An unexpected revelation

I carefully control my emotions, my nootropic mind working in overdrive to ensure I don't betray the alarm pumping through my veins. "Really? I guess I was too young to remember," I answer, offhandedly. How had he worked in pharmaceuticals and I had no idea? Suddenly, my involvement in this "trial" seems much less random. "What did he do, exactly?"

Mom shrugs and rises onto her feet. "Some kind of research on new psychiatric ****. I never understood it, really, but some of his papers are still in the attic if you care to look. He died before any of it came to fruition." She looks away, sad for a moment, before running a finger through her loose blonde hair and meeting my eyes again. "Want some lunch, dear?"

I have to get those papers. The chances of his involvement seem so low, but Occham's Razor says otherwise. However, rash decisions will only antagonize the company further. Already, I'm sure they've heard what Mom has said and are making moves. I should play it cool, act normal, and check the attic later. Casual.

"I thought I'd give you a massage," I answer. I grab my shirt and pull it overhead, pause. I sniff it and recoil from the stench of sweat, then toss it back onto the floor. "Gross," I mumble.

"I know... I want to. But I am a little tired after... that." Her cheeks darken as I smile at her. As much as I want to strip Mom naked and bring her to another shaking orgasm, she is right. My penis needs some recovery time, and so does she.

"Lunch would be great, Mom," I answer, and she nods.

She disappears upstairs to fresh up before cooking, while I hop in the shower. By the time I finish, clean and restored, she calls out that she is almost done.

I join her downstairs again and sit at the table. My phone vibrates, and I slide my lock screen up to check my message thread with Ashley. A text from Ashley, from earlier this morning, is at the top, saying, "Hey, Dom. Out with some potential clients this afternoon. Going shopping with Kelly when she gets out of school for new swimsuits..." The newest message is a smiley face emoji, ten bank bag emojis, and an eggplant emoji.

I send her a winky face back and surf the internet for a few minutes while Mom finishes preparing lunch.

Our meal is quiet, unlike normal, but I feel a connection between us that was never there before. I meet Mom's eyes for a moment, and she beams at me through mouthfuls of her sandwich. The twinkle in her eyes draws me in, but I know our time will come. Perhaps that quiet connection is the building anticipation of when we will later meld ourselves together in another fiery embrace. My cock throbs against my thigh, eager. Fuck, Mom, what are you doing to me? I think.

I kiss her on the cheek as I finish my food, carry our dishes to the sink, and return upstairs. Despite the company's warning, I can't be faulted for looking through my Dad's things. There's no way. And even if they do take issue with it, it is a risk I can manage. Hopefully.

I pass my room and go to the end of our hallway, where the attic access is. I open the hatch, drop the latter, and climb up. The wood of the old ladder creeks beneath me, and I struggle to fit my now bulky frame through the opening. After some twisting and a lot of swearing, though, I manage to get through and into the attic.

Our attic is not a large space. Maybe smaller than my bedroom, even. It consists of a wooden platform, surrounded by rafters stuffed with insulation. Some kind of HVAC system hums from its place in the middle of the platform. Cardboard boxes are stacked around it in haphazard piles, each labeled in black sharpies.

I approach the nearest one and start reading the labels. Christmas decorations. Easter decorations. Costumes. Kelly's elementary school project. Taxes. More taxes.

By the time I have gone through almost every pile, I find a box labeled "Dom." With a grin, I slide it from its place on the edge of a pile of boxes, careful not to knock the other boxes over, and peel open the top. Inside, I find several things. An old ball cap. A small figurine of Donald Duck, for some reason. A medal from a marathon. A framed degree from a school I can't pronounce. I slide it from the box and wipe some dust from the frame-glass.

My father, Dominus, awarded a Doctorate in Pharmacology. Wow, Mom was right. Stunned, I place the degree down on another box.

I continue sifting through his box until I find a manila folder labeled "thesis." I flip it open to find a stack of papers, neatly secured with a paper clip and titled "Effects of modern chemical substrates on brain resource utilization." I read the abstract, then the first few pages. My heart sinks with each passing word. My father's thesis, clearly outlining his research into enhancing the human mind and unlocking the full power of the brain.

"Fuck," I mutter, as I continue reading. My nootropic mind and foundational knowledge are enough to allow me to get the general idea of it, but there is no doubt I do not understand the intricate details of what he wrote.

One thing I do understand, though, is that his experiments failed. At least, at the point in time he wrote his thesis, he had not successfully created any kind of nootropic ****. So what happened? He graduated, landed a job, and managed to create it before he died?

I sigh. Despite the strangeness of this connection, it doesn't change anything about my immediate situation. The company still has power over me. I still need to continue the experiment.

I put the folder, degree, and other items back in the box, return to my room, and spend the rest of the day working in silence.