“Memento Mori” by Jonathan Nolan, Part 1

The short story by Jonathan Nolan that is the basis for the movie Memento is included on many versions of the movie’s screenplay. Given the fact the script is widely available and this is strictly for educational purposes, I thought I’d post the story in excerpts each day this week.

MEMENTO MORI
by
Jonathan Nolan

What like a bullet can undeceive!”
-Herman Melville

Your wife always used to say you’d be late for your own funeral.
Remember that? Her little joke because you were such a slob-always
late, always forgetting stuff, even before the incident.

Right about now you’re probably wondering if you were late for hers.

You were there, you can be sure of that. That’s what the picture’s
for-the one tacked to the wall by the door. It’s not customary to take
pictures at a funeral, but somebody, your doctors, I guess, knew you
wouldn’t remember. They had it blown up nice and big and stuck it
right there, next to the door, so you couldn’t help but see it every
time you got up to find out where she was.

The guy in the picture, the one with the flowers? That’s you. And what
are you doing? You’re reading the headstone, trying to figure out
who’s funeral you’re at, same as you’re reading it now, trying to
figure why someone stuck that picture next to your door. But why
bother reading something that you won’t remember?

She’s gone, gone for good, and you must be hurting right now, hearing
the news. Believe me, I know how you feel. You’re probably a wreck.
But give it five minutes, maybe ten. Maybe you can even go a whole
half hour before you forget.

But you will forget-I guarantee it. A few more minutes and you’ll be
heading for the door, looking for her all over again, breaking down
when you find the picture. How many times do you have to hear the news
before some other part of your body, other than that busted brain of
yours, starts to remember?

Never-ending grief, never-ending anger. Useless without direction.
Maybe you can’t understand what’s happened. Can’t say I really
understand, either. Backwards amnesia. That’s what the sign says. CRS
disease. Your guess is as good as mine.

Maybe you can’t understand what happened to you. But you do remember
what happened to HER, don’t you? The doctors don’t want to talk about
it. They won’t answer my questions. They don’t think it’s right for a
man in your condition to hear about those things. But you remember
enough, don’t you? You remember his face.

This is why I’m writing to you. Futile, maybe. I don’t know how many
times you’ll have to read this before you listen to me. I don’t even
know how long you’ve been locked up in this room already. Neither do
you. But your advantage in forgetting is that you’ll forget to write
yourself off as a lost cause.

Sooner or later you’ll want to do something about it. And when you do,
you’ll just have to trust me, because I’m the only one who can help
you.

***

EARL OPENS ONE EYE after another to a stretch of white ceiling tiles
interrupted by a hand-printed sign taped right above his head, large
enough for him to read from the bed. An alarm clock is ringing
somewhere. He reads the sign, blinks,reads it again, then takes a look
at the room.

It’s a white room, overwhelmingly white, from the walls and the
curtains to the institutional furniture and the bedspread. The alarm
clock is ringing from the white desk under the window with the white
curtains. At this point Earl probably notices that he is lying on top
of his white comforter. He is already wearing a dressing gown and
slippers.

He lies back and reads the sign taped to the ceiling again. It says,
in crude block capitals, THIS IS YOUR ROOM. THIS IS A ROOM IN A
HOSPITAL. THIS IS WHERE YOU LIVE NOW.

Earl rises and takes a look around. The room is large for a
hospital-empty linoleum stretches out from the bed in three
directions. Two doors and a window. The view isn’t very helpful,
either-a close of trees in the center of a carefully manicured piece
of turf that terminates in a sliver of two-lane blacktop. The trees,
except for the evergreens, are bare-early spring or late fall, one or
the other.

Every inch of the desk is covered with Post-it notes, legal pads,
neatly printed lists, psychological textbooks, framed pictures. On top
of the mess is a half-completed crossword puzzle. The alarm clock is
riding a pile of folded newspapers. Earl slaps the snooze button and
takes a cigarette from the pack taped to the sleeve of his dressing
gown. He pats the empty pockets of his pajamas for a light. He rifles
the papers on the desk, looks quickly through the drawers. Eventually
he finds a box of kitchen matches taped to the wall next to the
window. Another sign is taped just above the box. It says in loud
yellow letters, CIGARETTE? CHECK FOR LIT ONES FIRST, STUPID.

