by Novo Dé
“CHARLIE, y’there?
“Of course sir,” I hear from above. “How can I help you?”
“Could you please pull up the news on the east wall of the living room? Let’s do a small window and keep it low ok?”
“Of course, no problem. Anything else?”
“Yeah, let’s maybe fire up the CHEF unit. Sweetheart, you gettin’ hungry?” She again doesn’t even look up to answer, just gently nods her head yes.
“Ok, yeah, activate the CHEF unit. And could you actually make the frame a little smaller?” He does as instructed, and the frame minimizes.
“Sorry about that. This better?”
“Perfect.”
The news is already underway. The main story, of course, is this new religious movement. Just when agnostics and atheists became the majority and religion seemed to be on its way out, some archaeologist found a new set of scriptures.
The ‘Ancient Scriptures’ is what they’re calling it.
It’s supposedly the now oldest existing religious text, at least that’s what the news tells us. Religious experts, trying to decipher the text, say that this may be the one thing that actually unifies all religious beliefs into one singular idea.
“What do you think of all this?” I say.
She puts the book down on her chest and finally looks up at me to meet my gaze.
“I, I don’t know. I think. I mean, it doesn’t really affect my life so why should I care. Isn’t this the same kind of thing we’ve always seen? People are always looking for something new to hold onto. It’s just the same thing over and over again.”
She has a point.
“I mean, yeah, but, isn’t the idea of a unifying religion kind of, I don’t know, intriguing?”
“I guess,” she murmurs.
She doesn’t fucking care. Hell, I don’t really care either, but it was something to watch. Something to talk about. Help us forget about our lives or help escape it. Isn’t that what the news is for these days? Entertainment. Before this story, I couldn’t even remember the last time I actually saw news on the news. Something of substance. It was always celebrity gossip, the new fashion, what’s hot. That’s all people cared about these days. That or mostly themselves. And I was no different. Apathy, it seemed, had become the most prevalent of all personality traits.
Read the DRI data.
“Ok, yeah, but what if…”
“Sir. I apologize for the interruption, but the CHEF unit has prepared your meal,” CHARLIE announces from above.
“C’mon CHARLIE, what have I said about…y’know, it’s, it’s alright,” I redirect myself back to the couch, “Honey, ah, you wanna…”
“Yeah, I’m on it,” she says under her breath as she gets up from the couch and makes her way to the kitchen.
We’ve always had the same ritual when it came to dinner together – I’d set the table and she’d prepare the meal. Although, most of the work was already done by the CHEF unit; she usually just adds the food to a bowl or plate, or adds a little something extra to the dish, maybe a spice. I’m not actually sure if she knew that we could pre-program dishes with certain specificities. Add. Subtract. You could do whatever you wanted with the unit really. I think she does it because she wants to feel like some sort of domesticated housewife from time to time, like her mother. Or maybe it’s just habit.
It’s Wednesday, so that means its chicken night. How fucking boring. But the dish wouldn’t be complete without a side of vegetables, with an emphasis on, you guessed it, mushrooms.
It seems mushrooms are slowly becoming the symbol for the continual distance that the NCL is placing between me and my wife.
But I still eat them. Before I dig in however, I usually find myself just glaring at them for a while, pondering, again, on how it all got to this point.
How did we get here? How did I get here?
It mattered but it didn’t matter. My wife is doing none of this. She is just quietly eating with her head down. She looks comfortable, delicate.
I always feel this obligation to try and start another conversation with her when we’re at dinner together, regardless of the inevitable. So I try talking again.
“So we still doin’ that thing this weekend?” I begin.
“Um, yeah, I think so. I’ll check tomorrow, but I think we’re still a-go.”
“Great. Great,” I say trailing off. “Do I need to like dress up or something?”
“I don’t think so. I’m not dressing up.”
“Alright,” I slowly nod, “Good. But what exactly are we doing again? Like what’s on the agenda?”
