wrote.

And with that I double checked the handwriting to make sure it was convincing, and then I closed the book and returned it to its proper place. Then I went to bed, anxious about the next day.

When I was awakened by my alarm, which went off an hour before my mother's, I remembered what I had done, and briefly wondered if I had made a mistake and if it was too late to turn back. The minutes ticked by and I decided it was now or never, either I commit or I don't and find some way to explain the notebook. I took a deep breath and began to get into character. I stripped off until I was completely nude and began going about my morning routine.

When I was finished making breakfast I heard the door upstairs open and close, followed by footsteps descending the stairs.

I took a deep breath. ‘It's showtime,’ I thought to myself. ‘This is normal. You do this all the time. Don't show any hesitation or else she will know.’

I heard her enter the kitchen while I was facing away, plating up the eggs. I turned around.

"Hello mom," I said, expecting to see a look of surprise, or at least discomfort. But instead I saw a look of calm on her face.

"Hello Blake," she said as she took her seat, making no mention of my state of undress.

‘Oh my god,’ I thought. ‘It’s working.’

And we sat and ate breakfast like that, with my penis hanging out and not a work of it was spoken. There was only one problem, as I got less tense I began to feel another sensation occurring in my nether regions. And when I arose from the table to take my plate to the sink, my mother got an eyeful of my erection, which did seem to catch her off guard and make her uncomfortable.

"Um," I said, trying pretend that this was normal too. "Are you finished? Would you like me to take your plate to the sink?"

"Um, no," she said. "No thank you. I would rather eat a little more."

"Alright then," I said as I walked away, my bulbous sign of arousal bouncing with each step.

After breakfast I went into the bathroom to recover. I was rock hard. I grabbed my cock and started stroking, and within a few minutes I shot wads of semen on the bowl of the sink. I turned the water on to wash it down as I gathered some toilet paper to wipe the head of my dick. When I had erased all evidence of my act I looked up and saw my reflection in the mirror.

"Look at yourself," I said. "You are completely naked. Your mother saw you like this. You just got an erection in front of her. And now you have just jerked yourself off."

I said it plainly, as if to acknowledge the events to myself, to assure myself that they really did happen. I took another deep breath and, checking to make sure there wasn't any more semen on me, exited the bathroom.

Having drained my seed, I was able to contain myself enough to get through the new few hours. Me and my mother passed each other occasionally, and we made no mention of my nudity. But before she was about to prepare dinner she decided to ask me a question.

"Blake?" she asked.

"Yes?"

"You are a nudist, right?"

"Yeah." My heart sank. "Of course."

"If you are nudist...then why are you clothed in all the photos around the house?"

"Well, um, mom, that's obvious," I replied thinking on my feet. "You see, we used to have guests over, and when that happened I was clothed, and we didn't want to have any naked photos of me around the house."

"Oh, I suppose that makes sense." And just when I was about breathe a sigh of relief, she continued. "Who did we have over?"

Caught in my lie, since we never had anyone over, I tried to think quickly. "The neighbors next door. Mr. and Mrs. Smith."

"Oh? Are they nice?"

"Yes."

"When was the last time I spoke to them?"

"Oh, a while ago."

"A long time?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I should talk to them again soon."

"No!" I said, quickly.

"Why not?"

I couldn't admit that I made them up, "Smith" being the first name that can to mind, so I said "they moved."

"Really, when?"

"About a year ago."

"Hmm," she said, suspiciously. "Blake?"

"Yes?"

"Was there really a Mr. and Mrs. Smith next door?"

"What?! What do you mean?" I couldn't really hide the worry on my face.

"I think I know what's going on here," she said.

"You do?"

"Yes," she said. "Honey, you don't have to lie to me just to make me feel better."

I remained silent, waiting to see where this was going.

"Please don't make up people to make me feel like I have friends. It's okay to tell me the truth. I know my life is different. I probably don't have any friends do I?"

"You had some work colleagues I've met."

"But have any of them come to visit?"

"No."

"Then they aren't really very good friends, now are they? And I am okay with that. See what I mean? Don't feel like you have to lie to me to make everything easier. If I'm going to lose my mind, I'd rather I do it with dignity. Okay."

"Yes Mom."

"And while we don't have any guests, and you are staying here looking after me, I want you to make this your home too. So if you want to put up some photos of yourself naked then go ahead. I mean, you already walk around like that. What I'm saying is: don't feel like you have to try to preserve my old life for my sake."

"Okay Mom."

She reached her arms out and gave me a hug, pressing my naked body against her clothed one, and then she released me.

"Alright, now what's for dinner," she asked.

That night I got out a camera and set it on a timer to capture me sitting naked on the couch in a way that I could say she took it, then quickly printed it out and replaced it to replace one of the photos in the hall. The next day she didn't question it and everything went smoothly for the next few days. I ate, slept, and generally went about doing everything that didn't involve going outside, all completely naked.

But then that itch crawled its way back up again. What else could I change? And I just couldn't resist pushing it a little bit further. So I snuck in to her room, this time completely naked, and grabbed the notebook once more, this time writing testing to see if I could alter her behavior to become actively different, as opposed to just passively.