Earl laughs at the sign, lights his cigarette, and takes a long draw.
Taped to the window in front of him is another piece of looseleaf
paper headed YOUR SCHEDULE.

It charts off the hours, every hour, in blocks: 10:00 p.m. to 8:00
a.m. is labeled go BACK TO SLEEP. Earl consults the alarm clock: 8:15.
Given the light outside, it must be morning. He checks his watch:
10:30. He presses the watch to his ear and listens. He gives the watch
a wind or two and sets it to match the alarm clock.

According to the schedule, the entire block from 8:00 to 8:30 has been
labeled BRUSH YOUR TEETH. Earl laughs again and walks over to the
bathroom.

The bathroom window is open. As he flaps his arms to keep warm, he
notices the ashtray on the windowsill. A cigarette is perched on the
ashtray, burning steadily through a long finger of ash. He frowns,
extinguishes the old butt, and replaces it with the new one.

The toothbrush has already been treated to a smudge of white paste.
The tap is of the push-button variety-a dose of water with each nudge.
Earl pushes the brush into his cheek and fiddles it back and forth
while he opens the medicine cabinet. The shelves are stocked with
single-serving packages of vitamins, aspirin, antidiuretics. The
mouthwash is also single-serving, about a shot-glass-worth of blue
liquid in a sealed plastic bottle. Only the toothpaste is
regular-sized. Earl spits the paste out of his mouth and replaces it
with the mouthwash. As he lays the toothbrush next to the toothpaste,
he notices a tiny wedge of paper pinched between the glass shelf and
the steel backing of the medicine cabinet. He spits the frothy blue
fluid into the sink and nudges for some more water to rinse it down.
He closes the medicine cabinet and smiles at his reflection in the
mirror.

“Who needs half an hour to brush their teeth?”

The paper has been folded down to a minuscule size with all the
precision of a sixth-grader’s love note. Earl unfolds it and smooths
it against the mirror. It reads-

IF YOU CAN STILL READ THIS, THEN YOU’RE A FUCKING COWARD.

Earl stares blankly at the paper, then reads it again. He turns it
over. On the back it reads-

P.S.: AFTER YOU’VE READ THIS, HIDE IT AGAIN.

Earl reads both sides again, then folds the note back down to its
original size and tucks it underneath the toothpaste.

Maybe then he notices the scar. It begins just beneath the ear, jagged
and thick, and disappears abruptly into his hairline. Earl turns his
head and stares out of the corner of his eye to follow the scar’s
progress. He traces it with a fingertip, then looks back down at the
cigarette burning in the ashtray. A thought seizes him and he spins
out of the bathroom.

He is caught at the door to his room, one hand on the knob. Two
pictures are taped to the wall by the door. Earl’s attention is caught
first by the MRI, a shiny black frame for four windows into someone’s
skull. In marker, the picture is labeled YOUR BRAIN. Earl stares at
it. Concentric circles in different colors. He can make out the big
orbs of his eyes and, behind these, the twin lobes of his brain.
Smooth wrinkles, circles, semicircles. But right there in the middle
of his head, circled in marker, tunneled in from the back of his neck
like a maggot into an apricot, is something different. Deformed,
broken, but unmistakable. A dark smudge, the shape of a flower, right
there in the middle of his brain.

He bends to look at the other picture. It is a photograph of a man
holding flowers, standing over a fresh grave. The man is bent over,
reading the headstone. For a moment this looks like a hall of mirrors
or the beginnings of a sketch of infinity: the one man bent over,
looking at the smaller man, bent over, reading the headstone. Earl
looks at the picture for a long time. Maybe he begins to cry. Maybe he
just stares silently at the picture. Eventually, he makes his way back
to the bed, flops down, seals his eyes shut, tries to sleep.

The cigarette burns steadily away in the bathroom. A circuit in the
alarm clock counts down from ten, and it starts ringing again.

Earl opens one eye after another to a stretch of white ceiling tiles,
interrupted by a hand-printed sign taped right above his head, large
enough for him to read from the bed.

As you read the story this week, ask yourself this question: What narrative elements about it make it a story worth turning into a movie?