“Well, I think first, we’re plannin’ on…”
She’s rambling on now, but I stopped listening almost immediately. She’s talking, but not communicating. Not conversing. I’m looking right at her and acting like I’m hanging on every word, but I’m not.
It’s an art really.
I can hear words, but I’m not listening. She does the same to me. But when I fade away, it’s always like something out of a movie, where I’m watching her, but the volume of her voice slowly lowers to the point where all I see is her mouth and tongue shuffling about to create what appears to be words.
Eventually, there’s silence.
Most people’s idea of a conversation simple manifests into a simple ‘waiting game’ for their turn to speak. I actually look forward to the finality of when a person finishes. I hunger for that beautiful silence.
But not with her.
As I’m staring into the oblivion of my wife’s ramblings, I fade deeper and deeper, until I find myself in a trance, zoning, hypnotized, back to the fantasy again.
And the fantasy, it’s always the same. The act however is always different.
Today, I decide to tell my wife to ‘shut the fuck up.’ I then follow this by slapping her across the face as hard as I can, specifically with the back of my hand, so hard in fact that she topples out of her chair and onto the ground. She begins to cry. I tell her to “Quit your fucking crying.” She responds by saying “Why are you doing this?” as she tries to scuffle away. I then say, “Let me show you,” with a small, subtle smile. I then proceed to straddle my wife. She of course is pushing me away, struggling to break free. With no hesitation, I slam my fist into her face. Blood squirts immediately from her nose, dressing my shirt and hers. Her sobs become intense now. Her breathing, shallow and rapid. I strike again, splitting her lip. More blood. She involuntarily begins to squirm; her arms fluttering in a desperate attempt to retaliate in force. She’s quick, but not quick enough. I grab her wrists and take them to the ground. For one second, our eyes lock. I see fear, and she sees pleasure. I strike again. This time, leaving her with very little life left. She’s never felt pain like this before. She can hardly move. Hardly see. The blood paints the shadows of her face. Her breathing, even more shallow, even more rapid, now with this intermittent gurgling effect. And then, I just stare at her. She’s fading, but I won’t let her own blood take her. So I place my hands on her throat. Her eyes widen as I slowly squeeze. Now harder. Her head cocks back. And I squeeze harder. Her mouth opens wide. And I squeeze harder. Her sounds descent. And I squeeze harder. I close my eyes as I feel her warmth fade. And I squeeze harder.
Eventually, there is no sound. Only silence.
And all I’m left with is my wife’s big beautiful blues. Empty. Lifeless.
And I smile.
The act was so simple today.
Raw.
November 2nd, 2051
“…dentity is important in character development. People have to find themselves in the characters. Well, they have to find something to relate to, to hold on to. But I had to find my…” I pause. “Y’know doc, it wasn’t that long after I started that job, that I quickly felt, I dunno, lost. Y’know the feeling. I just wasn’t the same person anymore. And I knew it. Felt like I didn’t even recognize myself in the mirror…” I pause for a moment again, making a slight laugh through my nose “...how fucking cli
ché is that?”
Cohen is listening intently today. He’s typing very little. It’s been like this the whole session.
“But that’s what my life became – cliché. I never wanted to teach. Especially middle-schoolers. But when people lost interest in my work, sales dropped. And when sales dropped, publishers dropped.
Then it was on to contract work, which was actually pretty good for a while; the last of the online magazines, website reviews, I’d take anything. But that was already a flooded marketplace too. And the work, the work eventually thinned out. And so did my income.”
Starring at the floor, I pause again.
“It really was just supposed to be part-time. I wasn’t just saying that earlier doc. But eventually, part-time became full-time. Money talks right?”
Cohen is strangely just being Cohen today. Stoic and starring. Besides our usual exchange after one of my outbursts, nothing’s really different about today’s session. Same concrete walls. Same khaki pants. Maybe it’s that I just want him to act differently.
