"In Your Memory"
In your memory, this all went very differently. It started the same--you pushed your way past the manager into the club's private room, kicking and stomping and scratching at waitstaff who clearly weren't expecting to actually have to enforce their clients' privacy. You burst in to see Marissa down on her knees, her eyes closed in rapt adoration, nuzzling and licking Jason Rambaldi's stiff cock. The fury you remember feeling, that pounding in your ears and that red veil of rage that seemed to descend over your vision at the sight of some sketchy stage hypnotist getting a blowjob from your best friend? That was real.
Some of the details after that, though... you think you remember him looking up at you in surprise and alarm, his guilty conscience written all over his face. You have a memory of slamming the door behind you, pushing a chair up against the handle to keep the staff at bay while you handled the situation. Even Marissa behaved differently in the version you recall--she opened her groggy eyes in shock, her lips sliding off of Jason's cock in confusion as she struggled to comprehend her situation. In your head, he was off-balance and vulnerable from the very beginning. Tiny details, but they change the entire tone of the encounter.
You don't recall the tiny undercurrents of fear anymore. They simply don't make sense, not when you don't remember him looking up at you and smiling when he sees the anger on your face. In your head, you were absolutely sure you couldn't be hypnotized, calm and confident in the face of his utter panic, and that's the only version of events that stuck. How can you possibly remember worrying that you might have made a mistake in confronting Jason? You don't even recall him dismissing the manager, let alone that he did it without bothering to take his dick out of Marissa's mouth.
(The manager apologized for disturbing him. She actually apologized for interrupting his blowjob. If you could remember that, it might cause you to question other things. So it was quietly erased.)
But you really did shout, "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" That wasn't inserted into your head afterward. Neither was the way you balled up your fists and stormed over to him, ready to throw your first punch since you were in kindergarten. As hard as it is to picture yourself in a fight, all skinny arms and scrawny legs and frizzy blonde hair poofed out like a halo around your flushed and angry face... that all really happened.
And his response... yes. He did say, "I can explain." But memory is so mutable, so easy to twist and warp with just a few subtle suggestions. You remember a panicked stammer, a rush of words meant to forestall physical violence. The confident, silky purr in his voice simply slides away into a vague, drifting sense of familiarity that melts smoothly and effortlessly into a firm conviction that you must be thinking of another person, another time and place. You'd certainly recall it if he tried to hypnotize you, because it wouldn't have worked because you can't be hypnotized. You know that. That's why you're so sure he panicked. You don't remember his smile at all.
And because your memory is just that little bit foggy, it's that much easier to insert new recollections into those confusing little gaps between what you remember and what makes sense. Your mind even helps the process along--every time you wonder why you would agree to listen to him, your brain seamlessly accepts the mental image of Marissa noticing you at last and saying, "Wait, Jess, wait! I asked for this!" Because it explains the discontinuity.