Why no discussion about yesterday’s episode? It’s strange, but this time, I actually feel some remorse.
“Hey, um, doc? Before we go any further into this, could we, umm, could we…”
“What’s, what’s on your mind, Mr. Nielson?” he says with a subtle smirk, obviously knowing where the conversation is headed.
“It’s about yesterday. I mean, we barely even talked about it at the beginning of the session. I know we’ve had our moments, but this one, this one seemed different. I feel like I may have gone over the line on this one…”
I grow silent. I hate this part. I hate apologizing. I hate it because I use it so sparingly, offered only in the most sincere moments, when someone actually deserves it, but still, at the same time, I have a hard time finding the words, or even wanting to say the words. I do this because no one else does. The phrase ‘I’m sorry’ has been exponentially deflated over the years. People these days, they say it for almost anything, with no actual emotion. It doesn’t mean what it meant fifty years ago. Fuck, it doesn’t mean what it meant one hundred years ago. But Cohen, Cohen deserves one.
I try to begin again, but only a series of vowels comes out, followed by sentence filler.
“What I’m trying to say is, umm, I feel like I need to apologize. I, ah, I’m, I’m sorry, doc. I really am. You don’t, ah, you didn’t…”
And Cohen holds up a hand, bringing my sentence to a halt, surprisingly smiling with his whole face – Full bright shining teeth. The wrinkles of age in his cheeks. Crow’s feet – I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a sight before in Cohen.
“Mr. Nielson, first and foremost, it’s alright,” he says with both arms erect, fingers splayed. “It’s really alright. I do have to say, you surprise me though. Based on your DRI data, I already knew that these emotions were brewing. The algorithm showed feelings of regret, guilt...” Cohen pauses and locks eyes with me “…Remorse. These feelings have lingered before, but it’s never been like this. It actually hasn’t been like this for quite awhile. Which ultimately shows…progress. Now the fact that you felt compelled and actually decided to apologize is just, just, wonderful.”
Maybe I was wrong about Cohen. Maybe he isn’t just trying to push for that hour mark.
“It’s best to try to understand it this way: sometimes we have to take a step back to take many steps forward. That’s why we didn’t go into it in depth at the beginning of the session. That moment yesterday, like many before it, and the probable others to come, is all part of the process.”
I strangely feel better. But how did the imaging indicate that without the subconscious data?
Goddamn those images, they make me feel like I’m just a series of zeros and ones.
“So Mr. Nielson, why don’t you go back to what we were discussing earlier…I believe you were about to go into more detail about the changes that took place after you accepted the teaching position,” he says as a lead.
“Yea, um, ok, so, the teaching position. It was a vulnerable place for me in my life, which was juxtaposed with this strange complacency. I became like an indentured servant. And it really was just supposed to be temporary.
‘Just need enough time to get back on my feet,’ I used to say. Fuckin’ time right? But something changed inside me during my tenure at that school; I hated myself more than ever. And my world around me, mirrored that feeling.
That’s when I knew I needed to write again. Free myself. Or find myself. Or something. God, it sounds so fucking stupid when I say it out loud.”
“I can assure you nothing you’re saying is stupid. Just take your time.”
“Ok. Well, like I said, I needed to write again. I didn’t know where to go, what to write about. No fucking idea. So, I ah, I ah, like I said yesterday, started researching…”
“Now when you say ‘research,’ what exactly do you mean?”
“Well. I decided to go, Gonzo, actually. Fuckin’, Gonzo,” I say through a smile.
“Gonzo? I’m not sure…”
“First you have to understand, during the contract work, that’s when I first started to notice I was becoming a shell of my former self. I mean, there was no autonomy then; I was an actual fuckin’ slave at that point, not simply an indentured servant.
I was always told what to write, and what to write about. The worst was the organizations that wanted ‘real, objective journalism.’ There’s no such thing. It was impossible to not be subjective. That’s why I used to always stick to fiction. But, in the end, I still went along with it,” I say as I laugh to myself. “And for what? A Goddamn paycheck. But I was still on the outside looking in. I began to hate myself for that; that was the beginning. Which ultimately led to the teaching gig, besides the obvious. I look back on those days, and, and, I promised myself I’d never be that guy again. I was really hoping that the teaching gig was gonna curb those feelings. I thought I could start over, y’know? But I was wrong.”
“So what happened next? Who do you feel like you became Tybalt?”
I look up to stare at the concrete walls before I answer.
“A nobody – A fuckin’ nobody doc,” I say as the volume of my words decline.
Cohen says nothing to this. He’s waiting for me to continue. So I go on.
“At least with the contract work, I still had a name. Still had recognition. But when I became a teacher…I felt like I had become…nothing.
So, I realized I needed a renaissance. A rebirth. ‘Find the story’ I used to say to myself.
I just needed to write again doc, hoping to find somethin’ again, find the one maybe.
But it was really just everything. I needed a change. So I went with the only option I felt like I had left – Gonzo - put myself in the story to find the story. My Thompson moment1, as I used to call it. No one does that shit anymore.”
“And then what came of that?”
“Anonymous. Definitely Anonymous.”
“The drug?”
“Yes sir.”
Growing up, I always wished SOMA or Substance D was a real thing. Must have been the writer in me. But society didn’t need SOMA or Substance D. We had plenty to choose from in the real world. It wasn’t before long that many illegal substances, at least the ones I grew up with, became legal.
Marijuana. Hallucinogens. LSD. Ecstasy. You name it. All now legal. All now legal under the guise of medical necessity or portion, potency control. Of course, there were still some synthetics, powders, and even pills out there that were still illegal.
But with legalization, came government influence, and then of course, came government regulation. Good old-fashioned supply and demand. The drug market changed overnight. It just wasn’t the same profitable entity it once was. Became like everything else. Well, until Anonymous came along.
When the drug was first introduced, it was given no name. No street name. No chemical name. Nothing. But the human condition is not satisfied with not classifying and categorizing
, well, fucking everything. So people just called it the unknown drug or anonymous or something to that effect.
‘The One, The One with No Name’ became a cultural go-to. A no-named name. I guess the human condition knows no true absolute.
It was believed to be this way to deter a policing of the drug. A drug with no name is a drug that’s hard to stop. But the true genius, that was found when the police actually began investigating the drug, because they found no real back story - no source, no creator, no name.
Of course there was something, or someone out there, controlling all this; it’s just no one knew who it was. Which of course added to its almost juggernaut momentum to the public, baffling every level of law enforcement. It seemed no one knew who invented it. No one knew who was behind the distribution. No one even really knew when it started.
One day, it was just, there. Everywhere. Its own infantile amnesia. Along with the dissociation in origin, it was also designed to be impossible to analyze. Embedded with nanomachines, which were harmless when inactive, the drug could do everything from change chemical composition, a la mutation, to self-destruct when tampered with. This, of course, was a design not only to deter the lab techs of the law, but also the competition. And that was just the fucking tip of the iceberg in truly trying to understand the product. It inevitably monopolized the market.
But, aside from all that, the product itself, the effect it has on the human condition, human consciousness, neurological anatomy, was without parallel. That did the real selling. It was, simply, divine – The perfect drug.
“Just trying to get my hands on it was a story in and of itself,” I begin again. “I knew I could find it in the deepest depths of the neo-network, but without my own NCL, I knew it was gonna be a bit of a challenge so I had to get creative. Whata fuckin’ journey that was. In the beginning, it was one dead end after another.
Then an idea came to me that changed everything. I thought, ‘why not go to an anonymous anonymous meeting and pose as a former addict, make some friends.’ It didn’t take too long to find someone that was just itchin’ to relapse. And it worked. It really worked. And man, I couldn’t tell you how fast the process went after I offered to pay.”